"V" is for Vengeance (55 page)

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes, I do. I see guys like him all day long. I lend them money so they can try to bail themselves out of whatever hole they've dug. You and Channing were always going to be picking up after him. He was weak.”

“How dare you criticize my son! He was a
child
! Twenty-three years old.”

“Nora, he had big problems. He was up and down, immature, grandiose. Which was fine as long as he lived in the bubble he created for himself, but in the real world, he was floundering.”

“How do you know he wouldn't have straightened out? He lost any chance he had. He lost his life and for what?”

“Maybe he
would
have straightened up. I don't know that and neither do you. He didn't deserve to die. What happened to him was my fault and I don't deny the part I played. I know you can't forgive me. I'm not asking you to. I just don't want you to pretty up who Phillip was and what he did. I'm sorry he died. I mean that. I know how much he meant to you and I'm sorry.”

“Anything else?” she asked, her tone flat.

Dante took a deep breath. “As long as I'm being honest, I might as well give you the rest. I set him up. I meant to teach him a lesson, something Tripp might have done if he'd lived.”

“A lesson? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I put a woman at his table, one of my employees. Georgia's a world-class poker player. I knew he'd go down in flames if he came up against her. I wanted him to hit rock bottom so he'd see the error of his ways. He was never going to figure it out if he had people coming to his rescue. That was truly my intent, to put him back on the straight and narrow.”

She started to close the door.

He put a hand out, stopping her. “Listen to me. My brother killed your son. Phillip didn't kill himself. His death had nothing to do with you. Blame me, if it helps. You've been through a loss no parent should have to bear and nothing will make up for it. But Phillip's dead either way. At least you know now he didn't die through any will of his own.”

“Enough. You've had your say. Now get away from me. I'm tired.”

“Hell, Nora. We're all tired.”

She closed the door. He stood on her doorstep for one minute more and then he turned and went back to his car.

He thought their conversation was the low point of his day, but there was worse in store. When he reached home, the upstairs rooms were dark. Lights in the kitchen, dining room, and living room were ablaze, but there was nothing cheery waiting for him. Lola was long gone. He left his car in the driveway for Tomasso to put in the garage and entered the house through the front door. He was relieved to see there was no sign of his father. He went into the library and fixed himself a drink. He left the house by way of the back door, greeting Sophie briefly in passing. She gave him a long look, apparently aware that Lola had packed up and departed. While she knew better than to commiserate, she was in the process of preparing all of his favorites: beef Wellington and haricots verts. Chunks of potato were simmering on a low burner and he knew she'd mash them with butter and sour cream. The tureen was set out for the fresh tomato soup she'd made. She'd also made a green salad she'd be dressing just before she served him. This was the only form of mothering he knew—someone cooking his supper, fixing everything he loved. He paid her handsomely, but so be it. Nurturing was nurturing.

Sophie said, “Your uncle's been asking for you. Cara's been in here six times.”

“I'm on my way now. I should be back in half an hour or so. Pop on the premises?”

“He took the limo. Tomasso drove. He said he'd swing by Cappi's house and take him out to dinner.”

Dante made no comment. What did he care what Pop did with Cappi?

It was still light out, but the day was fading, which made the lights in the guesthouse look cozy. He could smell wood smoke and imagined Cara had laid a fire to warm the old man, who was growing more feeble by the day. When she opened the door for him, she kept her voice low. Over her shoulder, he caught sight of his uncle, whose chair was pulled up as close to the hearth as she could place it.

She was looking at him oddly. “Are you going someplace? Your uncle keeps talking about your leaving. He's been agitated.”

“No plans at the moment. Lola's gone. She left for Los Angeles this morning, so he might have caught sight of her going down the drive and thought I was in the car.”

“Well, do what you can to calm him. This is as bad as I've seen him.”

