“Angelina Modelli.” Cynthia said.
“Angelina Modelli Coppola now.” Bentley nodded.
Charlie frowned. “Isn’t she the one that—” Whatever he saw on Cynthia’s expression had him rethinking his words. “A known Coppola syndicate contract killer,” Charlie said. “Since when did this FSC become married housing?”
“She isn’t housed here, or in jail at all. She turned snitch,” Bentley said. “Negotiated a hush-hush deal with the bureau recently. That’s all I know about it.” Charlie glanced at Cynthia, as if looking for clarification. Cynthia shook her head, not wanting to get into specifics with Bentley around.
Bentley pulled a ring of key cards off her utility belt as they continued down the hall.
“Technically,” Cynthia said, “she’s out on bail for assault.” That was public record, and something Bentley, if not Charlie, would already know about.
They had Modelli pinned on those assault charges and were holding them over her head for leverage. That didn’t mean they weren’t pursuing murder one, though evidence was scarce for that more egregious charge. Witnesses against Coppola’s new bride were either dead or not talking, so warrants, subpoenas, and surveillance requests were regularly denied by judges. But they still had the assault charges to keep her in the country, and her husband to keep her near Pensacola, Florida’s FPC. Anyone who knew anything about the case knew Modelli had loved Coppola for nearly a decade. Obsessively. So she wasn’t going anywhere, and though arguably just as much a monster as her husband, Modelli was busy, presumably kept out of trouble with her assault case, negotiating her deal with the FBI, and managing her husband’s visitor schedule. No small beans. That meant Modelli was someone else’s problem, which was a good thing, because Cynthia had bigger fish to fry…and her own husband to worry about.
Officer Bentley used a security card to gain access to the visiting room. The atmosphere felt relaxed inside, lots of chatter, very much Club Fed: white walls decorated with murals and paintings. There was even a vending machine against the back wall. At this moment, three kids were feeding it bills. Guards manned the room’s corners, their expressions friendly, and fifteen round tables with plastic chairs sectioned off the visitors per inmate.
They were led to the farthest table in the room, where Dante Coppola, dressed in hunter green prison garb, leaned on his elbows, conferring with his wife. Cynthia had never seen Angelina’s dark brown hair down. She now looked more like the “Lina” she was known as in syndicate circles rather than the “Modelli” that Cynthia saw when looking at the woman’s mug shots. In those pictures, the ones stacked in her file, she always wore a black pantsuit, white open-collared shirt, and had her long, dark hair upswept into a serviceable bun. It was a uniform of sorts for the notorious Coppola contract killers, of which Modelli was “allegedly” a member, though no one on the FBI task force believed she deserved the presumption of innocence the “alleged” indicated. Too much anecdotal evidence to pretend otherwise.
Now, however, Lina seemed girly, wearing a tight black sheath dress, red stiletto heels, and lots of makeup. Large-boned, shapely, and muscular, Lina was taller than her husband, and outweighed him. From her expression, it was clear she loved him, worshipped the ground he walked on. From all appearances, however, Coppola seemed to take Lina’s adoring glances for granted. Flagrantly arrogant, despite his fall from grace, the handsome ex-crime lord still wore his black hair slicked back as if he were holding court in his multimillion-dollar mansion’s compound in Saddle River, New Jersey. Though he’d lost weight, and there were dark circles under his eyes, Coppola seemed much improved from when last Cynthia saw him: bleeding, whimpering in pain after his ex-wife, Avery Coppola, nearly killed him.
Bentley was right. The couple was real cozy. Lina’s eyelashes were aflutter, and though Coppola’s black eyes still had that dead fish quality about them, there was a hint of amusement in his smile. Apparently, this new marriage suited him. Psychopaths in love? Weirder things had happened, Cynthia supposed.
The three of them stepped up to the table. “We need to cut your visit short, Mrs. Coppola,” Bentley said. “This is—”
Lina threw up her hand, palm facing Cynthia. “I know who she is.” Other than a tightening of the skin around her eyes, Lina gave no indication that she was put out by the interruption. “I’ll see you soon, my love,” Lina said. Then she stood, rock steady in her super high heels, and bent at the waist, kissing Dante Coppola full on the mouth, lots of tongue and smacking noises. When she straightened again, Coppola was smiling at Officer Bentley as if he knew the corrections officer would be unsettled by the display. Cynthia watched the byplay and recognized it as pure Dante Coppola. The man lived to manipulate those around him.
