Blue Smoke

by Nora Roberts

  dishcloth.

  “You people are always pointing the finger at him. They took his father away, they took him away. So, he got in some trouble, he did some wrong things. But he’s okay now. He’s got work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “He’s a mechanic. He learned about cars when he was in jail. About cars and computers and all sorts of things. He’s got education, and he’s got good, steady work up in New York.”

  “At a garage?” O’Donnell prompted. “You know the name of it?”

  “Something like Auto Rite. In Brooklyn. Why don’t you leave him alone?”

  She didn’t recognize me,” Reena commented when they were back in the car. “But once she did, she wasn’t surprised I was a cop. Somebody’s kept her abreast of the local events from the old neighborhood.”

  O’Donnell nodded, acknowledging Reena as he made a call, scribbled a number. “Got an Auto Rite in Brooklyn.” After a brief hesitation, he handed the page from his notebook to Reena. “You take Junior, I’ll take Senior.”

  Back at her desk, Reena put a call through to the garage. Over the sound of the Black Crowes, and considerable clanging, she had a brief conversation with the owner.

  “Joey did work at the garage,” she told O’Donnell. “For about two months, a year ago. Place was broken into twice during that two months, equipment and tools stolen. Last break-in somebody drove off with a Lexus. One of the other mechanics claimed he heard Joey bragging about the easy pickings. Owner informed the cops, who questioned. Couldn’t pin him, but he got fired over it. Five months later, the place is broken into again in what looks like vandalism. Cars beat to shit, graffiti all over the walls, and a wastebasket fire.”

  “And where was our boy when the party was going on?”

  “Allegedly in Atlantic City. Had three people verify. His alibis are connected, O’Donnell. The Carbionellis. New Jersey family.”

  “Your childhood nemesis got himself connected?”

  “It’s going to be worth finding out. I’ll run the three names who backed him up.”

  “Meanwhile, Senior’s currently unemployed. Had work cleaning a couple of bars, lost it for helping himself to too much of the booze. Six weeks ago.”

  “One or both,” Reena added. “One or both are in Baltimore.”

  “Oh yeah. Why don’t we call our friends in New York, ask them to check it out?”

  Her stomach was knotted, something she wasn’t ready to share even with her partner. She offset it by concentrating on the routine of the work. Gathering data, drawing the lines, writing it up until she was ready to update both her partner and their captain.

  A case. She had to think of it as a case, objectively, with just that sliver of distance. Because she couldn’t actively—officially—investigate the vehicular fire, she signaled Younger and Trippley before she went with O’Donnell in to the captain.

  “You two need to hear what we’ve got,” she told them.

  Captain Brant gestured them in.

  “Working on a theory,” O’Donnell began and nodded for Reena to take the lead.

  She ran through it, from the fire at Sirico’s the summer she’d been eleven, to the destruction of Bo’s truck the night before.

  “The younger Pastorelli is known to pal around with three members of the Carbionelli family, out of New Jersey. He did some time in Rikers with a Gino Borini—a cousin of Nick Carbionelli. It was Carbionelli, Borini and another low level who alibied Pastorelli for the night the garage was hit.

  “It looked like kids,” she continued. “Five months since he’d gotten the ax, and it was set up to look like a bunch of kids, or amateurs. Destruction, petty theft, a half-assed fire to cover it. They didn’t look at him very hard.”

  “We’ve got the locals doing some legwork,” O’Donnell added. “It’s not on their priority list, but they’ll send two detectives out to last known addresses.”

  “There was a lot of similarity between the car fire several years ago involving Luke Chambers and the one last night.” She looked at Trippley. “Maybe he used the same device in the gas tanks.”

  “We’ll look at that.”

  “Captain, I want to reopen Joshua Bolton’s case.”

  “Younger can take it. Fresh eye, Detective,” he said to Reena. “You’ve been looking at that case regularly for years. Let’s get the tap on your phone. Goodnight’s phone. Take another pass at the wife.”

  Laura Pastorelli’s shift had ended, so they headed to her address. It was a small, tidy house on a narrow street. An old Toyota Camry sat in the drive. Reena noted the St. Christopher’s magnet on the dash, and one of the trinkets called a parking angel perched on it.

  When they knocked, the door was opened by a woman of about the same age as Laura, but with a lot less wear on her. Her face was round and carefully made up, her dark brown hair styled. She wore navy pants with a white camp shirt tucked neatly in the waistband.

  A fluffy orange Pomeranian sat at her legs, yapping its lungs out.

  “Be quiet, Missy, you old fool. She’s an ankle nipper,” the woman said. “Fair warning.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Reena held out her badge. “We’d like to speak with Laura Pastorelli.”

  “She’s at church this time of day. Goes by every afternoon after work. Was there trouble at the store?”

  “No, ma’am. What church would that be?”

