To Hell in a Handbasket (11 page)

Angela asked Roger to carry the basket and preceded them up the stairs to a hallway with four doors. She knocked briefly on the first one on the right, then, without waiting for a reply, opened the study door and entered. “Anthony, the Hanovers are here, and they've brought a lovely gift basket. You have to see it.”

She set the tray down on a waist-high walnut cabinet built into one wall of the study, above which matching walnut bookcases displayed leather-bound books and objets d'art. She waved Claire and Roger into the study and shut the door behind them, effectively removing any chance for Anthony to object to their company.

Anthony looked up from his desk, an imposing walnut piece that matched the bookcases. His eyes were red, and his cheeks were streaked with tears. He rotated his chair, turning his back to them, to blow his nose.

Feeling awkward catching him in such a private moment of grief, Claire whispered to Angela, “Maybe we should go.”

Angela shook her head. “It's good he cried. Stay, please.” She patted Claire's arm and went to her husband to say a few private words.

Claire glanced at Roger, who shrugged and placed the gift basket next to the tray. They busied themselves scanning the titles of books on the shelves to give Anthony time to compose himself.

Angela raised her voice to a normal tone. “Come see the basket, dear.”

Taking this to be a signal that Anthony was presentable now, Claire faced the room.

Anthony tapped a key on his keyboard and stood, with Angela dragging on his arm. He walked over to wordlessly shake Roger's hand and accept Claire's hug. He moved as if in a trance.

Claire wondered if she was hugging a killer whose remorse was catching up with him.

While Angela pulled her husband over to look at the basket, Roger took the wine bottle from Claire and opened it. Angela seemed anxious to get Anthony to say something about the basket, asking questions like, “Isn't this nice? And the thank you notes are perfect, aren't they?”

Anthony rubbed his wife's shoulder. “Yes, the notes will be useful.” He didn't show much enthusiasm, but Claire hadn't expected him to.

He looked at the bottle in Roger's hand and, with a wry smile, reached out for it. “I see Angela thinks it's cocktail hour. I'll pour.” He filled the four glasses and passed them around then accepted a cracker with cheese from his wife.

Searching for something to say to break the awkward silence, Claire noticed the view out the window behind Anthony's desk. “Oh, you can see the ski area from here. How nice to be able to check the weather over the mountain before you leave the house.”

She moved to the window to look out over the pines at the
white ski runs etched in the sides of the mountains across the
valley.

“Yes, yes.” Angela seemed to desperately clutch at the line of
conversation. “And we get a nice view of it from the kitchen
window downstairs, too. Don't we Anthony?” She nudged her husband.

He just nodded, laid down his cheese cracker uneaten, and took a large gulp of wine.

Claire sent one of those signals to Roger that long-married couples develop between them.
Think of something to say.

“How long have you had this place?” Roger asked Anthony.

Good. We should be able to milk the subject of the house for a while.

As Angela pattered on about the yearlong search for their second home with an increasingly impatient local real estate agent, Claire turned to walk back around the desk and accidentally bumped the keyboard perched on the edge. The computer monitor, which had been black, powered up. On it was displayed a table labeled “GI Transfers.”

What does “GI” mean?

Claire remembered Anthony's most recent visitor—Gregori Ivanov. “GI” must refer to him, but the transfers confused her. Lines and lines showed dollar amounts shuffled from one bank to another, many with foreign-sounding names, in the past three months. And she was looking at page nineteen of a twenty-page chart. Why did the man need so much money moved around?

Realizing she was staring at the screen, she checked the others. Anthony stood bent over the tray, pouring himself another glass of wine. The man seemed determined to drown his sorrows. Trying to look interested, Roger nodded while Angela talked.

Claire took another surreptitious glance at the computer
screen. All the amounts going in and coming out of U.S. banks were around nine thousand, right under the ten thousand re
porting limit. She knew that much from Roger's work. Once the money got to banks with foreign-sounding names, the transfers grew larger.

She turned away and looked out the window again to think. Was Anthony laundering money for Ivanov? Maybe that's why Angela didn't know much about his work, because it was illegal. What if Stephanie found out and threatened to tell the police?

Lots of questions, but no answers. Where to get them?
Claire thought of the connection she had made a few months ago with a drug boss named Leon in Colorado Springs. They had developed a wary mutual respect. Maybe Leon would know who Ivanov was. She made a mental note to contact him.

Anthony appeared at her elbow. “What do you find so interesting about this view?”

Claire jumped, almost dropping her wineglass, but she made a quick recovery. “Oh, my, I was so lost in my thoughts that you startled me. It's not so much the view. I was just thinking about all that's happened.”

