Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) (16 page)

Mark Rossi inserted the key in his back door, pushed through into the kitchen, and smiled at the scene before him. Eileen was at the stove, stirring what smelled like a pot of homemade chili as she bounced Jason on her hip and sang along with an oldie on the radio. His gaze lingered on his son. After ten years of marriage, they’d given up any hope of conceiving. Yet two months after they’d begun exploring adoption options, Eileen had become pregnant.

It was a miracle.

In fact, his
life
was a miracle. He had a wonderful wife, a steady job, a nice home, and a son to love, despite the taint of his past.

Life didn’t get much better than this.

As he pushed the door shut and turned the lock, Eileen swung toward him. “Hi. I didn’t hear you come in.”

He crossed the room and leaned down to kiss her, then pressed his lips to the top of Jason’s head. “You were too busy singing. Very well, I might add.”

She wrinkled her nose. “We both know better. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

“You sounded fine to me.”

“You’re prejudiced.”

“Yeah.” He gave her a slow grin. “I am.”

The soft blush he loved rose on her cheeks. “You want to wash up? Dinner’s almost ready. I baked some bread too.”

“Wow. What’s the occasion?”

“Does there have to be one?” She busied herself at the stove, avoiding eye contact.

A tingle of uneasiness crept up his spine. The vibes in the room had shifted—or perhaps he was tuning in to ones that had already been there.

“What’s up, Eileen?” He leaned against the counter, keeping his tone casual as he watched her. She didn’t have a devious bone in her body. Yet she was hiding something. Her grip on Jason had tightened, and she was stirring the chili far more vigorously than necessary.

“Nothing much. It’s no big deal.” The tremor in her words belied that assurance.

Mark’s apprehension edged up a notch. Eileen didn’t get rattled. She was a placid, go-with-the-flow kind of woman. They’d agreed early on in their relationship not to keep secrets from each other, and even after he’d bared his soul, revealed his sordid background, she hadn’t turned tail and run. She’d accepted his story as history, not current events, and told him they could create a new future together.

If his family circumstances hadn’t freaked her out, he couldn’t imagine what had happened today to distress her so much.

“Hey.” He joined her at the stove, took the wooden spoon out of her hand, and grasped her shoulders, shifting her toward him. “Whatever happened, we’ll get through it, okay?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. Moistened her lips. Inclined her head toward the corner of the kitchen. “I had a visitor today.”

Mark glanced toward the rocking chair where Eileen often breastfed their son. A plush teddy bear in a red vest grinned back at him.

“Your father left it.”

Her words slammed into him with the force of a punch in the solar plexus, driving the breath from his body. He jerked back. Groped for the counter beside him. Willed his lungs to reengage as he tried to process the implications of what Eileen had said.

But only two things registered.

His father had been at his house.

And Eileen had accepted a gift from him.

Anger exploded behind his eyes, white hot, quivering through every muscle. “I can’t believe you talked to that monster! I told you to slam the door in his face if he ever showed up!” He hit the counter with his fist. Hard. Pain radiated up his arm. He didn’t care. “What were you thinking? How could you do that, after everything I told you about him?” His volume rose with every sentence.

Eyes wide, his son stared up at him from her arms. Then he puckered his mouth and began to wail.

Eileen had paled during his tirade too, and now she bounced Jason in her arms, doing her best to soothe the frightened infant.

He’d scared his own child.

That was like a second punch in the gut.

He swiveled away and stalked to the kitchen window, glaring into the darkness. It took every ounce of his self-control to contain the rage burning inside him.

“Put Jason in his room. Settle him down. Then come back so we can talk.” He barked out the terse command without turning around.

Behind him, he heard Eileen exit. Jason’s cries receded as she traversed the short hall. Her soft words were indistinguishable as she tried to calm the baby, but he could tell they were laced with tears.

He hated that she was distressed.

Hated that they were both distressed.

All thanks to his father.

His blood pressure rose another notch.