  “Saint Michael’s, over on Pershing.” Her eyes narrowed. “If there wasn’t trouble at the store, this must be about either her worthless husband or her worthless son.”

  “Do you know if she’s been in contact with either Joseph Pastorelli Senior or Junior?”

  “Wouldn’t tell me if she had. I’m her sister-in-law. Patricia Azi. Mrs. Frank Azi. You might as well come in.”

  O’Donnell looked dubiously at the still yapping ball of fur, and Patricia smiled thinly. “Give me a minute. God sake, Missy, will you put a lid on it!” She scooped up the dog and carried it off. They heard a door slam before she came back.

  “My husband’s in love with that idiot dog. We’ve had her eleven years now, and she’s still half crazy. Come on in. You want to talk to Laura, she’ll probably finish wearing her sackcloth and ashes in another half hour.” She sighed heavily, gestured toward a small, cozy living room. “Sounds bitchy, sorry. It’s not easy living with a martyr.”

  Reena gauged the ground, offered a sympathetic smile. “My grandmother always said two women can’t share a house comfortably, no matter how fond they might be of each other. It’s got to be one woman’s kitchen.”

  “She really doesn’t get in the way much, and she can’t afford her own place. Or barely. We’ve got room. Kids’re grown. And she works hard, insists on paying rent. Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

  “Her husband and her son may have information regarding a case we’re investigating,” Reena began. “When we spoke with Mrs. Pastorelli earlier today, she indicated it had been some time since she’d had contact with either of them. We’re just doing a follow-up.”

  “Like I said, she wouldn’t have told me if she’d seen or talked to either of them. She wouldn’t tell Frank either, not after he laid down the law.”

  Part of cop work was simply picking up on someone’s rhythm and going with it. So Reena smiled and said, “Oh?”

  “He showed up right before Christmas last year, right out of the blue. Laura cried buckets, her-prayers-had-been-answered sort of thing.” Patricia cast her eyes heavenward.

  “I’m sure she was happy to see her son again.”

  “When a bad penny gets stuck in your shoe, it’s smart to dig it out before you end up half crippled.”

  “You and your nephew don’t get along,” O’Donnell prompted.

  “I’ll say it straight out, he scares me. Worse than his father, sneakier, and I guess a lot smarter.”

  “Has he ever threatened you, Mrs. Azi?”

  “Not directly—just the look in his eye. He’s been in jail a few
times, I guess you know. Laura likes to make excuses for him, but the fact is, he’s a bad one. And here he is, on my doorstep. We didn’t like it, Frank and me, but you don’t turn family away. At least you don’t want to. So he shows up . . . Sorry, I didn’t offer you any coffee.”

  “We’re fine,” Reena assured her. “Joey came to see his mother for the holidays?”

  “Maybe. I know he was full of himself. Driving a fancy car, wearing expensive clothes. Gave her a watch with diamonds around the face, and diamond earrings. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’d stolen them, but I kept quiet about it. Claimed he had a big deal going, some club he and some partners”—she made air quotes around the word—“were going to open in New York and make piles more money. My husband asked him how he was going to open a club, could he get a liquor license because he had a record, and like that. Got under Joey’s skin, I could tell, but he just got that little sneer on his face and said there were ways. Anyway, that’s not important.”

  She waved it away. “He stayed for dinner, said he had himself a hotel suite, and spent an hour or so bragging. But every time Frank asked him a direct question about this new business of his, he got evasive and pissy with it. Things got heated, and what does Joey do? He swipes his arm over the table, broke my dishes, threw food all over the walls. Yelling and cursing at Frank, who got right up in his face. Frank’s not one to back down, and you can bet he’s not going to tolerate that kind of thing in his own house.”

  She gave a decisive nod. “He’s got a right to ask questions and express opinions in his own home. Laura’s taking up for Joey, grabs at Joey’s arm, and what does he do? He hit her. He hit his own mother in the face!”

  Patricia slapped a hand to her breast. “We’ve got some tempers in the family, sure, but I’ve never seen the like of it. Never. A man hitting his own mother? Called her a whiny bitch, or something like that.”

  She colored a little. “A few things worse than that, to tell the truth. I was already heading to the phone to call the police. But Laura begged me not to. Standing there with her nose bleeding, begging me not to call the cops on her son. So I didn’t. He was already heading out the door, the coward. My Frank’s bigger than him, and it’s a lot easier to punch a skinny woman than take on a two-hundred-pound man. Marched right out behind him, told him never to come back. Said if he did, he’d kick his worthless ass back to New York.”

  She took a breath, as if she had to catch it after the recital. “I was proud of him, I can tell you. Then once Laura stopped being hysterical, Frank sat down with her, told her as long as she lived under his roof, she wasn’t to open the door to Joey. If she did, she was on her own.”

  She sighed. “I’ve got children of my own, grandchildren, too, and I know it would break my heart if I couldn’t see them. But Frank did what he had to do. A man who’d hit his own mother is the worst kind of trash.”