He frowned and glanced at the computer screen, but thank God, it had gone dark again. Then he gave her an appraising look.

“Sorry to bring up the subject,” Claire said quickly. “Maybe we should talk about something else. I assume you and Angela aren't still planning to attend the Summit Foundation fundraiser on Sunday.”

He took another drink of wine, almost emptying his glass. “Hadn't thought about it.”

Angela called from across the room. “The fundraiser? We have to go. They're giving an award to Anthony.”

He scowled and moved away from the desk to rejoin Angela and Roger. “How can you think of going to a public event so soon after Stephanie's service?”

With a silent sigh of relief, Claire followed Anthony.

Angela laid a beseeching hand on his arm. “The director called
today to express his condolences and ask if we would still be coming. He said he could understand our reluctance to attend, but
they very much want to honor you for your contributions of money
and talent, especially for managing the charity's funds.”

While Anthony poured another glass of wine for himself, his hand shook. “Can't you see what we'll have to endure? Everyone coming up to say how awful they feel about Stephanie and waiting to see if we'll break down in front of them.” He took a swallow of wine. “I don't want to go through that. And I don't want to put you through that.”

“When I asked, the director said he would spread the word that we don't want to talk about Stephanie.” Angela stared at her glass and twirled it in her fingers. “Maybe we could go for a short while, for only the award ceremony, then leave.”

“We'll see.”

Claire decided a change of subject to a neutral topic was in order. “I'm making a gift basket for the silent auction. It will be a spa assortment with lots of relaxing items. I hope it brings in a good bid.”

“I may even bid on it,” Angela said. “I'm already feeling like I'm stretched as tight as an overextended Slinky.”

The front door opened, and Nick shouted, “We're back.”

The four adults went into the hallway and looked down the stairs. Nick and Judy stood in the doorway, arms laden with blue and purple flowers.

“Oh, they're beautiful. And in Stephanie's favorite colors, too.” With tears in her eyes, Angela walked downstairs to examine the arrangements.

Anthony followed more slowly, his white-knuckled hand gripping the rail.

Claire whispered to Roger, “As soon as they finish bringing in the flowers, we should bundle up Judy and get out of here, leave the Continos alone. Plus, I've got something else to discuss with you.”

“What?”

Claire shushed him. “Not here.”

Ten: Making a Deal

After returning to their
townhouse, Claire didn't feel much like eating—nor did Roger or Judy, but she heated up some canned vegetable soup anyway. While stirring the pot, she debated how to broach the subject with Judy of steering clear of the Continos. And Nick. The desolate young man probably needed Judy's support now more than ever. But what if he killed Boyd, or even his sister? And if he was innocent, was it right to ask her to stay away? Would Judy even consider staying away if her parents asked?

Claire set out bowls and spoons and brought the pot to the table. For a few minutes, no one spoke as they listlessly spooned soup into their mouths. Unable to eat more than a few bites, Claire laid down her spoon. “Judy, I think there are some things you ought to know.”

Judy stared at her mother. “What things?”

Claire glanced at Roger for support. “Things that will be difficult for you to hear, but they affect your relationship with Nick.”

With a nod, Roger laid down his spoon.

“You're scaring me, Mom. What are you talking about?”

Reaching over to rub her daughter's shoulder, Claire said, “Before I tell you, I want you to know that Dad and I love you and are here to support you.”

She clasped her hands and explained Detective Silverstone's suspicion that some dark secret within the Contino family could have resulted in Anthony killing his daughter and in Boyd Naylor becoming a witness. She left out the possibility of Nick being Boyd's killer.

Judy's eyes grew wider and wider with the telling. “I can't believe
this. No way were Stephanie and her dad having …” She shuddered.
“Oh, yuck, I can't imagine it, let alone say it. And Mr. Contino killing his own daughter? No. That's not possible. He would never do that—or anything criminal.”

Claire kept her suspicions that Anthony was laundering money for Ivanov to herself. Without some sort of proof, Judy obviously wouldn't believe her, and this fire didn't need any more fuel at the moment. She exchanged a worried look with Roger.

Running his fingers through his hair, Roger mussed the few strands left. “The thing is, Judy, Nick and his parents are going to be busy with the memorial service and the police over the next few days.”

“What are you getting at?” Judy looked from her father to her mother.

Claire sighed. “Maybe it would be best to put a little distance between ourselves and the Continos for a while.”