Five minutes later he heard her shut the door to the nursery and reenter the kitchen. Too soon. He wasn’t ready for rational discussion.

She seemed to sense that. A click told him she’d turned off the chili. The faucet came on. The microwave door opened . . . shut. Half a minute later, the smell of instant coffee permeated the room.

When the microwave pinged, he heard her remove the coffee. Stir in cream. A mug appeared in his field of vision, proffered by an unsteady hand.

A peace offering.

He let out a long, slow breath as he focused on the dark liquid. His anger was misdirected. Eileen wasn’t to blame for what had happened today. He knew his father could be charming when he wanted something—and he wanted to be a grandfather. Family was important to the Rossis. Eileen, with her willingness to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, would have been putty in the hands of such a master manipulator.

That was probably why his father had shown up while Mark was away.

But Vincentio Rossi wasn’t going to win this battle.

He took the coffee, moved to the kitchen table, and sat. She slipped into the chair at a right angle to him, gripping her own mug with both hands, her face pale and taut.

A muscle clenched in his jaw, and he exhaled. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

“I knew you’d be upset.” Her eyelashes spiked with moisture, and she blinked. “I should have left the bear on the front porch where he set it instead of bringing it inside.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. He leaned over to brush it away and twined his fingers with hers, gentling his voice. “Tell me what happened.”

“I’d just gotten home with Jason. The doorbell rang. When I opened it, your father was standing there with that tucked under his arm.” She gestured toward the teddy bear. “He’s a lot older than the picture you showed me, but I recognized him.”

She ran the index finger of her other hand around the lip of her mug and sighed. “He was very nice. Polite. Respectful. Gracious. And he looks like a typical grandfather. He mentioned health problems and said he really wants to be part of Jason’s life for whatever time he has left. I guess I felt sorry for him.”

Raising her head, she searched his eyes. “He said he’d abide by whatever conditions we set. He left his phone number inside the bear’s vest and told me I could call him anytime.” She combed her fingers through her hair and sighed. “I don’t know . . . all those stories you told me about him . . . I couldn’t relate them to the man on the doorstep. Maybe he’s changed.”

Fat chance.

Mark kept that thought to himself as he took a sip of coffee. Vincentio Rossi had conned Eileen. Played the sympathy card. He might be old, but he obviously hadn’t lost his acting ability. And that’s all it was. An act. Sure, he wanted to see his grandson. Mark didn’t doubt that. But as for him being a docile old man who’d left his life of violence and crime behind—Mark wasn’t buying it. His father was third generation Mafia. The code was in his blood. While his years in prison might have convinced him to maintain a lower profile once he got out, he was who he’d always been: a murderous mob boss. A man’s character didn’t change.

But how to convince Eileen of that?

Mark set his mug on the table and looked at the woman whose quiet goodness and forgiving spirit had stolen his heart and helped him leave behind his ghastly past. He’d never wanted his family’s sordid history to tarnish their life together. Had hoped he’d put all the stories about the ruthless Rossi dynasty to rest once and for all. But to make her see reason, he’d have to dredge up the ugliness all over again.

“Eileen, you know what my father is.”

“Was.”

“Is.” He wasn’t backing off from his position. “The man went to prison for racketeering and money laundering. Do you know what racketeering is? Gambling and bribery and drug trafficking and all kinds of other sleazy activities. There was plenty of evidence to suggest he’d arranged hits too, even if the authorities could never make any of those charges stick. He was in a dirty, violent business. He may never have pulled the trigger himself, but he murdered people.”

She flinched, but he kept going, his voice cold. Bitter. “The man who came here today is a master at leading two lives. At home, he was a loving, churchgoing father. I didn’t know anything about his other life until he was arrested. And at first, I didn’t understand what had happened. I was only six, and my mother sheltered me from the media and stuck up for him. But the older I got and the more I read and the deeper I dug, the clearer it became that he was scum. To the core. And I don’t want a man like that anywhere near our child.”