  “That was the last time you saw him?” Reena asked.

  “The last time, and as far as I know that’s the last Laura’s seen of him. Put a cloud over the holidays, but we got through it. Things simmered down, the way things do. The most excitement we’ve had since is when there was a fire in the house my son’s having built up in Frederick County.”

  “A fire?” Reena exchanged a glance with O’Donnell. “When was this?”

  “Middle of March. Just got in under the roof, too. Some kids broke in, had themselves a party, hauled in some kerosene heaters to take the chill off. One of them got knocked over, somebody dropped a match and half the place burned down before the fire department put it out.”

  “Did they catch the kids?” O’Donnell asked her.

  “No, and it’s an awful shame. Months of work up in smoke.”

  When the front door opened, Patricia glanced at Reena, then got to her feet. “Laura—”

  “Why are they here?” Laura’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. Reena imagined she’d spent as much time crying in church as praying. “I told you I haven’t seen Joe or Joey.”

  “We weren’t able to contact your son, Mrs. Pastorelli. He’s no longer employed at the garage.”

  “Then he found something better.”

  “Possibly. Mrs. Pastorelli, are you in possession of a watch and a pair of earrings given to you by your son last December?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mrs. Pastorelli.” Reena kept her voice gentle, her eyes level. “You’ve just come from church. Don’t add to your own grief by lying about these items.”

  “They were gifts.” Tears, obviously close to the surface, dribbled down her cheeks.

  “We’re going to go upstairs and get them now.” Still gentle, Reena put her arm around Laura’s shoulder. “I’m going to give you a receipt for them. And we’re going to clear this all up.”

  “You think he stole them. Why does everyone always think the worst of my boy?”

  “Better to clear it all up,” Reena continued, leading Laura up the stairs.

  “He did steal them,” Patricia grumbled. “I knew it.”

  Piaget,” Reena said as she examined the watch. “Forty brilliant-cut diamonds around the bezel. Eighteen-karat gold. This is going to run about six, seven thousand retail.”

  “How do you know that shit?”

  “I’m a woman who loves to window-shop, especially for stuff I’ll never be able to afford. The earrings, probably two karats each, nice, clean square cuts in a classic setting. Our boy splurged on his mama for Christmas.”

  “We’ll check with New York, see if any jewelry stores were hit, or residences that reported items matching these stolen.”

  “Yeah.” She held the diamonds up to the light. “I’ve got a feeling some nice woman didn’t get the bling bling she was supposed to from Santa last year.” Idly, she flipped down the vanity mirror, held an earring next to her ear. “Nice.”

  “Jeez, you are a girl.”

  “Damn right. Came down to show off for his mother, rub some of his own into his uncle’s face. Expensive car, clothes, gifts. I don’t think he hit the frigging lottery. But the uncle gives him some third degree instead of being impressed, and he gets pissed. Big scene, tossed out. He’s not going to let that go.”

  “He’s patient. He’s one patient son of a bitch.”

  “That’s where he’s got it over his old man. Waits, plans, figures. He knows family, too. How do you get back at the father? You screw with the son.”

  “We’ll get the file from Frederick on the fire.”

  “It fits the elementary school job, and the garage in New York. Make it look like kids, or an amateur, nothing fancy—not on the surface. He’s good at this, O’Donnell. He’s really good at it.”

  Smart, smart. Give the old lady a cell phone, a number to call when and if. Stupid bitch. Have to show her again and again how to work the thing. Just our little secret, Ma, you and me against the fucking world.

  Laps it right up, like always.

  And it pays off. The little whore from the neighborhood finally gets a clue! Having her remembering, that was sweet, hell of a lot sweeter.

  It’ll all turn around now. All the bad luck, all the bad breaks. It’ll all turn around.

  It’ll all burn, including the little whore who started it all.

  Reena had a head full of data, theories and worries when she walked into Sirico’s. It was usually what she needed to clear out the smears of a hard day. Tonight, she had the bonus of Bo meeting her there.

  She didn’t spot him on the first scan of the tables, but did see the redhead—Mandy, she recalled—snuggled in a booth with a man of about thirty with light brown hair. J.Crew for him, retro hippie for her.

  They were drinking the house red, and plastered together at the hip.

  She also spotted John at one of the two-tops. Wending through the usual waves and greetings, she aimed for his table. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

  “Clam sauce is good tonight.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She
sat across from him, waved off the waitress who headed their way. “I’ve got something going.”

  He forked up more linguini. “So I hear.”

  She sat back. “Dad called you.”

  “You think he wouldn’t? Why didn’t you?”

  “I was going to. I need your ear, I need your brain, but not here and not now. Can we meet in the morning, hook up for breakfast? No, better, can you come to my place? I’ll cook you breakfast.”

  “What time?”

  “Can you make it early? Seven?”