He thought that it was an excellent place to dispose of a body or two.
They parked and walked inside. As they entered, the smell of diesel fuel mixed with salt water permeated the small boathouse.
The place hadn’t changed. Same oil lamps on the wall, same gray cracked cement and wooden walls. This time, however, there were no boats in the covered docks to the right. Antonio ushered him through piles of boxes, past two offices with grimy windows, into a third office. He stood behind him while Paul entered.
Giovanni hovered over a figure bound to a chair in the center of the room. Papa Grimaldi swung his golf club at the man’s shin. There was a heavy crack and a painful scream as the club connected. Paul’s memory flew back to when he’d been in that chair, and how close he’d been to receiving the same treatment. As soon as the Grimaldis saw him, they parted and revealed the man in the chair. It was…
Chapter Twelve
***
A chirping alarm sounded from Jacob’s watch. He glanced down and quickly shut it off. “I’m sorry, but we have to pause there. We can continue this next time.”
“What?” Paul said.
“I still have my other patients, and if I don’t leave now, I won’t make my next appointment.” Jacob put his empty Diet Coke cans into his cooler.
“Oh,” Paul said, remembering that he did have a business to run.
Jacob put the manila file folder in his leather satchel and slung the satchel across his shoulder. “Since we only have three weeks. I’d like to meet every weekday at this time.”
Before Paul knew what he was doing, he said, “Okay.”
“Your file mentioned you had trouble sleeping. It also mentioned you used to be a big runner.”
He had. It had been his one chance to be himself while he was undercover.
“I’d like you to pick it up again. Exercise does wonders for the body and the mind.”
He didn’t know if he’d do that but oddly, he didn’t want to refuse. He fished his phone out of his pocket and noticed the time. Students and staff would be roaming the halls, heading to dinner. If they saw him walk out with Jacob, they’d ask questions that might expose him. “Do you mind if we leave separately?”
Jacob smiled and shook his hand. “I completely understand. Why don’t I leave first? Then you can follow when you think it’s appropriate.”
“I appreciate you understanding.”
“No problem,” he said, picking up his cooler. “If anyone asks what I’m doing here, I’ll just say I’m a prospective parent looking around the school.”
“Smart call. You’ll probably be treated like royalty.” He watched Jacob—he thought of him as Jacob now, not just ‘the shrink’—leave then moved to the large window. It overlooked the faculty parking lot and the only road in and out of campus. About a minute later, Jacob slipped into a gray Mercedes sedan and drove off. As he walked out the door, he realized Jacob was the strangest psychologist he’d ever met.
As Paul left Founder’s Hall, his scar itched and he scratched it. It was dinnertime. Students ebbed and flowed in the hallway as they headed toward the dining hall. He followed them down the ramp.
The smell of fresh-baked bread hit him as soon as he walked through the double doors. The dining hall was immaculate and looked like it belonged in a university rather than a prep school.
Gleaming, stainless steel serving lines ran the length of the left wall while rows of long wooden tables filled the rest of the cavernous space. A series of glass panes overlooked an outdoor patio, vacant in the cold weather. Large-screen TVs hung from the brick walls.
The sounds of students talking competed with the clinking of silverware on plates. He moved down the serving line and grabbed pizza and a coke.
Chuck Fitzgerald waved to him from a corner table. As he maneuvered around a gaggle of students, he noticed Haverford talking to Erin Randolph, the French teacher.
He wanted to spill his food on the acting princpal. He’d say, Oh, I’m so sorry, in his most sarcastic manner. In the end, he decided against it because the foodpocalypse might spill onto Erin. She was striking. Her long auburn hair was casually secured in a bun and she wore dark slacks with a crème colored blouse.
As he walked by, Haverford spoke French in a pleading tone, “We could go away for the weekend. It will be just like it used to be.”
Erin replied in French, “I seem to remember you focusing on your hair a lot. Will it be like that?”
Paul stifled a laugh. Erin turned her green eyes toward him. He tried not to stare. She had an athletic figure, tan skin, and exhibited the casual sophistication you see in well-travelled women. She smiled mischievously and asked, “Parlez-vous français?"
He wanted to tell her “only a little” because he didn’t want anyone to wonder why he spoke a language that wasn’t on his resume, but that was what the undercover agent would have said. That wasn’t him anymore. “Oui,” he replied.
Fury slashed Haverford’s face, but Erin looked intrigued. Paul sat down next to Chuck, who eyed him suspiciously.
“You speak French?” he asked. He had been two tables away, but he evidently had sharp ears. He’d have to remember that. He didn’t want to reveal any part of his past, so, once again, he didn’t respond.
Chuck shook his head. “You can at least tell me what they said,” he said, leaning forward eagerly.
Paul smiled. It was still hard for him to believe how much Chuck enjoyed knowing everyone’s business. It was the complete opposite of him. “Haverford is trying to get Erin to go away with him for the weekend. She doesn’t seem interested.”
Chuck nodded and said in his accent, “I knew they’d broken up. Just don’t know why. Hope she doesn’t take him back. He’s a fancy talker, but meaner than a striped snake.”
“You mean he’s an asshat.”