Lina was making a big show of facing Cynthia, using her middle finger to fix her red lipstick line, but keeping her gaze averted. Then the woman grabbed her purse and walked to the exit, shimmying and rocking her hips with enough force to cripple a man if he happened to get in her way.
“She loves me,” Coppola said, when the door closed behind his bride. “And she’s afraid the bureau will stop us from seeing each other, so forgive her poor manners.” He shrugged, as if to say, “What can you do?”
“And what about you?” Cynthia said. “Are you afraid the bureau will stand in the way of true love?”
Coppola chuckled, shaking his head. “She loves me, so she has something to lose. I didn’t say I loved her. There is nothing I want that the FBI can give me.” His eyes narrowed. “How is my lovely ex-wife?”
“Dead,” Charlie said. Which wasn’t true. Avery Toner Coppola was currently planning to wed Special Agent Vincent Modena, and she was ecstatically happy because she had been accepted into three engineering colleges in Boston. Cynthia knew for a fact that she was leaning toward MIT. “The obituary was in all the papers,” Charlie said. Planted obits. She and her sister now lived under aliases with Modena.
“Dead, huh?” Coppola’s cheek kicked up. “If my Avery was dead, I’d know it.”
“Yeah?” Cynthia said. “How?”
He touched his green uniform shirt and clutched the material over his heart. “I’d feel it.”
The man was obsessed with his ex-wife, and was lucky Avery didn’t kill him when she’d had the chance. Didn’t mean Cynthia didn’t believe Coppola, because she had that kind of connection with Charlie. If he died first, Cynthia was positive she’d feel it, and knew it would probably feel as if a hole had been blasted through her heart. She felt the urge to mirror Coppola, and had to stop her hand from clutching her chest. She wanted to look at Charlie, but couldn’t, because Coppola still held her gaze, searching, studying her response. Still clutching his uniform over his heart.
She wondered how he’d feel if she admitted Avery was happy, living her life, never thinking of him. Cynthia couldn’t taunt him about it, as much as he deserved it. Not without compromising Avery, anyway, but she wanted to. Cynthia wanted to taunt Coppola something fierce, because he was proof that a connection that strong could easily be one-sided.
“Green is definitely your color.” Cynthia sat at the table, across from him, well out of reach. Though she didn’t think Coppola would attempt to harm her; it wasn’t his style. Coppola hired people to do his dirty work. Cynthia’s skin crawled when she got too near him. The man was a living, breathing monster.
“I want a cigarette, or this interview ends now.” Coppola folded his hands on his lap.
Charlie sat next to Cynthia, looking his affable self. “I’ll buy you a pack. No, I’ll buy you a carton. You’ll have it when we leave.”
“What are you? Good cop?” Coppola chuckled, looking Charlie up and down. “I remember you.” Cynthia supposed once someone met Charlie, it would be hard to forget him. His size, his coloring, his deep voice had a way of sticking with a person. When he sat in the witness box at Coppola’s trial and put his considerable academic and pro
fessional weight behind the forensic evidence findings, and explained it to the jury in an understandable manner, everyone watching knew Charlie had put the final nail in Coppola’s coffin.
Charlie nodded. “Charles Foulkes, BPD.”
“The forensic expert.” Coppola narrowed his eyes. “You were at my trial.” He turned to Cynthia. “A special agent and a forensic expert walk into a prison in the sunny state of Florida. Sounds like the setup to a bad joke.” He lifted his brows, not hiding his derision. “Miss me, did you?”
“Six of your men are dead,” she said. Coppola didn’t seem surprised, so Cynthia supposed Modelli had shared this syndicate-related gossip. All other avenues of inside information with syndicate associates had been cut off by the FBI to prevent Coppola from becoming puppet master while behind bars. Modelli’s visits were okayed because Cynthia’s own risk assessments suggested it was in Modelli’s interest to keep her husband in jail. If he was free, the woman had to know there would be instant competition for her husband’s affection, which was notoriously fickle.