Judy's jaw dropped. “You want me to stop seeing Nick when he needs me the most? Because of some crazy theory the police have? Are you out of your mind?”

“No, we're worried about you, dear,” Claire said. “While Detective Silverstone's theory may turn out to be false, there's a chance it may be true.”

Roger leaned forward. “We just don't know. And until we find out what's really going on, we think it's best that you not go over there, at least not alone.”

“We'll still go to the memorial service,” Claire added quickly.

Judy leapt up. “You're horrible, both of you. Nick and his parents are heartbroken and you want to stay away, to shun them, when they need all the support they can get? I damn well plan to see him.” She threw down her napkin and strode out of the room.

Roger cradled his head in his hands and cast a soulful look at Claire. “That went well, didn't it?”

“Oh, shut up.”

A door slammed upstairs, causing Claire to flinch. She placed her palms on the table and shoved her chair back.

“No, don't go,” Roger said. “Let her sleep on it. We'll talk to her some more in the morning.”

Claire remembered past arguments she'd had with her daughter. Whenever she had pushed to finish them after Judy cut off the discussion and left, she had been sorry. Letting her daughter cool down and do some thinking first always proved to be the better course of action, no matter how urgent Claire thought the issue was.

She dropped her hands in her lap. “You're right. She's too emotional now.”

“As are you. A good night's sleep is what you need, too.”

“I've got to make a phone call first.” Claire dug in her purse for her address book.

As she flipped through the pages, Roger asked, “Who're you calling?”

“Leon.” There, she found the number.

“Why him?”

“To find out what he knows about Gregori Ivanov and Anthony
Contino.”

Roger frowned. “Why would Leon know anything about them?”

“Because I suspect they're engaged in criminal activities.” She explained what she had seen on Anthony's computer screen.

When she finished, Roger sat rubbing his chin. “Does sound suspicious, but isn't checking them out Detective Silverstone's job?”

“I doubt he can do anything based only on what I saw, and I doubt he has contacts like Leon. If Leon can back me up, I'll share whatever I learn with Owen.”

“Well, I'm not comfortable with you calling up this drug boss. In fact, I find your whole relationship with him a little strange.”

Claire sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “If not for Leon, you might still be in jail, dear. Remember he helped me figure out who killed Enrique.”

“Only after he kidnapped you, threatened you with a knife, and bashed the side-view mirror off your car.”

Claire tried to keep a straight face as she faced her grumbling, protective, grouchy, and altogether adorable husband. “You're not still mad about the mirror, are you?”

“No, I'm more concerned about the business he's in. He's a criminal, for God's sake.”

“Yes, and he knows other criminals. Now, I'm calling him, so don't try to stop me.”

“I can see right where Judy's stubbornness came from.”

Claire stuck out her tongue.

With a harrumph, Roger picked up their bowls and carried them into the kitchen.

Claire dialed Leon's cell phone number. When she heard his familiar gravelly voice, she said, “Hello, Leon. This is Claire Hanover.”

He let out a gruff belly laugh. “The lady with the iron balls, or what did your friend call it, chut-bah, or something?”

Claire grinned. “Chutzpah. How are things, Leon?”

“Can't complain, can't complain. When you gonna bring that hubby of yours down to my barbecue joint for some fine-ass ribs?”

“Soon. But we're in Breckenridge now.”

“What'cha calling me from up there for?”

Claire sobered. “I need your help, Leon.”

She told him about Stephanie's and Boyd's deaths, the mysterious Gregori Ivanov, and the chart on Anthony's computer.

When she mentioned Anthony's name, Leon said, “I think I‘ve heard of him. Italian dude, right? In his fifties?”

“Yes. What do you know about him?”

“Ancient history, now. He used to be a money man for the Smaldone family in the eighties. There were three brothers, Eugene, Clyde, and Chauncey. They ran their operation out of Gaetano's in north Denver. Funny how we private entrepreneurs hang around food joints, huh?”

“I like barbecue better than Italian, though.”

Leon laughed. “That's 'cause you got good taste, woman.”

“You say this is ancient history. What happened to the Smaldone brothers?”

“Eugene, the boss man, died in the slammer of a heart attack in ninety-two. Clyde went in ninety-eight. Far as I know, Chauncey took over what was left of the business and is still alive and kicking. But I lost track of him in ninety-nine. He was a small player by then.”

“What about Anthony Contino?”

“When Eugene got thrown in prison in the eighties, Contino saw the writing on the wall and jumped ship. Too smart to get caught in the FBI web. I suppose he's working for the Russians now, given that Ivanov guy you mentioned.”

