Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) (10 page)

“You need to do the same.”

“My next stop. I just swung by here to take care of a couple of things.” He squinted at Cole. “How come you’re so chipper?”

“They cut me loose at midnight.”

“Lucky you.” He dropped into his chair. “If you need to talk to Alan, you’ll have to call his cell.”

Cole propped his fists on his hips as he debated his next move. He’d prefer to discuss the latest developments in the Warren case with Alan before taking them to his sergeant, but the man wasn’t apt to be too friendly—or coherent—if Cole awakened him from a sound sleep. The only other option was to wait, and that didn’t feel right, either. Someone needed to start tracking down James and Lucille Walsh. Now.

“You seem worried. What’s up?” Mitch rolled his chair into his desk and shot him a curious look.

“New information on the Warren suicide. I think it merits taking a second look at the case.”

“And you want to do the looking?” Mitch grinned and laced his hands behind his head. “Or is it the daughter you want to look at?”

Narrowing his eyes, Cole folded his arms across his chest. First Jake, now Mitch. The keen interest in his love life was beginning to get on his nerves. “For your information, I’m more interested in keeping her alive than looking at her. She almost died a week ago.”

Mitch’s expression went from amused to sober in a heartbeat. “What happened?”

He gave him a topline version of the peanut incident. “And I have new information that leads me to believe her original theory about her father’s death may be accurate after all.”

“You want to share it?”

“Not yet. I’m waiting for more data, and I still have some research to do.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you know if Paul is in?”

“Yeah. I saw him in his office as I passed by a few minutes ago. Listen . . . if you need any help with this thing, let me know.”

“Thanks. In the meantime, go home and get some sleep.”

“That’s my plan.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “By the way, your sister asked me to remind you to order the three pies you volunteered to bring for Thanksgiving dinner at Jake and Liz’s.”

Cole shot him a disgruntled look. “Tell Alison I have it under control.”

Grinning, Mitch reached for his phone. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

Yeah, he had. “It’s been a little busy. But I’d have remembered.” Sooner or later.

“Hey, don’t kill the messenger.” He motioned toward the door. “You better catch Paul while you can. With all that’s going on, I doubt he’ll stay in one place long.”

“True.” With a wave, Cole exited and walked down the hall toward his sergeant’s office. He didn’t like encroaching on Alan’s turf without first discussing it with his colleague, but the potential danger to Kelly made the matter more urgent. If WitSec was involved, they could be dealing with some ruthless characters.

As he approached his supervisor’s office, he spied the fiftyish man exiting and flagged him down. “Sarge! Do you have ten minutes?”

Jacket half on, the trim sergeant turned and squinted at Cole. Paul Callahan might not work the streets anymore, but despite the salt-and-pepper in his buzz cut and the permanent shadows under his eyes, he hadn’t lost one iota of his legendary acumen. The old-timers recalled how he could take one look at a person and, with astounding accuracy, assess guilt, innocence, and the gravity of a situation. He still had that knack.

Cole was glad they were on the same side.

“I’ll give you five.” Shrugging the jacket onto his shoulders, Paul reversed direction.

Wasting no time, Cole picked up his pace and was taking a seat opposite Paul’s desk even as his boss settled into his own chair.

In less than three minutes, Cole had brought him up to speed on the situation, ending with his speculations about WitSec and a recommendation that the case be officially reopened.

“Have you discussed this with Alan?” Bristling with energy despite the lines of fatigue etched in his face, Paul pinned him with a keen look as he rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers.

“Yes. All but today’s developments. He’s not at his desk.”

“And he won’t be, not until we get these homicides solved.”

“That’s what I figured. And I’m not certain we should wait on this. Besides, a fresh pair of eyes might be beneficial.”

“Yours?”

Cole strove for a logical, businesslike tone. “I’d be happy to step in. I’ve been in touch with Ms. Warren since her first visit a month ago, and I’m up to speed on the case.”

