“I said take off the shades,” the officer repeated.
At that point Darcey spoke up. “He’s suffering from an illness that has his eyes completely dilated. If you force him to remove the glasses he will not only be unable to see, he will be in pain.”
“That’s his problem, lady,” the officer said.
“No, officer, it’s your problem,” said a deep, rumbling voice from behind the group.
They turned to see Sergeant Christopher Booth.
“If you want a career with this police department, officer, with any police department for that matter, you’d better learn judgment. You’d better learn when to listen and when to speak.”
“You know these people, Sergeant?” a suddenly nervous young officer asked.
“I do. They are exactly who they say they are. Who those papers, signed by Chief Charles Marvin, which you ignored, say they are. They are assigned to me as part of a special operation about which you know nothing and should know nothing. Furthermore, unless you take this as a learning opportunity, you will never know anything about such things.”
The young officer quickly returned their weapons. He had the good sense, and the grace, to apologize for his behavior. He was also smart enough to find other tasks needing his attention.
“What is this all about, Trent?” Christopher asked.
“We were taken by surprise. We brought Miles over here to pick up a few things he needs and walked in on a burglary. We called on them to surrender and they opened fire.”
“Trent’s eyes are completely dilated, Christopher,” Darcey said.
She explained that, while the dilation caused Trent some discomfort through the day, it had proved an advantage in the confrontation with the burglars. When Miles put the floor in total darkness, Trent could see clearly. The bad guys were shooting in the blind.
“That’s not going to be permanent, is it?” Christopher asked.
“I sure hope not,” Trent answered. “All the symptoms so far have been very short lived. Hopefully this one will be also.”
More police officers, including a scattering of detectives were on the scene. Christopher said he would hang around for a while but they were free to go. He said they would need to make a statement but they could do that later.
Detective Harry Sherman recognized the burglars as Don Rossi’s men. He was anxious to report to Rossi.
As soon as he could get away for a few minutes, he went downstairs and stepped around the corner of the building. He thought he would have privacy there.
The phone rang four times before Rossi answered. His voice sounded slightly slurred. Sherman thought he had awakened him.
“This is Harry Sherman, Don Rossi,” the crooked cop said. He went on to report the disaster.
“Are the two men alive?” was Rossi’s only question.
“Yes, Sir,” Sherman answered. “One of them has only a minor wound. The other’s wound is more serious but not fatal.”
“Pity,” was Rossi’s only comment before ending the call.
Sherman was surprised at Rossi’s response. It was unnerving to know that the man had such little regard for his employees.
He was even more surprised when he turned to see Sergeant Booth standing behind him.
“Interesting conversation, Sherman,” Christopher said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “I’ll take that phone.”
“You have no right to confiscate my private property,” Sherman said, the shakiness of his voice invalidating his pretense of confidence.
“Give me the phone, Sherman,” Christopher repeated. “Don’t make me take it from you. It won’t be hard.”
Sherman handed the phone to the sergeant who was careful not to touch it except with the handkerchief.
“At eight o’clock Monday morning, you and I will meet with Captain Albright,” Christopher directed. “Be there. If you’re not, we’ll find you. You still might be able to save yourself. But if you try to run, you’re dead. If we don’t get you, Rossi will. Now get out of my sight.”
Christopher made Sherman leave first. There was no way he would turn his back on the cowardly crooked cop.
In the hills at Atherton, Rossi mixed a fourth cocktail.
Another disaster.
Another martini.
Sunday, August 7th
Trent awakened at seven o’clock. He was hesitant to open his eyes. He lay in self-imposed darkness for a few minutes.
Might as well get it over with, he thought.
He opened his eyes.
They were no longer dilated. His vision had returned to normal.
He lay in bed for minutes longer. There had been so many symptoms. This morning there seemed to be none.
No hallucinations. At least none that he knew about.
No voices speaking only to him.
Vision normal.
It was starting out to be a good day.
He made it better. He put his arms around Darcey, pulling her to him. She was only half awake but she returned his kiss when she felt his lips touching hers. They lay for long minutes in each other’s arms.
Later, she lay with her head on his shoulder, his arm around her.
“Can I assume there are none of those pesky symptoms this morning?”
“None. The world looks normal. Did I tell you any wild stories in the middle of the night?” he asked, referring to the earlier hallucinations.
“Not that I recall.”
They wandered into the kitchen, Darcey in her robe, Trent in the long sleeve tee shirt and black pajama pants he always slept in.
They were surprised to find Miles, still in the tight-fitting, pink tee shirt covering him halfway to his knees, flitting about the kitchen. He had found lox and cream cheese in the refrigerator. Capers and bagels and a red onion in the pantry. He had chopped the onions, and laid out a breakfast feast on the kitchen island.
“Girl, I thought you were going to kill that poor man from the noises I heard coming from your bedroom,” he teased, sounding more like his old self.
“Oh no, there’s been nothing the least bit unpleasant this morning,” Trent intervened. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“And you look like the Miles I used to know,” Darcey added.
“I feel more like myself,” he replied. “Scott died because he loved me. He was the only person in this world who ever loved me. I’ll be grieving his death for a long time. I have been feeling like something inside me died with him. But those men destroying our home last night brought whatever that was back to life.”
