Blood Wine (17 page)

“No?”

“He had some files spread out on his desk. I recognized several of the names. From the papers. Gangster's names. He seemed surprised. I honestly don't know if he knew. We had a big argument. He said who they were made no difference. I said it did.”

“You broke up, then?”

“Not that night. I think he actually asked his clients if they were Mafia.”

“You know that?”

“Well, he told me they assured him they were legitimate businessmen. I think I was more appalled by his naiveté than anything else. We tapered off after that.”

“You make it sound like getting over a cold.”

“Yeah, it sort of was like that. Then he came around to the office.”

“Beverley Auctions in the Village?”

“No, the main office, forty-seventh floor, Chrysler Building.”

“And that's when he unloaded the wine on you?”

“It seemed reasonable. He'd profit, we'd profit. Why not.”

“Okay,” said Miranda, her frustration showing in her voice. “We're back to the big question: why knock the guy off? The punishment doesn't fit the crime. He was naïve, yes. Stupid, maybe. Convenient, apparently. But he wasn't a threat to the Mafia, and the wine operation wasn't that big.”

“Yeah,” said Clancy. “So there you are. The most dramatic event in the guy's life was his leaving it.”

“But there's more to the story,” said Miranda. “There has to be.”

“We've come up with nothing, no leads at all. No rumour.”

“What rumour?”

“No rumour,” said Clancy, “that's the point. Usually, when there's a mob hit there's, it's hard to explain, an awareness. It moves through the air like radio waves, and you know they did it, and why. There's no rumour with this one. Dead air.”

“You think maybe it wasn't them?”

“It was a professional job.”

“But perhaps not by one of theirs.”

“Who else?”

“I don't know,” said Miranda. “This is your jurisdiction.”

The three of them ambled over to Washington Square after dinner and paused in the night shadows under the arch to say goodbye. Seymour Clancy was going in a different direction by subway. They had enjoyed their evening together and none of them wanted it to be over, yet there was no real reason to linger, except for the comfort of one another.

Out of the blue, Miranda exclaimed, “It's about drugs.”

“What?” said Clancy, furtively looking around them. “Someone's going to think you're trying to score, man. What are you talking about?”

“You think Ivan Muritori was involved in drugs?” Elke whispered incredulously.

“No, but I think the international mob is, that's their mainstay in business.”

“And?” said Clancy. “What's new?”

“An epiphany. There has to be a connection between the drug trade and the wine scam, if only to account for the body count.”

“Okay,” said Clancy. “What is it?”

“I said epiphany, not a full-scale revelation. I just know there has to be something more to the wine thing than wine, and drugs seem the logical answer.”

“Counterfeit wine as a front for drug trafficking, it doesn't seem too bright. I mean, usually you hide behind a legitimate enterprise. Why compromise?”

“That's just it!” said Miranda. “We figure that out, we've got this one made.”

“Which one would that be, Detective?”

“Well, the murder of Ivan Muritori, for starters. Let's say he stumbled on the drug connection, then, to use your word, the whole operation was ‘compromised.'”

“Yeah,” said Clancy. “And if we make the connection, the whole ball of wax will unravel.”

“What does that mean,” said Elke, “the whole ball of wax?”

“It's an idiomatic expression.”

“I know that, but what does it mean?”

“That the knot will unravel.”

“Why wax, why not string?”

Miranda could not decide whether Elke was being disingenuous or using wordplay as a flirtation device.

“It's time to go home,” she said.

“Goodnight, Seymour Clancy,” said Elke with a mischievous innocence that belied her responsibility for taking as hostage a man who was subsequently filled with more holes than a rusty colander.

“Good night, Miss Sturmberg,” he responded with playful formality. “Good night, Detective Quin. We should wind up our end of things in the morning. We'll want you both available to come back to New York if anything breaks.”

“For sure,” said Miranda.

