“No, no. This happened before we came to New York.”
Cranston raised his hand, palm out. “Stop. Go back. I need to know everything, Jon. Obviously, there’s a lot going on here if you feel it’s necessary to have a bodyguard or two with you.”
“Well, let’s just say my life has gotten a little strange. Ever since my relationship with Sara started to fall apart . . .“
“You broke up with that girl?”
I nodded.
“Only good can come from that.”
I was about to start telling Cranston everything when suddenly I heard Vespucci’s words echo through my head. He clearly did not want me talking to anyone about his business. I imagined what Vespucci might do to me if I ignored his order. For several moments, I couldn’t find my voice.
“Jon, are you okay?” The concern on Cranston’s old, wrinkled face was evident.
I nodded, still not sure what to say. I was scared. The reality of our predicament hit me like a wave. “Cranston, what I’m about to say is completely confidential.”
“Nothing leaves this room. You have my word.”
With his promise of discretion, I recounted everything that had occurred. I told him about the breakup and how it had affected my writing, both pre- and post. I told him about the Nickels clan, and my comeuppance in the alley, and their constant harassment. I recounted my multiple visits from Williams and how, at first, they had only seemed related to my indiscretions regarding Sara but recently had taken on new color. I told him about the break in at our hotel room. After talking for almost thirty minutes without interruption, I paused to let Cranston process what I had told him. He sat quietly, considering all I had said. I held back when it came to Mosconi and what I’d learned from him. I wasn’t ready to talk about that yet.
“What does Vespucci know about any of this?”
“Only a little. But I can’t be sure about how much.”
“Are you done with all your interviews for Maggie and Marco?”
“Just about. I have my final meeting with them tonight.”
“You don’t know who sent that guy to your room?”
I shook my head.
“And you are in direct contact with the FBI?”
“Well, not exactly. They’re in direct contact with me. I didn’t search them out.”
Cranston sat in his chair, his wrinkled brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he said, “Tony Vespucci would definitely not like that. What’s this FBI guy want? He’s not asking you to do anything, is he?”
“No. He seems to be warning me off.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wants me to leave. Literally. But why that could be, I have no idea.”
Cranston sat back in his chair, considering everything I’d told him. Finally, he said, “Tony found you through me, so I feel responsible here, and responsible if something happened to you.” He looked at my friends. “That goes for you two as well. I wouldn’t forgive myself. Therefore, I feel compelled to tell you more than I would under different circumstances. But like Jon said, this doesn’t leave the room, gentlemen. Understood?”
The three of us nodded in unison.
“My history with Vespucci, and his predecessor, goes almost as far back as my life here in New York. As long as we’ve been in the clothing business, we’ve had to deal with the Familia, if you know what I mean. Unavoidable, far as I’m concerned. The benefits far outweigh the moral dilemma. And over the years, I’d say I’ve grown fond of Tony Vespucci and his family. They’re good people, and he’s always done right by me. My connections keep me in the know and help me keep a healthy distance from any kind of trouble. Lately, I’ve been hearing chatter that the FBI has renewed its efforts to bring down the Mafia in New York. 9/11 created a vacuum of economic opportunity and the Mob has used it to their advantage, regaining an incredible amount of power and wealth. Word on the street is that Tony is behind a lot of this and he’s close to running all of the East Coast. The FBI wants to take him out before he gets there.”
We sat in silence. It had been one thing to know that I was working for a mob guy. To know for certain that I was working for the mob guy was frightening. I had feelings for a mob guy’s daughter. The FBI was paying me visits. What would Vespucci think of that? I was sure I didn’t want to find out. I looked up to three sets of eyes on me.
“Can you give me any insight into the relationship between Tony and Marco Balducci?”
“The official position is that Tony’s very happy about connecting the families. Giancarlo and Tony go all the way back to childhood. And Tony wants to make his daughter happy. Off the record, I don’t think Tony likes Marco much. I know I don’t like him. He doesn’t have manners. I’m not sure what Maggie sees in him. He’s a thug.” Cranston paused a moment, then said, “But let’s keep this all in perspective, Jon. Tony is a very careful man, and thorough. I doubt there’s anything you’ve come across in your interviews about Maggie and Marco that would pose any threat to him. Can you think of anything you’ve heard that Tony would consider, how shall I put it, compromising?”
Yeah, Marco got a fifteen-year-old girl pregnant in Italy and then beat her father to death. Without blinking, or looking away, I said, “Not that I can think of.” Without verifying Mosconi’s claims, I wasn’t about to pass the story on.
“But the FBI is something different. I think it would be better if Tony hears about their visits from you before he hears from anyone else. Do you want me to come with you?”
I sat in silence, considering Cranston’s offer. This job had moved far outside my normal scope of practice, and I didn’t have any previous experience to guide me. “Thank you for the sage advice. I think you’re right. But you don’t need to come with us. I can handle this.”
Cranston sat up in his seat. “Just be careful, all three of you. A simple misunderstanding could have irreversible effects.”
“We know,” I replied. A few minutes later, we said our goodbyes. In the lobby, as we passed the front desk, the secretary smiled at me. “Will you be coming back to visit?”
“If we can, just depends on our schedule,” I said.
“Nice to see you, again.” She locked eyes with me as we filed onto the elevator. I caught a wave from her just as the elevator doors shut.
Luci said, “You should have asked for her number.”
“She’s just being nice because I’m close to her boss.”
