The Reunion (14 page)

24

Watch Hill, Rhode Island

Eighty-six-year-old Mary Vocatura sat as erect as her osteoporosis would allow. The wicker divan gently supported her sloped back as she looked out toward the harbor from her ocean-facing terrace. She wore unfashionably large sunglasses and a floppy hat. A hand-embroidered quilt covered her legs, and a white tomcat snuggled on top of the quilt.

For all practical purposes, Watch Hill, Rhode Island, belonged to Mary. Her majestic fieldstone mansion was the centerpiece of the resort village. From her backyard, she had an unobstructed view of the harbor, the storefronts, even the town's celebrated antique carousel, where wooden ponies seemed to gallop in endless circles. Her view stretched across the sound to Stonington, Connecticut, and, on a clear day, all the way to Long Island.

The Vocatura estate was intimidating from the outside, but the interior conveyed an easy beach cottage ambiance. The walls were clad in recessed paneling of vertical grain, clear-finished Douglas fir, and the floors were a natural Canadian yellow pine. The furnishings were done in warm, inviting colors. It had been the ideal setting to raise her grandsons after the death of their parents.

It was 1968. Her husband, son, and daughter-in-law were traveling by train to New York, but never arrived at Grand Central Station. The engine derailed on a viaduct just outside of West Haven, Connecticut, spilling seven passenger cars into the water. The bodies of Anthony Junior and Margaret were identified a month later. Anthony Senior was never found. At an age when most women were making plans to retire and travel, Mary was saddled with the family's small grocery chain and the chore of mothering two small boys.

Vocatura Family Markets had been modestly successful while her husband was alive, but blossomed under her control. Fifty-three-year-old Mary went to the Westerly Bank and Trust and strong-armed the president into lending her money to renovate the nine stores. The men who had been her husband's financial advisors insisted she was making a fatal mistake. The friendly little mom-and-pop neighborhood markets had charm. “Why deviate from a strategy that had worked for years?” they said. But Mary stood firm. The family grocery chain became Vocatura superstores, markets sporting espresso bars, in-house bakeries, the choicest cuts of freshly butchered meats, and automated spritzers to keep the produce wet and appealing.

The small chain her husband Anthony had spent twenty years building into a nine-million-dollar company was now worth forty in less than a decade under her control. At least that was the figure the Food Lion corporation was willing to pay when company executives came courting. Again the bankers balked. “Why sell now?” they asked, offering unsolicited and unwelcome advice. The old woman took the forty million.

Beverly, the day nurse, touched the old woman's shoulder. Her eyes opened just as the Block Island ferry made its turn northward on the horizon.

“Miss Vocatura, are you awake?”

“Yes, Beverly, what is it?”

“There are two gentlemen here to see you. They say they're with the FBI.”

She seemed to perk up. “Good. Send them in.”

Beverly escorted the men through the house to the terrace, where Mary still basked in the sun.

“Mrs. Vocatura? I'm Martin Dunlevy, and this is Agent Franklin. We're with the FBI. If you don't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“I was expecting you.”

“You were?” said the startled agent.

“Yes, of course. It's been two weeks now,” she said. The old woman pushed the cat to the ground and extended her hand for a help up.

“Young man, you brought your field glasses, didn't you?”

“Field glasses?”

She waved them off. “No matter, that's all right. Beverly! Beverly! Bring my binoculars,” she shouted. “That's it, the old wooden Chris Craft,
Daddy's Girl,
Palm Beach, Florida,” she said, pointing her cane toward the harbor.

“That's what?”

She was becoming agitated. “Mark, have you and your little friend here been listening?”

“Agent Martin Dunlevy,” he corrected her.

She paid no attention. “Beverly! My binoculars!” she shouted again. “That woman is deaf as a post. Her mother, God rest her soul, was the same way. She worked for me for fifty years. She only heard what she wanted to hear. Conveniently deaf, that one. But Beverly, she's always got the TV up full blast! I told her to get one of those Miracle Ears, but she won't listen. Don't get me wrong, Mark, they're good people, but deaf as posts, the whole lot of them.”