Dante crossed to the fireplace, where Cara had set out a chair close enough for easy conversation. Alfredo was swaddled in a comforter, his head sunk on his chest. Only the occasional light snore suggested he was still among the living. Dante hated to wake him, so he sat and sipped his drink. Better to wait in companionable silence than to leave and suffer the silence of the main house. He watched the fire and when he next looked at his uncle, the old man's eyes were open, fixed on him with an intensity Dante hadn't seen for many years. Dante said, “How's it going? You still hangin' in there?”

“I had a dream about you going on a journey. You kept looking back, motioning like I was supposed to come with you.” He paused to smile. “One of those dreams where I worked hard to catch up, but I couldn't close the distance. Like walking in deep water up to here.” He laid a trembling hand on his chest.

“I feel like that sometimes when I'm awake,” Dante said. “Meantime, I'm not going anyplace, so you can rest easy on that score.”

“Time's getting short and there's something I need to get off my chest.”

“You don't have to do this now . . .”

Alfredo shook his head. “Listen to me. This, I know. Shadows are getting longer and I'm cold. My blood pressure's dropping. Cara won't talk about it, but I can feel it in my soul. Those hospice people can tell you to the minute, which is why I didn't want them hovering over me. Cara's better-looking and she's got those big tits.”

Dante smiled. “I thought you'd appreciate her attributes.”

“What I'm saying, you don't want to know or you'd have figured it out years ago. I don't tell you this to cause you pain, but in order to set you free. You think you're not going anywhere, but time's getting short for you the same as it is for me.”

“I'm here now,” Dante said.

“Thing about you is you've always broken my heart. You've been burdened by more sorrow than any boy deserves except maybe me so let me say this while I can.”

Dante could feel his face grow tense with his effort to hold back tears.

“This is about your mother.”

Dante held up a hand. “Let's keep this about us, about our relationship. You're the one I'm going to miss.”

“Not like you missed her. You remember the day your father drained the swimming pool?”

“Spite on his part. Even at twelve, I knew that much . . .”

“Because her blood was in the water.”

Dante felt his body grow still. The image was as clear in his mind as though he'd been there himself, which he knew he had not. “He killed her?”

“Killing was what he did best. Not like he is now, a wreck of a man. You remember his temper back then. Terrible. Man was a maniac when he was enraged. I don't even remember now what set him off. Nothing she did. It was all in his head. I was there. I tried to intervene, but he was out of control. You kids were asleep. He made me help him bury her and then he disposed of her clothes and everything else she loved. You were her favorite and that's why from that time on he beat you bloody every chance he got. He wanted to crush you to get back at her.”

“How'd he do it?”

“He slit her throat.”

“Ah, god.”

“She never would have left you. You should know that about her. How much she loved you kids and how devoted she was. Over the years, I thought you'd ask. I thought you'd realize it was something he did, that it had nothing to do with her. Now I understand with her gone, all you had to hold on to was him. That's a special hell for a kid. The more you tried to please him, the more you reminded him of what he did.”

Dante felt all the cells in his body rearranging themselves, felt memories shift, felt truth ricochet through his soul. He knew. He did know. What else made sense in his life except his mother . . . beautiful, young, and faithful to him after all.

Alfredo said, “I wish I could help, but I can't. I have no counsel. No advice. Take it in and do with it as you will. I couldn't leave you without letting you know. I should have told you years ago, but I'm a coward. Ashamed of myself, but always proud of you. You're a good man and I love you more than I can say. If you'd been my son, this would have all turned out differently. You need to leave the country while you can. I'll be fine. I don't have long anyway and I don't want you hanging around on my account. This is our good-bye. You go. I'll cover your back. I'll be like the guy left in the fort while all the others escape certain death. I'll rest easier knowing you're safe, so you do that for me.”

Dante nodded. He reached out and the two men gripped hands tightly as though they might find a way to give immortality to the bond. Dante felt as fierce and as strong and as clean as he'd ever felt in his life. It was Alfredo's parting gift.