Eileen reached over and rested her hand on his arm. “But what if he isn’t like that anymore? What if he really has changed? Is it right to so heartlessly cut him off?”

“In theory, no. You know I believe in forgiveness and second chances. But we’re talking about Vincentio Rossi.” He clenched his free hand on the table and his jaw tightened. “I don’t believe he’s changed. Or worse, that he thinks he’s done anything wrong. Twenty-eight years in prison wouldn’t diminish his pride in being part of the Rossi legacy.”

The subtle downturn of her lips, the hint of disapproval in her eyes, told him she was disappointed in him—and that hurt. A lot. However, the resigned slump of her shoulders also told him she wouldn’t fight him on this. For that, at least, he was grateful.

“What do you want to do with that?” She gestured again to the teddy bear.

His first inclination was to throw it out—but he deferred to her. “What do
you
want to do with it?”

“Keep it. For a while. We can always donate it to charity down the road.”

He wanted to refuse. But Eileen asked little of him. He could offer this small concession—even if looking at the thing made him sick to his stomach.

“Not too far down the road.”

“Okay.” She gave him a tentative smile, squeezed his hand, and stood. “Do you want to eat dinner now?”

“Sure.” No sense deferring the meal until his appetite returned.

Because it was gone for the night.

Cole ate the last bite of his nuked cannelloni and washed it down with a swig of soda. It wasn’t bad for frozen food, but it couldn’t hold a candle to the meal he’d shared with Kelly last night.

His pulse picked up, and all at once he was hungry again. For more than food.

Don’t go there.

Gathering up his paper napkin and the disposable container that had held his dinner, Cole rose and threw them in the trash. He needed a distraction.

His planned post-dinner call to Rossi should do the trick.

If the man had daytime household help, they would be gone by now. And Cole hoped there was a better chance the former Mafia boss would be home in the evening than during the day. If he was lucky, he’d connect with Rossi himself and not an answering machine.

Cole took his notebook out of his pocket and flipped through to the phone number he’d jotted down at work. Then he sat on a stool at the counter and tapped the digits into his cell.

A man answered on the third ring.

“Hello?” The voice was tinged with . . . eagerness? Odd.

“Vincentio Rossi?”

Silence.

Cole tried again. “Mr. Rossi?”

“Who is asking?” The eagerness was gone, replaced by a distinct chill.

“This is Detective Cole Taylor with the Bureau of Crimes Against Persons in St. Louis, Missouri. I’m investigating the death of a John Warren and I’d like to set up a meeting with you to discuss a few issues.”

More silence. A basic intimidation tactic. Often effective in making the other party uncomfortable enough to start talking—and say too much. Cole had used it himself on occasion.

He waited Rossi out, watching the clock. Fifteen seconds passed before the man spoke again.

“I’ll have my attorney contact you tomorrow, Detective.”

A definitive click told Cole the conversation was over.

Rather than replace the phone in its holster, he tapped in Kelly’s number. He’d promised her a report after he’d spoken with Rossi, so he had a legitimate excuse to call her. Strictly business, of course.

Yeah, right.

She, too, answered quickly, sounding a bit breathless.

“Did I take you away from something?” He sat back, elbows on the counter, enjoying the lilt of her voice.

“No. I’m just anxious to hear how your call went with Rossi.”

“About like I expected. On the plus side, he answered the phone. The bad news is he’s handing the matter over to his lawyer, who he promised would call me tomorrow. No surprise there, but lawyers always complicate things. My guess is I’ll hear from the guy—and it
will
be a guy—five minutes before quitting time.”

“Are you still planning to go up there next week?”

“Yes. I expect the lawyer will try to push us off, but I’m going to push right back.”

His business was finished. He should hang up.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he swiveled toward the counter and rested one elbow on the surface. “What are you up to tonight?”