“That’s great news, Miles,” Darcey said, giving him a hug.
Trent poured coffee for both of them. Darcey joined him on a stool at the kitchen island.
“They killed Scott. I won’t let them kill his memory,” Miles continued. “Darcey, I want to make arrangements to get all the damaged furniture out and new furniture brought in. I want to clean up the mess and restore our home.”
“Let’s do it,” Darcey replied, enthusiastically. “I’ll get a cleanup crew over there to clear out the old stuff. And let’s go shopping.”
“Trent, I know I have things to take care of. I have to meet with the funeral home. Scott and I agreed we will both be cremated and our ashes mixed together,” Miles said with a whimsical smile. “And I have to meet with our lawyer about the will and such. That’s for tomorrow. For today, do you mind if we have a girls’ day out?” Miles asked.
“You two go for it. It’s time.”
He didn’t want to spoil the mood by reminding Darcey to take her gym bag. He trusted her to remember her commitment.
In the hills of Atherton Rossi slept until well past eight o’clock. He rang down to the kitchen for coffee. There was no answer.
Putting a red silk robe on over his blue silk pajamas, sliding his feet into leather, sheepskin-lined slippers, he walked on unsteady legs downstairs. There were no servants in sight.
“What’s going on?” he said aloud.
In the kitc
hen he made his own coffee. With a cup in hand, he walked outside, seeing no one. He walked around the pool to the guest house. There was no one there either.
He checked all the bedrooms. Empty.
He was alarmed. His hand was shaking enough to slosh coffee over the rim of the cup.
He returned to his office. The assault rifle lay on his desk. He took it upstairs to his bedroom.
Trent volunteered to clean up the kitchen while Darcey and Miles got dressed, preparing for their girls’ day out.
The doorbell rang just as he finished wiping down the kitchen island. Preston Johnson was at the door. Trent welcomed him in. The old man accepted the offer of coffee. Trent filled mugs for both of them.
“How are you feeling today, my boy?” Preston inquired. “Any more symptoms?”
“Today is a good day,” Trent responded. “Yesterday not so much, though it turned out well.”
“Oh? More symptoms yesterday?”
“Yes, my pupils were fully dilated. I had to stay in a darkened room or wear heavily darkened glasses if I went outside. It was uncomfortable. Not especially painful as long as I stayed in the dark.”
“I see,” Preston said. “Well, I’m pleased that you’re having a better time of it today.”
Though he tried to make light of it, the old man was concerned.
Darcey and Miles went first to their office building. They had catalogues there with furnishings from all the suppliers with whom they did business. Darcey brewed tea for them to sip as they flipped through the pages.
“I’m thinking clean. Modern. Sleek silhouettes. Sexy. Like me!” Miles pronounced dramatically.
“Yes, just like you,” Darcey agreed, glad to see him showing some life again. “And don’t forget that brass is back. Brass is very in this year. Burnished brass.”
They giggled their way through living room, dining room, and bedrooms. By the time they were out of tea, they had furnished Miles’ condo. At least on paper.
“How in the world will I pay for all this?” he worried.
“Well, we’ll get the firm’s discount, which will lower the price significantly. If necessary, I’ll have it billed to the firm and you can pay it back. I’ll get a cleaning crew out there tomorrow. We can order the furniture to be delivered after they’ve finished their work.”
“Oh, thank you, girlfriend,” Miles gushed. “You’re the best.”
“Just taking care of my Chief Operating Officer,” Darcey quipped. “Got to have you happy so I can go play.”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be happy again,” Miles said, turning serious. “But at least I’ll recover enough to take care of business, Darcey.”
“You’ll be happy again, Miles. You won’t ever forget Scott, nor should you. But you will be happy.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get married again,” he said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. You don’t have to be married to be happy.”
“No, but it helps,” Miles insisted.
“Some days, yes; some days no.”
“I heard those noises from your bedroom this morning, girl. This definitely started as a ‘yes’ day.”
“Oh, yes, it most assuredly did!” Darcey laughed.
The day wasn’t going as well at the Rossi compound in the hills at Atherton. By 10:30 Rossi had dressed and was in his office. He was expecting Kiettisuk Jetjirawak and Abdul Rahman to arrive soon.
He still had found no one on the grounds. He didn’t even know how they would get in. He would have to use the gate remote to buzz them in.
Since he discovered he was alone, he had kept the rifle with him. Now sitting at his desk, he had secured the weapon, barrel down, next to his right leg in the well of his desk. It would be out of sight of his visitors but he could reach it easily.
At exactly eleven o’clock, Peter stepped into his office. He held his own Heckler & Koch submachine gun in his hands. He was followed by Kiettisuk Jetjirawat and Abdul Rahman. Curiously, Abdul was dressed in traditional Arab robes rather than his usual western business suit. Rossi had never seen him wear the robes.
“Good morning,” Rossi said, forcing a smile to his face. “Welcome. I would offer you refreshments but I find that my kitchen staff has taken a day off.”
“That’s quite all right, Jonathan,” Kiettisuk said. “We’re here on business. Serious business.”