“That’s what I said,” he replied. He pointed at Paul with his fork. “And why was he looking at you like he was going to kick you to the curb?”
He told Chuck about their discussion earlier.
“Kevin’s getting away with that?” Chuck replied incredulously.
“Evidently his family has a lot of D.C. contacts,” he said, eating his food.
“I’ll find out the deal with his family.”
Paul smirked. “Is there anything on campus you can’t find out about?”
Chuck used his fork as a pointer and poked at him a few times.
They both laughed. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the FBI would throw him in jail, Paul would have talked to him about his past.
He glanced at Erin out of the corner of his eye. She was beautiful and, from everything he’d heard, very intelligent. He wondered how a woman like that could have dated Haverford.
Chuck must have noticed who he was looking at because he said in a wistful voice, “That woman is a steel magnolia. She could survive a zombie apocalypse. If only she had thankles and bigger hips.”
“Thankles?” Paul asked quizzically.
“Thick ankles.”
“Huh, I didn’t know you liked bigger women.”
Chuck gestured toward him with his fork again. “As my Grandma used to say, bigger women are better women.”
They both laughed. For some reason, the laughter made him think of David. Paul looked for him, but he didn’t seem to be in the dining hall. He wondered if the boy was working on his invention.
“Where’d you disappear to this afternoon?”
The question sounded innocent, but also eager, as if his friend needed to know. He dismissed that thought. Chuck was simply fascinated with knowing other people’s business. “Around.”
Chuck smiled. “Not going to tell me, huh. You know, one of these days I’m going to wear you down.”
Paul’s phone rang. It was Shelly. He waved his goodbye to Chuck, and answered it.
“How was the session?”
“Surprisingly okay,” he said, and told her the details.
“That’s really good.”
He t
ook a deep breath. “Yeah, it is. Much better than I thought it would be.” There was silence on the phone. “You need me, don’t you?”
“There are four on the outside, but I can’t tell how many inside. I might be able to do it alone, but it’d be risky.”
“I’ll be there. Text me the address.”
Chapter Thirteen
Paul skulked toward the address Shelly had given. The avenue was lined with multi-million dollar homes. Street lamps were spaced at distant intervals and tall shrubs bordered most yards. A single penlight flashed at him. He veered toward it and Shelly stepped out of the shadows between two bushes. At nearly midnight, no one roamed the street.
She gestured to the house two doors down. It was a fully renovated 1920’s era behemoth made of beige stone. A large yard filled with alternating patches of grass and tall bushes encircled it.
Staring at the house, he knew what he’d have to do. He feared using those skills would turn him toward the man he no longer wanted to be. But that didn’t matter right now.
“All I need you for is backup,” she said. “I don’t want you any more involved than you have to be.” They moved toward the house and she handed him a gun and a ski mask. “And try not to kill anyone. We’re here for information and we don’t need the headache of retaliation.”
He nodded, released the safety, chambered a round, and kept the weapon by his side. They both donned the black masks.
Creeping up the hedge-lined driveway, he smelled cigarette smoke. They edged around the bushes and spied a tall guard in a dark suit smoking while staring at his phone. Shelly darted behind him, kicked the back of his knees so he dropped, and clubbed his head. The man fell, unconscious.
Shelly crept toward the back of the house, gun drawn. He followed, swiveling his weapon in all directions to cover her. A second security guard rounded some shrubbery and Shelly kneed him in the groin and punched him in the throat. As the man sank she slammed the butt of her gun into his head.
They scouted the entire yard and disabled the remaining two guards. Security was suspiciously heavy for a retired mafia don.
Shelly led them to a back patio. Through a pair of French doors, he glimpsed a well-appointed study with dark wood paneling. Books lined the shelves. A white-haired man who appeared to be in his early seventies sat in a leather wingback chair reading a hardcover.
Shelly knelt and examined the doors. She picked the lock and swung the door inward. It squeaked and the man turned toward them.
“Don Salvini,” Shelly said. “We’re not here to hurt you, we just want information.” She moved in front of him while Paul secured the room.
“It’s not the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me,” he said in a deep voice, peering at both of them from above his rimless glasses.
Paul moved to the study’s entrance, cautiously opened the door, and peered into the marble tiled hallway. No one was around. That concerned him. The security outside indicated he wouldn’t be alone. Paul scanned for cameras or other security apparatus, but saw nothing. Don Salvini was either over confident, very foolish, or wanted to keep his business very private.
The mafia don closed his book and said, “Since you have the advantage, I’ll give you the information, if I can. You let me live and leave. That way I have no reason to come after you.” His tone was that of a banker negotiating a loan.
Shelly remained silent and Paul sensed what she felt. This was too easy. Paul scanned the room again and noticed a small antique clocked perched in the middle of a book shelf. Something about the face appeared odd. He moved forward and examined it. In the center of the clock hands was a tiny lens. “It’s a camera,” he said. “No telling how much time we have.”
Don Salvini raised his hands and smiled in a ‘what do you expect’ gesture.