“Nothing exciting. I’m going to work up a couple of bids for some clients. Repair a hem I ripped in one of my skirts. Charge the battery in my camera in case the weather warms up enough for me to get in one more research hike before temperatures fall for good. Although it will have to warm up a lot for me to venture out, since I’m a fair weather hiker. What about you?”

Cole surveyed what he could see of his apartment from his perch at the counter. An overflowing laundry basket stood by the door. Several newspapers were draped over the chairs and couch. Unopened mail took up half the dinette table. He couldn’t remember when he’d last vacuumed.

He was tempted to ignore the mess and suggest Kelly meet him for coffee. But while a phone call might bend his no-social-contact rule, a coffee shop tryst would break it.

“I think I’m going to clean up around here and do some laundry.”

A soft laugh came over the phone, tempting him yet again to cross the line from business to pleasure. “Don’t tell me you have a stereotypical bachelor pad filled with dirty clothes, fungus-covered leftovers in the refrigerator, and piles of pizza boxes.”

He cast a guilty glance at the refrigerator, wondering what lurked in the recesses. It had been a while since he’d checked. “No pizza boxes.”

“An evasive—and telling—answer.”

“No comment.”

She chuckled again.

He needed to hang up before he caved. “So I’ll call you as soon as we have the trip set up with Rossi.”

“Thanks. If I don’t hear from you tomorrow, have a great weekend.”

“You too.”

He waited until she disconnected, then slowly slipped the phone back on to his belt, thinking about the approaching weekend. His Friday night happy hours were history; they’d lost their allure. And the only person he wanted to date was Kelly.

It was going to be a long, empty two days.

“We have a problem.” Vincentio pressed the pay phone closer to his ear and turned his back on the boisterous crowd in the noisy bar just beyond the foyer. It was hard to hear, but with the police nosing around, he didn’t intend to use his cell for business anymore.

“What sort of problem?”

“I told you I wanted a clean operation in St. Louis. No questions asked.”

“I was assured that had happened.”

“The St. Louis County police just called. A detective wants to pay me a visit. He has questions.”

“But . . . the case is closed.”

“Not anymore. I want this fixed. Fast. Or there will be consequences. Pass that message on to our friend.” He spat out the last word. “And find out what went wrong.”

“I’m on it.”

“He has until Thanksgiving.” Vincentio slammed the phone back into the hook on the wall holder and held on to it for a moment, quivering with rage.

He did not need this. Especially now, after making inroads with Eileen mere hours ago. He’d been so hopeful when he’d left his son’s house . . . That’s why he’d snatched up the phone tonight, half expecting it to be her. Calling with good news.

Instead he’d found himself talking to a police detective.

If his son got even the faintest whiff of this new development, whatever chance he had of holding his grandson in his arms would die faster than a professional assassin took out a mark.

Vincentio pushed through the door into the night, head bent against the biting wind as sleet pricked his cheeks. Winter was coming to Buffalo early this year.

And perhaps to his life.

A loose piece of pavement caught the toe of his favorite Bruno Magli dress oxfords, and he lurched forward. Stumbled. Clutched at the car beside him. Stabilized.

Heart pounding, he took a few deep breaths. In the old days, he’d never stumbled—while walking or doing business. Yet it seemed he’d stumbled with Carlson. But paying a hit man to take out Walsh hadn’t been a feasible option. A suspicious death would have been followed by an investigation that could potentially have turned up a link to him. The pseudo suicide had been perfect, and choosing an insider to carry it out had been brilliant.

According to the dossier Vincentio had read, Carlson had been the ideal candidate—drowning in gambling debts, desperate to keep his vice a secret, fearful he’d lose his job just as he’d lost his wife. All excellent incentives to do a stellar job. And having the man investigate his own handiwork had provided an extra measure of insurance.

But Carlson had been a bad choice, after all, as Vincentio’s colleague had warned. He should have stuck with a pro. A man who wouldn’t make mistakes. Let things slip through the cracks.

The sleet intensified, and Vincentio continued toward his Lexus, his lips pressed into a grim line as he skirted the dangerous, icy patches that had begun to form.