They turned in opposite directions and within moments were lost from each other in the motley shadows and lights of the Square. Miranda and Elke walked along in silence, Miranda absorbed with the implications of her “eureka” moment when the scale of the crimes being covered up suddenly fit with the crimes being committed. She felt a slight chill despite the warm June weather. It was getting late and her new T-shirt, an expensive parody of a souvenir with the New York skyline embossed in a surreal wave following the contours of her breasts, was not quite warm enough. She glanced at her companion, who seemed lost in contemplation, whether about the wine trade, her recent harrowing adventures, or Captain Clancy, Miranda could not tell.

A black limousine was parked by the steps leading into Elke's building. As soon as she saw it, Miranda had a gut-wrenching sense of déjà vu, but they were halfway up the steps before she heard the summons she had been anticipating.

“Detective Quin.”

Both women stopped in their tracks. Elke started to lunge forward but Miranda held her firmly by the arm.

“Don't,” she said.

She turned around and walked down to the car.

“Are you talking to me?” She thought of Robert De Niro. She nearly repeated herself, shifting the emphasis in her delivery to sound menacing. Morgan would have liked that, the silliness.

“Yeah. Tell your friend to come down here. We're not going to hurt you.”

Since there was little option, Miranda reassured Elke, and the two of them stood by the car, waiting.

The driver got out and walked around. He opened the door and a man with a vaguely familiar face emerged. He was shorter than either of them, and stocky; old enough that the absence of a paunch was noteworthy, still young enough to convey physical menace. He had a faint scar running down the side of his face from temple to chin, arcing clear of his eye but marking his cheek with a thin, cruel line.

Miranda had seen his picture. “You are a friend of Vittorio Ciccone,” she said.

“Yes, poor Vittorio, may God rest his soul. And in that mausoleum of his, I'd think he would. Welcome to New York, Detective Quin.”

“What can we do for you, Mr.…” She searched for his name.

“Call me Soprano,” he said. “I'm from New Jersey.”

“Mr. Sebastiani,” she said, remembering. He was the biggest name in New Jersey, in his line of work.

“Wonderful. Call me Carlo. And this is Miss Sturmberg. I am pleased to meet you both.”

“And what is it we can do for you, Mr. Sebastiani?”

“I would like you to come with me.”

“And if we refuse? No, I don't suppose that is an option.”

“To refuse is an option, Miranda. May I call you Miranda? To avoid the inevitable, that is not an option. You will come, please. You will be safe.”

Miranda looked at Elke. The other woman's shoulders slumped in a submissive posture. She had been through this before. The horrors of her experience in Canada seemed to be flooding back, and it was all she could do to stay on her feet. Miranda reached out and took her arm. They turned toward the brownstone as if they were going to climb the steps, but the driver stepped in front of them.

“I'm the police,” said Miranda.

“Canadian,” the driver said. “You're a long way from home. No gun. You guys carry Glocks. Semi-automatic. Women usually carry the scaled-down model.”

“It fits better in a purse with all our make-up,” Miranda responded. “You've studied the habits of female police officers?”

“I used to live in Toronto. Worked for Mr. Ciccone.”

“Really. Then you know we don't ride with your kind by invitation.”

“Maybe this time you should make an exception.” He looked past her to Carlo Sebastiani. “Mr. Sebastiani, you want I should help them along.”

“That's Brooklyn,” said Miranda. “I thought you were from Toronto.”

“What's Brooklyn?”

“I quote, ‘You want I should help them along,' that sounds Brooklyn to me.”

“The cadence is Yiddish,” he said.

“The cadence, my goodness.”

“What, you think bad guys are uneducated? Not all of them. I started working for Mr. Ciccone while I was a student at the University of Toronto. You went there too, before my time, so did your partner.”

“You know a lot about us.”

“It's my job. I'm not from Toronto. I went up there to study.”

“And you define yourself as one of the bad guys.”

“Lady,” he said in a Brooklyn accent, “doing what I do, you ain't one of the good guys. In a Manichean world, if you ain't good, you're bad.”

“Excuse me,” said Carlo Sebastiani from inside the car, “if I'm not intruding, both of you shut the fuck up. Get in the car, all three of you. Now.”