Dunlevy shook his head. “Ma'am, I'm sorry, but…”

“Listen,” she said, grabbing his elbow to steady herself. “That girl leaves the harbor every night between eleven and midnight and doesn't come back until six the next morning! And don't tell me she's fishing! There's not a rod nor reel on that vessel! I called the Westerly police two weeks ago, but the chief over there is a jackass. His father was too. The apple never falls far from the tree, Mark.”

“Mrs. Vocatura, I'm sorry. We're not here about the boat. I have to ask you a few questions about a man who used to work for you. It's a murder investigation.”

She lifted her hand to her mouth. “Oh my!” The news seemed to catch her breath. “No one I know, I hope.”

“No ma'am.”

The old lady swayed and then sat back down.

Beverly quickly appeared with a pitcher of iced tea. The binoculars hung on a strap around her neck. “Here we go, ma'am.”

“Too late, Beverly,” she snapped. “Gentlemen, iced tea?”

Dunlevy nodded but Franklin declined. “Ma'am, we're trying to locate Joseph DeMichael. Do you know that name?” he asked.

“DeMichael…DeMichael. Beverly, that wouldn't be Edna's boy, would it?”

“No, ma'am. Edna's last name is DeMarco,” Beverly replied as she filled the glasses. “I think they're asking about Little Joey.”

A look of fright came over her face. “Little Joey's been murdered?”

“No, nothing like that,” Dunlevy assured her.

Franklin continued the explanation. “His fingerprints were found at a murder scene in North Carolina. We're trying to find him.”

She swung her cane toward Franklin. “Well, young fella, you're barkin' up the wrong tree. Little Joey isn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he's a nice boy. He certainly wouldn't hurt anybody.”

“That's what we're trying to find out, ma'am. When was the last time you saw Joey?” Franklin asked.

She thought about this a moment. “Last summer, maybe. He runs with one of my nephews. I had them move some boxes and old furniture into storage.”

“From here at your home?” Dunlevy asked.

“Goodness no. When we sold the stores, I had them move some personal things out of the headquarters on High Street and into storage.”

“So he worked for you?” Franklin asked.

“You could say that,” she replied. “And you know how much I paid him to move that furniture?”

Dunlevy shrugged. “No ma'am.”

“One hundred dollars.” She turned to Franklin. “And what do you think I paid my nephew, young man?”

Franklin rolled his eyes. “I don't know, ma'am.”

She smiled. “Exactly one hundred dollars!” she shouted. “You can't give cheese to one and chalk to the other! That's why in forty years we never had any trouble with the unions. I treat them all the same.”

***

Manny waited until they were just a few blocks away to spring the news on his little brother. “We're gonna make a quick pit stop at Nana's on the way to Point Judith. I got to take a leak.”

Vinny's face was flush. “Goddamn it, Manny! If you have to pee then we'll stop at a McDonald's! We're due at that Chamber of Commerce in one hour.”

But Vinny Vocatura knew he was wasting his breath. Manny was the consummate grandson. The candidate checked in with his Nana almost every day, regardless of how many hands needed to be shaken or babies kissed.

But in recent years, the house that was once filled with the fragrance of homemade Italian sauces and breads now reeked of antiseptic. Manny let himself in and headed straight for the family room, where he knew his grandmother would be positioned in front of the television.

“Nana! How are you today?” her favorite grandson asked.

Vinny stood behind him, his hands in his pockets, as he shuffled from foot to foot. “Nana, you look wonderful,” he proclaimed. “You haven't had a face lift, have you?”

Her face wrenched. “Vincent, if only you could bullshit like that on a date once in a while. You'd be married by now and have three babies,” she replied brusquely. “You're not one of those funny boys, are you?” Vinny's failure to provide her with great-grandchildren was a constant source of irritation to the old woman.

Vinny couldn't help but smile. “Now, Nana, Manny's got enough children for the both of us.”

Nana's eyes always managed to twinkle when her grandsons came into the room. “Sit down with me,” she said, patting the cushion next to her on the couch. “I'm just watching my stories.” She leaned forward and picked up a small bowl of California cherries from the coffee table.

“Guess how much?”

“I don't know, Nana,” Vinny said. “How much?”