Shelly aimed her gun at his chest and his smile faltered. “In 2009 and 2013, two U.S. undercover agents were killed in Italy. Their bodies hung from lampposts as a warning.” Shelly plucked a pair of newspaper articles out of her pocket and handed them to the mafia don. “I need to know what you remember about them.”
Don Salvini seemed puzzled, as if he expected they’d come for another reason. “That’s it?” He examined the print outs and then shrugged. “They were informants. They were killed.”
“I need the details.”
The don remained silent.
“I can kill you before your guards get here, or escape with information and let you live.”
Don Salvini cocked his head as if he were thinking about it, then said, “There’s not much to tell. The agents started out like everyone else in the Ndrangheta. They attached themselves to one of the crime families and acted like any other mobster. Eventually, they moved up. From everything I heard, their bosses trusted them, until they were exposed as traitors.”
“How did that happen?”
“Ah,” he said, smiling. “You want to know who betrayed them.” He settled comfortably in his chair, clearly feeling he had the advantage now. “What will you give me for the name?”
There it was, Paul thought. Confirmation there was a traitor within the FBI.
Suddenly, one of the bookshelves swung open and three men rushed out firing their weapons.
Chapter Fourteen
As the three men rushed forward, Shelly ducked to the side of Don Salvini’s chair and shot the first man in the chest. He crumpled to the floor. The second man, seeing he couldn’t shoot without hitting his employer, dodged around the chair and lunged for Shelly.
Paul fired at the individual charging Shelly, but the shot tore into the wall above his head. The third guard aimed at him. He rolled toward the guard and intended to fire his gun into his chest. As he came out of the roll, the guard tackled him. They crashed backward into a coffee table.
Each of them gripped the other’s weapon, preventing either from aiming. As they struggled, Paul glimpsed Shelly fighting her attacker. Don Salvini stood and moved toward for the dead man’s weapon.
He rolled on top of his opponent and slammed his hand into floor until the gun fell loose. Releasing his grip on his wrist, he punched him in the throat. He loosened his grip on his other arm and he shot him in the chest. Immediately, he spun and aimed at Don Salvini.
Shelly had killed her attacker and reached for her weapon, which she also fixed on the mafia boss. A radio on the floor crackled, “Team 1, this is Team 2. 2 mikes out, over.”
Two minutes until more enemies. The mafia leader dropped his gun.
“The name,” Shelly said.
Don Salvini sat back down in his seat, a business-like expression on his face. “I must confess, I lied. I never knew the spy’s name. I only told you that to buy time for my guards to arrive.” He surveyed the bodies. “Clearly, you’re more capable than I thought.”
“You had to have learned something. You were a very powerful member of Ndrangheta.”
He smiled as if the idea he was retired amused him. “But I was always outside the ruling La Provincia council. They approached me when they needed a dispute settled or an arrangement negotiated. They kept their other dealings quite secret.”
“I think you’re more connected that you let on.”
Don Salvini smiled again. “Regardless, I don’t know the identity of the person you’re looking for. If I did,” he motioned to the weapon Shelly held, “I’d tell you.”
“Then how did the crime families learn the agents’ identities?”
“La Provincia sent them a note.”
“Not a phone call?”
“No, a hand written note. The kind attached to a gift or a flower delivery.”
The radio on the floor squawked, “Team 1, do you copy, over?”
“We need to leave,” Paul said.
Shelly held up her hand. “The agent in 2013. He had an informant who gathered information from inside the ruling council. Who was it?”
Don Salvini glanced out the window. Shelly shoved the gun into his stomach.
He stared at th
e gun and said, “It was the mistress of an Ndrangheta council member.”
“What was her name?”
Silence.
Shelly shot the chair inches from Don Salvini’s hand.
“Jennifer…something.”
Paul said, “We have to go, now!”
Shelly fired into the chair next to the man’s head. Puffs of white cushioning erupted.
“Abelie …. Esposito,” the man said.
Shelly dashed out the balcony doors and Paul followed. They ran through the yard and down the street. Between breaths, she said, “Did you tell Portia your escape route in Italy?”
The question took him by surprise. “No, but Eric was going to tell her if I was killed. What do you suspect?”
“That the same thing happened to the agent in 2013. He kept her identity hidden just like you did with Portia. I think he was in love with her and, when he died, she used his escape route to flee.”
“And that’s why they didn’t display her body as a warning. They didn’t have it.”
“Yes.”
They came to a four-way stop. Paul heard a loud engine behind them and glanced over his shoulder. A car barreled toward Don Salvini’s house from the other end of the street.
“Get back to school,” Shelly said, turning left. “I’ll research it and let you know what I find out.”
He sprinted to Chuck’s truck. Tires squealed behind him. He hopped into the vehicle and peered into the rear view mirror. A dark sedan had stopped in front of Don Salvini’s house. Three men hopped out and rushed into the mobsters’ house. A fourth stood in the road, his weapon ready as he searched every direction.
Paul started the truck’s engine and, not turning on the lights, gently pressed the gas pedal, hoping the guard wouldn’t notice him.
Chapter Fifteen
Chuck crept onto the third floor at half past midnight. The hall was silent and still. If anyone happened to see him, he’d pretend to be checking the school to make sure it was safe.
The Italian Deception Page 8