“Only six?” Coppola projected boredom, but didn’t attempt to sell it. Even though he was the one caught in a trap, he still acted like the cat playing with the snared mouse. Cynthia exchanged glances with Charlie, who seemed the image of patience. It reminded her to be cool, to not give anything away for free. To Coppola, information was currency, and she needed him to think he was bankrupt.
“You’re in here,” she said, “your syndicate gone, your power nonexistent. No one left to impress, really. Why bother with the hits? And who was stupid enough to take the contracts on spec? You don’t have a dime.”
“All true.” Coppola nodded and caught Charlie’s gaze, winking, his lips cracking a smile. “Special Agent Deming is practicing what is referred to in the biz as a ‘leading question.’” He turned back to Cynthia, his smile fading. “I’m in jail. My deal with the feds requires me to cut all ties with past associates. I’m not the man you used to know, Special Agent. I’m humbled. They bus me to a nearby plant, where other inmates supervise my work and tell me what to do. Plebeians, the lot of them, and not one with a sense of humor.”
“Working stiff, huh?” Cynthia studied Coppola, wondering why he’d bother to explain his day. He had a motive. Coppola wasn’t a man who wasted his time, but then again, time was all he had left.
“It’s pretty hairy work, actually. Hazardous materials at Pensacola NAS. Funny story.” He chuckled. “My supervisor was a CEO for a major hedge fund before he was incarcerated. Very high maintenance, this man. Reminds me of myself. He runs his fiefdom like he’s still on Wall Street and I’m his intern. He makes twelve cents an hour, just like the rest of us, so he’s not doing it for the money.” His eyes narrowed as he looked between her and Charlie. “He’s doing it because it’s his nature.”
“Said the scorpion to the frog,” Charlie said. Coppola laughed, nodding.
Cynthia frowned. “Your immunity covers past offenses. If we discover you’re in any way involved in these six murders, you’ll lose your deal. Withholding information could land you in Fairton Federal Prison, rubbing shoulders with New Jersey’s finest.”
“Which tells you all you need to know,” Coppola said, the image of disgruntled.
Cynthia studied the man, his body language and expression, and couldn’t see that he was lying. Didn’t mean he wasn’t. “I’ve been monitoring your visitor logs,” she said, “and keep seeing familiar names.”
“None are past syndicate associates.” Coppola shrugged. “All vetted by my CC and signed off by the warden. Whom on the list do you have a problem with?”
She felt Charlie’s sneaker nudge her foot. A glance told her Charlie didn’t so much as flicker an eyelash, but she knew he was reminding her to be careful, that she was here for information, not to give it. Coppola’s eyes narrowed, his speculation clearly on display.
“Six months of visits from New Jersey friends,” she said, resting her elbows on the table. “If I were suspicious”—Coppola smiled—“I’d suspect you were arranging a reunion here in Florida. Are you? Maybe activating a pipeline to pull Coppola syndicate strings from behind bars?” It would explain six contract killers publicly murdered. It certainly reiterated the message that screwing with Coppola will get you dead. Were these murders a signal that Coppola was back in the game? It was a reasonable motive, and would be an easy sell for a jury.
Coppola’s smile widened. “Catch me if you can.”
“Look around,” Charlie said, his tone flat and unemotional. “You’re caught.”
Cynthia saw a flash of anger slip past Coppola’s projected nonchalance, and could have kissed Charlie. He’d succeeded in forcing the crime lord to reveal his first authentic emotion since they’d arrived.
“Once”—Coppola snapped his fingers, glaring at Charlie—“you wouldn’t be so quick to speak to me that way. You’d be smarter. Know better.” Coppola’s inner monster was peeking out from behind his new worker bee persona. No one, least of all Cynthia, was surprised. This was the man she knew, who she’d devoted two years to putting behind bars.
“If you didn’t arrange for the hits,” Cynthia said, “who did?”
“I don’t know. That’s the truth.” He seemed disgusted. “I’m in prison, minding my own damn business, so leave Lina and me alone.”