Paul tapped his index fingers together, and Cole tried not to squirm. The man had the piercing eyes of a hawk. “I agree this deserves another look. And I don’t want to pull Alan off the homicides. I’ll let him know what’s going on. Keep both of us in the loop.”

“I will.” Cole let out a slow, relieved breath and rose.

“Scuttlebutt says Kelly Warren is a looker.”

Startled, Cole swiveled back toward his boss. How was he supposed to respond to that?

Paul stood and rounded his desk, pausing on the threshold of his office. “Protecting a pretty woman isn’t exactly hardship duty. But I have absolute confidence in your ability to maintain a professional distance while on a case.” He locked gazes with Cole. “I wouldn’t assign it to you if I didn’t.”

Then he was gone.

Rooted to the spot, Cole regarded the empty doorway. That little exchange had once again reinforced his boss’s acuity. In a couple of sentences, Paul Callahan had acknowledged the appeal—and danger—of dealing with a beautiful, threatened woman. He’d also issued a warning.

And it was one Cole took to heart. If Kelly was in danger, he needed to keep his personal feelings out of the mix. They could cloud his judgment. Cause him to make mistakes.

Mistakes that could be deadly.

So until they had answers, until he knew Kelly was out of danger, he’d stick with his policy of keeping his personal and professional life separate.

Difficult as that was proving to be.

“Mr. Rossi? UPS just delivered this.”

At his housekeeper’s comment, Vincentio looked up from the desk in his study, wishing, as always, that the room was more spacious. That his whole house was more spacious. Still, it was far preferable to the tiny cell he’d called home for almost three decades. And at this stage of his life, he didn’t want the scrutiny that came with ostentation.

“Bring it in, Teresa.”

He squinted at the box as she set it on the corner of the polished walnut desk. His keen eyesight had fled along with his youth, but he had no trouble reading the single hand-lettered word written in bold block letters across the top of the package.

REFUSED.

Although his stomach clenched painfully, he maintained the impassive expression he’d perfected in his former life. “Thank you, Teresa.”

“Would you like some tea or coffee, sir?”

“No, I’m fine for now.”

With a deferential nod, she exited. A fine woman, Teresa. Honest, hardworking, dependable. A devoted wife and mother who put family first. As she should. That’s why he slipped her an extra fifty now and then from the generous stash he’d secured decades ago in an offshore account. It was good to reward people who had their priorities straight. He’d done so often in the old days, when his house had been fully staffed and both his official—and unofficial—business payrolls had been burgeoning.

The days of servants and power lunches were gone now. Teresa alone kept his household running, and there was no more big-time wheeling-dealing. Been there, done that, as the young people liked to say. Now he was content with a small network of associates who could be called on to take care of what little business arose. And most of that in the past three years had been of a personal nature.

But they couldn’t help him with the one thing he wanted most.

A reconciliation with his son.

Heart heavy, he leaned forward, grasped the edges of the box, and pulled it toward him. He’d hoped, by addressing the package to his new grandson, that Marco would accept the gift in the spirit it was intended: a grandfather’s attempt to welcome his first grandchild into the world.

But no. His son’s heart remained harder than the alabaster buried in the hills of his beloved Sicily. Every effort he’d made to reconnect, every olive branch he’d extended, had been rebuffed, until at last he’d been forced to accept the harsh truth: the breach between them would never be bridged.

Still . . . to deny him his grandson? He wouldn’t have even known about the boy’s birth if an old acquaintance hadn’t passed on the news—three months after the fact.

The callous cruelty of that omission was like a vise around his heart.

He ran his fingers over the name on the package. Jason. That, too, was an affront. It was clear Marco—Mark now, he reminded himself with a wince—planned to deny the child not only his grandfather but also his heritage. What kind of name was Jason for a boy from a proud Sicilian family? What was wrong with Antonino? Or Stefano? Or Angelo?

But that was the problem. Marco wasn’t proud of his family. He was ashamed of it.