“And if we don't,” said Miranda.

“If you don't, Tony shoots you. Tony, show her your gun. And you know what, anyone watching out their windows, the lights will go out. Nobody sees anything. That's how it goes.”

“Very convincing, Mr. Sebastiani.”

“Carlo, I told you to call me Carlo.” He smiled, Tony smiled.

They both looked more menacing when they smiled. Miranda took a step toward the car. Elke stayed close beside her.

Carlo Sebastiani leaned forward. “Ms. Quin, look up the street. You see those two men by the newspaper boxes? They are carrying guns. Look down the other way. See that car parked there? There are two guys in the front seat. Two guys don't sit in the front seat together unless they're, you know, fruits, or cops, or — do you know why else? Because they, like those other two, they're waiting for you. They've been waiting a long time. They saw you go out, they saw you cross Washington Square, they saw you have dinner with Captain Clancy, one of New York's finest, and I mean that with no irony whatsoever, and they've followed you back here. Actually, like us, they anticipated your arrival back here, they got back before you did. Now what do you think of that?”

“You followed us?”

“They followed you, we followed them.”

“They're not yours! What do they want?”

“They want you dead.”

“Dead?”

“Both of you.”

“Dead,” said Elke. “Miranda, aren't you getting tired of this?”

“Yes,” said Miranda. “I am. I really am.” She returned her gaze to the men in the car. “And what's your role in this?”

“For the time being, I want to save your lives.”

“For the time being?”

“Nothing in this life is certain, Detective, nothing is forever. At the moment, we are allies.”

“Allies?”

“For want of a better word. Tony, help the ladies into the car. Use minimal force, but it's time now. Our friends will be anxious to proceed. And Tony, as soon as they're in, get us the hell out of here, if you please.”

“Yes, Mr. Sebastiani.” He touched each woman gently on the arm and each clambered in past Carlo Sebastiani. Before they had fastened their seat belts, Tony was behind the wheel. He jammed the gas pedal to the floor and the limousine hurtled straight towards the parked car with the two men in the front. The other car burned rubber, spinning to the side as it careened over the curb and up onto the sidewalk to avoid being smashed. It was over that fast. The limousine cruised crosstown and turned down lower Fifth Avenue, turned at 26th Street, rolled back up Eighth, and stopped.

“What?” said Miranda, “is that the end of the ride?”

“If those clowns stopped to think,” he said, ignoring her question, “I'm not going to let Tony use a car that costs this much as a battering ram. He was bluffing. Tell the ladies you were bluffing, Tony.”

“If that's what you think, Mr. Sebastiani.”

Miranda felt there was an element of banter between them, something suggesting a bond running deeper than the price of a car which, she was certain, could be replaced overnight. She suspected the formality, addressing his boss as Mr. Sebastiani, was for her benefit.

“How did you lose them so easily?” she asked.

“This is our part of the world,” said Tony over his shoulder.

“That's enough, Tony,” snapped Sebastiani, as if the driver was about to reveal family secrets.

“Do we get out here?” said Miranda. “We can take a cab back to the loft.”

“No, Miranda. That would not be a good idea. These men, they want you dead. Do you understand that? I do not want you dead right now, do you understand that? And do you understand that, ultimately, I don't give a rat's ass if you live or die?”

“Then why,” she did not want to consent to the idea of being rescued, “why this?”

“Let's say it's for Vittorio. I owed him. You were good to my old friend. I know, you did not want to be good. I have been told you are an honest cop. My friend on the Toronto Police Force, you might know him, his name is Pierre Bourassa. He is an honest cop. Incorruptible, so he tells me. That's what he says about you. He upset your partner, he wanted to know about you. He is not subtle, Pierre Bourassa. Mr. Morgan, he vouched for your honesty.”

“Vouched?”

“Yes, so I was told.”

“You are in communication with the Toronto Police force on a daily basis?”

“No. But these are special times. I know Bourassa. We went to law school together. Both failed. He became a cop, I became what I was meant to be.”