“Three dollars and forty-nine cents a pound!” she snapped with outrage, as if she couldn't afford this small luxury. “Are they crazy down there?”

“Forget about the cherries,” Manny said. “You don't have to worry about the stores anymore. Tell us how you're feeling today.”

She waved him off as if he was asking a ridiculous question. “Don't you worry about me,” she scolded. “I'm getting along just fine.”

Beverly entered the room from behind the couch, careful to stay out of the old woman's line of sight. She made eye contact with Vinny and gestured for him to join her in the kitchen.

“Your grandmother had two visitors today from the FBI.”

Vinny's eyes grew large. “What?”

“They were asking questions about some kid who used to work at the Westerly store. Your grandmother also had him do some odd jobs around her office a few years back. They said he was wanted for murder.”

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. “Who?”

“Joey DeMichael.”

Vinny gave it some thought. “Short little smart-ass kid that used to be the overnight stocking manager? Dark curly hair, real chip on his shoulder?”

Beverly nodded. “That sounds like Joey. He used to hang out with your cousin Eddie. Your grandmother paid him and Eddie to move some things into storage. That's the last we've seen of him, and that was well over a year ago.”

“Did you get the name of the agents?”

“They introduced themselves, but I don't remember any names. One of them did leave a card, though. I think it's on her dresser in her bedroom.”

“Listen, Beverly, I want you to go up and get it for me. I don't want Nana talking to any FBI agents. If they come around again, I want you to page me right away, okay?”

“Of course.”

Vinny's eyes softened as he leaned forward and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I'm glad you're here with her, Beverly. Manny and I couldn't bear the thought of putting her in a nursing home, and I know she's become a handful lately. If it's too much, you speak up. You've got a nice little nest egg now, Beverly. If you want to get a condo down in Naples or Palm Beach, you do it,” he offered. “You're family, and we can manage when the time comes.”

“Stop that crazy talk,” she playfully scolded. “You'll have me in a home before your mother. She's no trouble. Besides, I wouldn't throw away my money like that.”

“That reminds me, I've got some papers for you to sign, I'm moving some of your more volatile mutual funds into the bond market.” Vinny had become one of the most sought-after financial planners in Rhode Island. Beverly had been one of his first clients when nobody else wanted him.

Beverly beamed. “You know I trust you, whatever you think is best.”

***

It was just after midnight. Dunlevy had almost crossed over. His mind was numb, dancing toward a deep REM sleep, when the phone jolted his eyes open. He stared at the ceiling for a second before realizing the sound was coming from his briefcase. Still groggy, he answered on the sixth ring.

“Hello,” he said, with sleep still in his voice.

“Is this Martin Dunlevy?”

“Yes. Who is this?” he asked suspiciously. Few people had his cell phone number.

“David Johnson. You came to my home in Richmond. I deciphered those Enigma messages for you?”

He paused, allowing his head to clear. “Certainly, professor. I'm sorry, what can I do for you?”

“I'm sorry about the hour. But after you left, I kept thinking about the inconsistencies in the messages. Maybe I misinterpreted some of the data.”

Dunlevy moved to the edge of the bed, scanning the room for pencil and paper. “How so, professor?”

“Remember when I told you there was a typo? The message spelled out PU-239, but I took it to mean U-239?”

“Yes.”

“There was a U-boat 239, but it was in the Pacific. That message wasn't a typo. They meant to spell out PU-239.”

Dunlevy was shaking his head. “You've lost me. That doesn't make sense.”

“Yes it does. PU-239 is the isotope for plutonium. What didn't make sense was why a U-boat would spend such a long time that close to the American coast just to steal submarine schematics. Too risky. They were there to pick up weapons grade plutonium.”

“Jesus!” Dunlevy hesitated. “They had plutonium back then?”

“Barely. Government labs hit and missed in the late thirties, but it was pretty much identified and duplicated by 1941. I've researched it a little bit. The Naval Reactors Branch of the Atomic Energy Commission had its own metallurgical lab right there in the General Dynamics plant. All pompous Navy boys. Hyman Rickover headed up their nuclear propulsion lab.”