Of his father.

All at once, a consuming fury swept over him and he vaulted to his feet. Shoving the package aside, he leaned forward and braced himself, palms flat on the desk, quivering with rage. What right did Marco have to judge him? He was a good man. A good father. He attended church every Sunday. Respected and rewarded loyalty and hard work. Provided for his family. Yes, he’d operated an enterprise the government frowned upon, as had his father and grandfather before him. And yes, he’d punished those who had betrayed him. That’s how the family business worked. How it had always worked. Here, and in Sicily. You protected what was yours. Whatever it took.

But he’d modified that unforgiving code when he’d assumed control of the business. Taken a kinder, gentler approach than those who’d preceded him. Traitors were punished, yes, but innocent people associated with them were not. He’d never believed in retaliating by hurting those who were blameless.

Some had praised that stance.

Others had criticized it.

Including his father.

His hands clenched into fists as he recalled the derogatory adjectives Salvatore Rossi had applied to him on countless occasions.
Soft
had been the mildest of them. Even now, decades later, they still had the power to twist his gut.

Yet his father had been right in his prediction that mercy, benevolence, and misplaced trust would be his son’s downfall. His fatal error in judgment had germinated from the seeds of kindness and compassion. Admirable qualities in the eyes of God, if not Salvatore’s.

Why could Marco not see the good as well as what he perceived to be the bad in his father?

Was he the despicable character his son had renounced?

No!

Vincentio straightened up. Squared his shoulders. He would not let his son’s disapproval undermine the pride he had always felt in his heritage. If Marco wanted no part of the Rossi legacy, so be it. That was his loss. But he had no right to deny
his
son the opportunity to know his nonno. The grandfather who loved him.

Compressing his lips, Vincentio opened his desk drawer and removed a box cutter. A few slashes was all it took to dispense with the tape that sealed the cardboard flaps. Then he dug into the nest of tissue and lifted out the plush teddy bear he’d selected himself at the Build-a-Bear store.

If his son wouldn’t pass the gift on to the newest member of the Rossi family, he’d do it himself.

When the time was right.

Bingo.

Adrenaline surging, Cole leaned closer to the screen and scanned the article from the
Buffalo News
archives. He’d been at the computer since Paul had given him the go-ahead four hours ago to reopen the Warren case, and at first the number of hits for James Walsh had been overwhelming. Only after he recalled Kelly’s comment about her father’s trip to Niagara Falls had he been inspired to narrow the search to New York state.

Now he’d hit pay dirt with an article headlined “Guilty Verdict for Mob Boss.”

Based on the thirty-one-year-old story, testimony from a James Walsh—an accountant for a Mafia boss’s front businesses—had been instrumental in sending Vincentio Rossi to prison for twenty-eight years on racketeering and money-laundering convictions. Prior to the trial, there had been an attempt on Walsh’s life, and he and his wife, Lucille—along with their infant daughter—had been placed under the protection of U.S. marshals.

It all fit. Warren’s old wound. The phone number for a U.S. marshal secreted in his wallet. The names on the wedding snapshot.

Kelly’s theory that her father had been murdered.

Cole tapped a finger on his desk. The fact that Warren had died so soon after his purported trip to Niagara Falls was more than suspicious. If Rossi was still carrying a grudge against him, and if Warren had broken the primary rule of the WitSec program and made contact with someone from his past—P, perhaps?—it was possible he’d been spotted.

Proving murder would be difficult, though. The bulk of the evidence suggested suicide. Only Kelly’s strong conviction and the note with the bulbs hinted that her father’s death had more Machiavellian origins. If someone had killed him, he’d done an excellent job disguising the murder. And tying Vincentio Rossi to it would be even tougher.

But it couldn’t hurt to have a nice long talk with the Mafia boss.

First, though, he had a lot more homework to do. And he needed to talk to both Paul and Kelly before this day ended.