“Oh? Well, then let’s get down to business. What can I do for you?”
“You can return the $200 million you took from your three partners,” Abdul calmly demanded.
“$200 million that I took?” Rossi started to stand but didn’t think his legs would hold him up. “I didn’t take any money from you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s simple, Jonathan. All the accounts of your three partners in the fiduciara have been reduced to zero. All the funds were directed to the bank you control in Rome,” Kiettisuk repeated, as if explaining it to a slow-witted child. “Only you could have done that. Or ordered it done.”
“I assure you I gave no such order. I don’t know anything about this. Let me get Giovanni Costa, the manager of the bank in Rome, on the phone. We’ll get this straightened out. I can reach Giovanni at his home.”
“Put your phone on speaker, Jonathan,” Abdul said. It was not a request.
Rossi dialed the international number. After several rings, a voice answered.
“Ciao.”
“Hello, Giovanni. English, please,” Rossi said.
“Certainly, Don Rossi. How may I help you?” Costa inquired.
“Help me figure out what is going on. I’m told that over $200 million was transferred to the bank electronically. How could that have happened?”
“I assumed you ordered it, Don Rossi,” Costa answered.
“I issued no such orders, Giovanni. I want that money returned to the rightful owners’ accounts immediately.”
“I’m sorry, Don Rossi, I can’t do that.”
“What do you mean you can’t do that? I’m ordering you to do it!” Rossi was shouting into the phone.
“Please, Don Rossi. Certainly I would obey your orders if I could. I can’t reverse the transactions because I don’t have the account numbers, the banks or firms where the accounts are located. I don’t have all the necessary details and I don’t know the process you use for such transfers. I mean I physically can’t do it. Only your Signor Douglas can do that.”
“I see. Thank you, Giovanni. I’ll get back to you.”
Rossi ended the call. He was silent. He didn’t know what to say.
Giovanni Costa laid the phone down on the desk in his home office when Rossi ended the call. He looked around the room. The representatives of the Direzione Investigativa Antimafia, the Guardia di Finanza, and the Arma dei Carabinieri stared back at him.
There was no warmth in their eyes. But at least he had done as he was told. It gave him no comfort as they led him from the room in handcuffs.
A similar scene was being enacted in the homes of officials of at least three banks in Paris; one bank and three investment firms in London. In the United States, the FBI was escorting bankers from their homes in New Orleans and Washington, D.C., as well as the head of an investment firm in Shreveport.
Miles and Darcey stopped for salads at one of their favorite cafes for lunch near their office. After the light lunch, they spent the next three hours going from one small shop to another. Looking for small decorative items. Little things that would make Miles feel at home.
“I want to keep Scott in the home with me,” he told Darcey, “but I want a few new things to help me begin a new life.”
Rossi wasn’t thinking about starting a new life. He didn’t know what to think. He was being truthful when he told his partners he didn’t know what happened to their money. That he had not issued any orders, except for Abdul’s instructions to transfer $10 million. The order that Douglas refused to carry out.
He looked blankly around the room. He knew Kiettisuk Je
tjirawat and Abdul Rahman didn’t believe him. Neither would the Mad Dutchman when he finally showed up.
He let his right hand slide under his desk, intending to grasp the weapon concealed there. Before he could do so, Kiettisuk produced a small Ruger hideout gun from his pocket.
“Put both your hands on the desk, Jonathan,” he ordered.
It was then that Rossi learned why Abdul Rahman had chosen to wear his ancestral robes. He produced an M4 rifle, the smaller, modernized version of the M16.
Jonathan had no choice but to obey. He looked at Peter, expecting him to come to his defense.
Peter didn’t move.
“Call Douglas,” Abdul ordered. “If he did this, he can undo it.”
“I can’t call Douglas,” Rossi said, misery in his voice.
“Why not?” Kiettisuk inquired.
“Scott Douglas is dead.”
“Douglas is dead? How did that happen?”
“One of the dummies who works for me took it upon himself to shoot Douglas’ boyfriend. Douglas threw himself between them to save the boyfriend’s life by giving his own.” There was no energy in Rossi’s voice. None.
“Surely there’s someone else who can manipulate the system. Did Douglas have an assistant?”
“Yes,” Rossi replied in his lifeless voice. “But we can’t find Douglas’ files. Without those files, no one can operate the system.”
“This smells of something rotten,” Abdul said. “How convenient it is that just as over $200 million in our money is transferred to your bank, apparently the only man who could have done it, and who could have undone it, is killed by one of your men.”
“If this is true, Jonathan,” Kiettisuk added, “of what use to us are you?”
“He has holdings here,” Abdul reminded Kiettisuk. “If he turns those holdings over to us at least a portion of our losses would be reimbursed. This house alone is worth perhaps $30 million.”
“Yes, Abdul,” Kiettisuk nodded. “Of course, you’re quite correct. No matter how we determine the final solution that would certainly partially satisfy our claims against this man.”
“NO!” Rossi shouted. “You can’t do this to me. I’m the Don of the Rossi family. You can’t treat me like a common worker!”
Neighbors and Other Strangers Page 19