Late Wednesday afternoon, a uniformed officer finally stopped by my office to pick up copies of the report I'd passed along to Cheney Phillips. In point of fact, what I'd given him was my one and only copy—except for the carbon, which I confess I used to run off additional pages after I talked to him. I knew he'd feel better if he thought he'd corralled all the paperwork in my possession, so I handed the officer two more copies and we were all satisfied. The carbon I returned to its hiding place. As soon as the officer left, I put through a call to Cheney, hoping to fill him in on Len's attack, the exchange of gunfire between Cappi and Pinky, and my subsequent conversation with Dante. He didn't pick up the call and I made a note to myself to try again later.

I arrived home from work to find a message from Henry on my answering machine. He'd tried me at the office, but I must have been out the door by then. He said he was on his way to the nursing home to visit Nell. The doctors expected to release her sometime in the coming week. The purpose of his call was to let me know he was flying home the next day. He gave me his flight number and time of arrival—4:05 P.M. He said if I had prior plans and couldn't get to the airport, he'd take a cab and not to worry. He also said he'd treat me to dinner at Emile's-at-the-Beach if I was free. This was cheery news. I knew without even looking my calendar was clear, and I was excited by the prospect of having him home. I popped over to his house to make sure his plants were alive and well. It was also time to clean up the mess Pinky'd left in the hall when he dashed off. The tidying up didn't take long. I dusted, dry-mopped, and vacuumed, and then opened the back door to air out the place.

I made a run to the supermarket and stocked the few items he'd need so he wouldn't have to worry about shopping for groceries right away. The rest of Wednesday went by in a blur. I called the hospital twice for updates on Dodie, who seemed to be holding her own. The reports were superficial and didn't contain much in the way of medical data, but since I wasn't a family member, I couldn't push for more. Pinky was impossible to track down. The floor nurses didn't have the time or the inclination to roust him out of the waiting room and steer him to a phone. If he managed to get home for a shower and a few hours' sleep, the last thing I wanted to do was disturb him.

It wasn't until Thursday morning I had time to make a trip to St. Terry's. I stopped by my office en route, sitting down at my desk just long enough to try Cheney again. In the wake of Len's attack, I was losing my fear of him and anger was taking its place. When Cheney finally picked up, he was short with me. I wouldn't say he was rude, but I knew by his tone he was in no mood to talk. I said I'd catch him later, but the call left me wondering what was going on. I'd no more than returned the handset to the cradle than the phone rang.

I answered, hoping Cheney had repented. Instead, I found Diana Alvarez on the line.

“Hi, Kinsey. This is Diana.” She'd adopted the breezy, good-natured tone of a close friend, and I didn't have the energy to remind her she was no such thing. “Has Cheney said anything to you about some big deal coming down?”

“Like what?”

“I'm not sure. I was talking to one of my sources at the PD and got the impression there was something major in the works. I'd love to get the heads-up so I can file a story.”

“Can't help you there. He hasn't taken me into his confidence,” I said.

“Must be hot stuff, whatever it is. You know how cops are when it's time for fun and games. If you hear anything, would you let me know?”

I said, “Sure.” We even exchanged brief pleasantries before she signed off. I sat and stared at the phone while a cartoon question mark formed above my head. Cheney was preoccupied about
something
. No doubt about that. I'd postulated the existence of a task force and an investigation that predated and superseded mine. Were they ready to make a move? If so, how had Diana picked up a hint of it when I was still in the dark?

The drive to St. Terry's was an easy ten minutes. I found parking in the same lot I'd used Tuesday night when Dodie was admitted. I was hoping she'd be out of ICU by now and in a room of her own. At the very least, I hoped to connect with Pinky to see how he was holding up. I looked forward to telling them that Dante'd agreed to cover their bills and living expenses, which I hoped would be a source of relief. I wasn't sure how much fast-talking I'd have to do to convince Pinky the offer was something other than charity. I regarded it as fair payment for services rendered. He'd provided Dante with valuable confirmation of his brother's duplicity, which Dante could deal with in any manner that suited him, the more punitive the better as far as I was concerned.