As he skimmed his browser hits for more articles on the Rossi case, his cell began to vibrate. He pulled it off his belt and glanced at the display before putting the phone to his ear. “Hi, Jake.”

“The answer to your question is yes. He retired ten years ago and died last year.”

“I appreciate the confirmation.” Cole leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t know he’d retired or died, but I’d already figured out the first part.” He brought his brother up to speed on what he’d discovered so far in the
Buffalo News
archives. “I’ve just scratched the surface, though. I need to do a lot more digging.”

“It sounds like you may be on to something. If you need us for anything, let me know.”

“I will. Thanks again.”

Cole slid the phone back onto his belt and continued to troll for articles about the case. And there were plenty. In less than an hour, he’d compiled an impressive list of facts on the Rossi trial, begun to assemble a dossier on Vincentio, and learned some interesting background on James Walsh, thanks to a long conversation with a woman in the vital records office in Buffalo.

It was time to track down Sarge.

After punching in the man’s cell number, he put the phone to his ear. Barely into the first ring, Paul barked out a greeting. Flinching, Cole yanked the phone back a few inches. “Sarge, it’s Cole. I’ve uncovered a lot of interesting information since we talked this morning that I’d like to pass on so we can discuss next steps. Are you coming back here today?”

“I’m walking into the building as we speak. I also saw Carlson pull into the parking lot. I’ll flag him down. Meet me in my office in five minutes.”

A click told Cole the call was over.

He set the receiver back in its cradle, gathered up his notes, and headed for Paul’s office. Hoping Alan wouldn’t be too miffed he’d taken over his case . . . and found some holes.

Kelly swirled the sable tuft of her favorite #8 filbert brush into a bar of soap, then dabbed it against her palm under warm running water until the suds were white. After a final rinse, she squeezed the water out of the brush with a paper towel, reformed the hairs to their original shape, and laid the brush next to the others on the terry-cloth square beside her utility sink in the basement.

Although she’d been distracted by Cole’s intimation this morning that the disparate pieces of information she’d uncovered were fitting together, she’d managed to focus long enough to complete the dogwood illustration. Tomorrow she’d get back to her woodland fairies.

As she ascended the steps to the kitchen, she heard the muffled ring of her cell phone and picked up her pace. Maybe Cole had some news to report.

By the time she dug it out of her purse, however, it had rolled to voice mail.

Before she could check her messages, though, her landline rang. She dashed across the room and snatched it out of its cradle, issuing a breathless greeting.

“Kelly? Cole. I’ve got some information I’d like to share in person. May I stop by on my way home from work?”

She checked her watch. “You
do
put in long hours. First you work all weekend, then you stay until seven-thirty? Did you get pulled into the homicide again?”

“No. I’ve been on your dad’s case all day. It’s officially reopened. That’s what I want to talk with you about.”

Her fingers tightened on the phone. “You discovered something important.”

“Very.”

“You can come anytime. The sooner the better.”

“Did you eat dinner yet?”

“As a matter of fact, no. I just stopped for the day too.”

“Why don’t I grab a pizza for us? I worked through lunch and I’m starving.”

“If you worked through lunch on my dad’s case, I should feed you.”

“You already did that twice. It’s my turn. Is pizza okay?”

“Sure. Any kind is fine. And takeout pizza is one of the few things I rarely have to worry about in terms of peanuts.”

“I’ll ask anyway. Look for me in less than an hour.”

As Kelly hung up, she inspected her paint-stained shirt. Anxious as she was to hear Cole’s news, she was glad he’d given her some warning. If she hurried, she could grab a shower and wash her hair before he got here. Not her usual routine of an evening—but then again, she didn’t have many visitors as appealing as the tall detective.

Forty-five minutes later, as she brushed on a touch of mascara, her doorbell rang. Lucky she hadn’t dawdled in the shower. He hadn’t wasted any time getting here.

The savory aroma of pepperoni and tomato sauce greeted her when she opened the door and ushered him in. “That smells great.”