Cynthia grimaced. “Maybe Lina will be more willing to talk than you, especially if we escalate her court date for assault. It’s a slam dunk, Coppola. You know I can do that, right?” She lifted her brows, taunting him. “You think life sucks now? Try living it without conjugal visits.”
“You’re a bully, and you’re wasting your time with us.” Coppola’s all-powerful crime lord persona diminished as his inner toddler took center stage. He still wore his crazy eyes, though. “I don’t take a shit alone, so not incidentally, I have an alibi.” He folded his arms over his chest. “My alibi is rock solid.” Cynthia forced herself to not move, to not even flicker an eyelash. He was telling her something, and instinct told her it was important, and dangerous. Her heart was racing, and it was hard not to look at Charlie to see his reaction. To see if he’d picked up on it, too. What was she thinking? This was Charlie. He’d be no help. Was she imagining the triumphant look in Coppola’s eyes? He didn’t hide that he wanted to hurt her, and triumph would indicate he thought he had. “Cattle breeding cattle,” Coppola said. “Is there any wonder why there’s a ‘one percent’ in this world? It’s because we’re not cattle. We think, and we live accordingly.”
“In prison.” Charlie stood and glanced around the crowded room that seemed more church social than federal penitentiary. “Yeah. Cattle. Gotcha.” He exchanged glances with Cynthia. “I think we’ve got what we need.”
Coppola narrowed his eyes. “I want my promised cigarettes.”
“You know they cause cancer, right?” Charlie arched a brow, paused, and stared at Coppola until the man was forced to acknowledge him with a nod. Charlie smiled, ever affable, and seemingly without guile. “I’ll make sure you get them before we leave.” Charlie glanced at the nearest corrections officer leaning against the wall. The guard nodded and spoke into a walkie-talkie affixed to the shoulder of his Kevlar vest. Moments later, Officer Bentley stepped into the room.
Cynthia stood, dejected. Their options had winnowed down to the unthinkable. Coppola most likely knew more about what was happening to them than they did, but there was no way to prove it…or beat it out of him.
Bentley caught the attention of the nearest corrections officer, and then indicated the exit with her hand. “If you would escort Mr. Coppola back to his room, I’ll show Special Agent Deming and Dr. Foulkes out.”
Twenty minutes later, after Charlie gave Bentley cash enough to buy Coppola his promised cigarettes, they were back in the parking lot, and Charlie was hustling her into the car rental. “Cheer up,” he said. “It could be worse. It could have been me i
n there, and you visiting, torturing me with a tight dress and heels.”
“Not funny.” She slammed her door, cutting him off mid-chuckle.
Moments later, Charlie slid behind the wheel, keys jingling in his hand. “Let’s spend the night at a posh hotel, do some beach time, and have a taste of that honeymoon you keep telling people we’re on.” His smile told her he was teasing, which meant he couldn’t understand the severity of their situation.
“There’s probably a BOLO out on us,” she said.
Charlie shook his head. “Benton would have called first.”
True, she thought, but still… Coppola throwing the word “alibi” around meant he knew something. She was sure of it. Did he know the extent of her and Charlie’s alibi deficiencies? Or was there a snitch in the Boston Police Department, giving Modelli an earful about Charlie and his problems? It wouldn’t be the first time there was a snitch. Wouldn’t be the last, but it was damn frustrating and intimidating to think someone like Coppola, in Florida, was more informed than even Charlie’s parents.
“I think Modelli shared intel about us to Coppola that could have been lifted straight from Benton’s investigation notes,” she said.
“That would make it a no on the beach?” He didn’t bother waiting for a response. He just started the car. “Airport it is, then.” Charlie threw his arm over the back of the seat, looking out the rear windshield as he backed out of the parking space. “What else did your voodoo pick up?”
“Voodoo?” Why did that sound familiar?
“That’s what Modena calls it,” he said, chuckling, carefully driving off the FPC, leaving the guard towers, the guns, the oppressive taint of lives on hold behind them. “That thing you do with suspects. Well, with everyone, actually.” He meant body language and facial cues assessment. “When you asked Coppola if he knew about the murders, did you believe him?” Charlie was a lot of things: brilliant, learned, methodical, but Cynthia had been in love with him for years, and Charlie still hadn’t a clue. Body language and facial cues assessment was not his strength.
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