This time there would be no mistakes.

Or any loose ends.

A persistent, vibrating buzz close to his ear penetrated Alan Carlson’s sleep-fogged brain, and he groped on his nightstand for his cell phone, eyes still closed. Bad timing for a break in the double homicide case. He hadn’t gone to bed until well after midnight, thanks to his late-night drop for Freddie.

Pressing the talk button, he mumbled a greeting.

“You messed up.”

His eyes flew open, and he bolted upright in bed, adrenaline surging. He didn’t have to ask who was on the line. He’d been expecting this call.

But getting it in the middle of the night was not a good omen.

“I can fix it.”

“How?”

“A suicide note is being prepared. I’ll plant it next week, if necessary.”

A few beats of silence ticked by.

Alan started to sweat.

“Isn’t it a little late for that?”

“I can make it work.”

The man’s silence conveyed his skepticism.

A bead of sweat rolled down Alan’s forehead. He tipped his head and rubbed it off with the sleeve of his T-shirt.

“The boss wants to know what happened.”

Alan transferred the phone to his other hand and wiped his damp palm on the sheet. “The daughter got a gift from her father that he’d ordered the day before he died. The note inside convinced her he hadn’t been planning suicide. I was on vacation and another detective advised her to search her father’s house. She found some stuff that raised questions—including a photo with her father’s real name. It didn’t take long after that for my colleague to connect him to your boss.”

“Bad luck.”

“Yeah.” All the way around. “But there’s no connection between him—or me—and her father’s death. You paid me in cash. I paid off my debts the same way, or with cashier’s checks. I didn’t make any big deposits in my bank accounts. We’re clean.”

“Then why are the police coming to call?”

“They’re fishing.”

“The boss doesn’t like that sport. He prefers hardball.”

A trickle of sweat seeped into the corner of Alan’s mouth, leaving the acrid taste of salt on his tongue. “It’s riskier trying to fix things. I guarantee the police aren’t going to find any links. Patience will work to our advantage.”

“The boss isn’t a patient man, and he doesn’t like to be hassled by law enforcement types. You want the rest of your money, you fix this. Fast. You’ve got one more chance to make it right. Remember that message you passed on to your mark?”

The two sentences he’d been told to relay to John Warren as the man’s consciousness ebbed were burned into Alan’s mind—along with the look of dull shock in Warren’s eyes as he’d spoken them.

I always said I’d find you. My condolences on the death of your brother.

“Yeah. I remember.”

“This doesn’t get fixed before Thanksgiving, the condolences will be for you next time. I’ll be in touch.”

A quiet click told Alan the connection had been severed.

Just as his life would be if he didn’t get the heat off Rossi.

Hands shaking, he pushed the end button. Rose on unsteady legs. Started to pace.

Freddie had promised him the letter by Monday night. The drop was already arranged, and the man would come through. No worries there.

Planting it, however, was a different story. He still hadn’t come up with a plan to get it in Kelly’s hands without arousing further suspicion.

He prowled around his bedroom, shivering as the cool air hit his sweat-soaked T-shirt. Maybe he’d pay a visit to Warren’s house this weekend. Nose around a little. The security system wouldn’t be a problem. He’d met Kelly there a couple of times during the investigation for the express purpose of watching her punch in the deactivation code, and he’d memorized it . . . just in case. She’d also given him a key to the house during the investigation, which he’d had duplicated.

Details. He was a master of details. That’s why he was such a good detective. Why he’d excelled at undercover work. And he always thought ahead. Prepared for contingencies. Had an exit plan for dicey situations.

But this was the diciest situation he’d ever encountered.

He headed for the kitchen, desperate for a cup of coffee, noting the time on the hall clock as he passed. Three-fifteen. The night was half over. It probably wasn’t smart to drink caffeine at this hour.

Then again, what did it matter?

Caffeine or no caffeine, there would be no more sleep this night.