“Do you know anything about Ivanov?”

“I make a point of not dealing with the Russian mob. They're nasty. Have no honor. I could ask around. See what my other business associates know about him. It'll cost you, though.”

“How much?”

“Oh, I ain't thinking 'bout money.” He paused. “You prob'ly know how to do all them snow sports, like skiing, snowshoeing, and riding them snowmobiles. Now, I bet that's a hoot.”

A cold chill ran down Claire's spine. “No snowmobiling for me. The son of a friend of mine crashed on one when he was only nineteen. I had to hold my friend's hand in the hospital while she received the news that her son's brilliant brain was crushed.”

“That's a damn shame.”

“I'll never get on one. Never. They're way too unstable.” She wiped the unpleasant memory from her mind. “And after killing my leg muscles tromping through the snow on snowshoes today, I'm in no mood to get on them again anytime soon.”

“Well then, all that's left on my list is skiing. I always wanted to learn to ski, but never knew anyone who could teach me. You ski good, Claire?”

“I guess you could say I'm good. I can ski down the blacks, but I take them slow.”

“The blacks. What's that mean? These ski areas ain't segregated are they?”

Claire laughed. “Well they are in a way, but not the way you mean. The blacks are expert slopes. An international system ranks beginner slopes with a green circle, intermediate with a blue square,
and expert with a black diamond.”

“Black diamond, huh? Now that's for me.” Leon chuckled. “Here's
the deal. You give me a ski lesson Saturday, and I'll dig up whatever dope I can find on this Ivanov dude tomorrow.”

“A ski lesson? I don't know, Leon. I'm not an instructor.” She glanced at Roger, who was making crossing swipes with his arms and vigorously mouthing, “No, no, no.”

Claire and Roger had taught the basics of skiing to the kids, but that was many years ago. She tried to picture the huge black man with a hefty paunch and long legs in a snowplow stance on skis. She had to stifle a giggle. This could be fun. It could also be a lot of work. But she needed the information about Anthony Contino's criminal activities, if only to convince Judy to stay away from Nick.

“I'll do it.”

Roger slapped his forehead, leaned on the kitchen bar, and shook his head.

Claire gave Leon directions to the Peak Eight Base Lodge of the Breckenridge resort. “You'll need to wake up early, Leon. We should meet at the base no later than nine so we can get you outfitted with rental skis and boots before the rush starts.” That meant Leon would have to leave Colorado Springs by six-thirty. “When's the last time you got up at five-thirty on a Saturday morning?”

Leon chuckled. “Many's the time I've been awake at that time,
but usually 'cause I've been up all night. Hmmm. Maybe that's what
I should do. Just party all night tomorrow.”

“No, don't. You'll need your energy for the ski lesson. Go to bed early.”

“You're hard, woman. Here our lesson ain't even started, and you're already cutting me off from the booze and the babes.”

Claire shook her head. “It's your body, Leon. See you Saturday morning at nine.”

After she hung up, Claire picked up the soup pot, walked into the kitchen, and dropped the pot in the sink.

Roger's gaze tracked her movements. “So, you're seriously giving that crook a ski lesson?”

Claire jammed her hand on her hip. “In exchange for information that could save our daughter's life.”

“That's a bit melodramatic.”

“I don't think so. Leon said Anthony worked for an Italian mob family in the eighties, handling their finances.”

“You're kidding. Leon really knew something about Anthony?”

“Yes, and he's going to dig up what he can on Ivanov. You know, the more we find out about the Continos, the more afraid for Judy I get.”

“There's a big difference between a money handler and a killer, Claire. Leon's probably more dangerous than Anthony is.”

“Not to me. I'm going through with this, honey.”

Roger blew out a disgusted breath and gathered her in a hug. “I know, Mama Bear. I know enough not to get in the way when you've bared your claws to protect one of your young.”

Laying her head against his chest, Claire squeezed him. “I may be a mama bear, but you're my rock, you know that?”

He rested his chin on her head. “And you're mine.” He bent down to give her a kiss that started out small but deepened into something much more. “What say we two rocks make a few sparks together?”

Good God, he wants to make love at a time like this?
But that's one reason they had taken this trip. To repair their marriage. Claire realized that with all the deaths and turmoil surrounding the Continos, she and Roger hadn't made love since they arrived in Breckenridge. Her whole body sagged. Much as she wanted to show Roger she still loved and valued him, she had absolutely no energy left.

Roger kissed her nose and gazed at her. “You're awfully quiet.”

“I'm sorry, Roger. I just can't.”
When can I stop apologizing to him?