Donovan turned to Luci. “Is he always this clueless?”
Luci nodded.
When we hit the street, each of us took in our surroundings, the noise of the city hammering our ears.
Luci asked, “Now what?”
“Jim Mosconi.”
Luci stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. Moments later, we climbed into a yellow Toyota Prius—a first for all of us—and told the driver to take us to the New York Post offices. The interior of the car was quiet, our driver, unlike some of my previous experiences with the city’s cabbies, appeared to like his anonymity and remained as unobtrusive as possible. The nametag on his dash indicated he went by Julio Hernandez. The radio was on a classical station, playing low. Donovan sat in the front, his large frame taking up much of the passenger seat. He stared forward out the window, the reflection of his face coming at me from the side view mirror. I looked to my left, checking on Luci, who was also lost in thought.
Our meeting with Cranston had not been encouraging. If anything, it was clear to all of us we were in a situation that could become considerably more dangerous than it already was. My thoughts locked on Marco. He was at the center of all my concerns. From the very beginning, if Marco had been friendly and forthcoming, I wouldn’t have had any misgivings about him—or this project. If I thought Vespucci liked his future son-in-law, I wouldn’t have started digging so deep. Maybe Marco hired the guy who tried to break into our room. Marco had the
most to lose here, if what Mosconi said was true. But I decided as we drove toward the Post that if Mosconi couldn’t give me any further information about Marco Balducci, or substantiate his current claims with some kind of facts, I was going to bring my research to an end and finish this project as quickly as I could. I would then go back to Los Angeles, try to forget about Maggie Vespucci, and move on. If Mosconi were willing and able to back up his claims, however, that would be different. The thought gave me the chills. I wasn’t sure what I would do then.
We pulled up to the office building housing the Post and climbed out of the taxi. Luci and Donovan stood like sentinels on the sidewalk, one on either side of me, as I paid the cabbie. Each of them was scanning the street, keeping an eye on what was around us. I stepped between them and crossed the sidewalk, sidestepping the pedestrians moving in both directions. My bodyguards turned on their heels and followed me through the building doors. We crossed the lobby, in luck because the guard was dealing with what appeared to be a bungled shipment and an irate delivery person and we were able to slip by him. Quickly, we reached the elevators, stepping inside the first one to open before us. Donovan pushed the button and we ascended to the Post’s main floor.
I decided that, rather than draw attention to the three of us, I’d track Mosconi down myself. I told Luci and Donovan to stay near the elevator lobby and walked into the maze of desks and chairs and people running around. The space was huge. I knew I’d never find Mosconi without asking someone, so I stopped at one desk with a man hunched over his keyboard typing, asking for directions to Mosconi’s desk. He stopped what he was doing and looked up at me with a strange look. After a moment, he pointed to the back corner of the room. I thanked him and then moved in that direction.
I passed several cubbyholes, arriving at what I realized was the last one and figured it was Mosconi’s space. As I rounded the divider blocking my view, I spotted Mosconi’s nameplate. Hearing movement behind the partition, I took one last step, expecting to see Mosconi’s high-strung face. Instead, I saw a woman going through his desk. She was law enforcement, a badge hanging on a cord around her neck indicating she was an undercover detective. I stopped in my tracks, but not fast enough to avoid her eyes. In one glance, I could see she was in her mid-forties, wiry and slim, a severe look on her face. Her voice flew at me as I turned on my heels. It had an authoritative quality that I couldn’t ignore.
“Excuse me, can I help you?”
I turned back, a slight smile on my face planted to pretend confused innocence. I decided that a police officer going through Mosconi’s things couldn’t be a good sign. Who knew what kind of illegal shit he was into, and I had enough trouble as it was. “Uh, yeah, I’m looking for the restroom.”
She didn’t like my answer. I could tell by the way her brow furrowed. She sat up. Now I was on her radar. I figured I might as well jump in with both feet.
“Well, I was kind of looking for Jim Mosconi. Hoping I could find him around here.”
“What is your interest in Mr. Mosconi?”
Huh. She was all business. I couldn’t fathom what Mosconi had done to bring on the ire of the NYPD undercover.
“If you don’t mind, who’s asking?”
Her left eyebrow hitched up slightly in response. “I’m Detective Hunt of the NYPD.” She waved her badge in front of me, just like in the movies. “And you?”
“I’m Jon Fixx.”
“And what’s your business with Jim Mosconi?”
“I’ve been corresponding with him regarding some articles he wrote.”
“Was he expecting you?”
I shook my head. Suddenly, I had a very bad feeling. It dawned on me why Detective Hunt was here. “Is Jim okay?”
She stared at me, her mind working over her answer. After a dramatic pause, she said matter-of-factly, “He’s dead.”
I blurted out, “What! How?”
She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes on me, studying my reaction. Her gaze made me think maybe I had something to do with it. She clearly saw guilt written all over my face. I figured she used that look often to get a confession.
“Hanged himself. Apparent suicide.”
“Suicide?” He hadn’t seemed suicidal when we met with him at the coffee shop. I suddenly realized Detective Hunt didn’t think he’d committed suicide. Why go through his things like this if she did? She’d used the word “apparent.” Whatever happened, the police were still doing an investigation.
“Jon Fixx.” I didn’t like the way those words came out of her mouth, like she was recalling a bad memory. “You met with Mosconi yesterday. Had it on his schedule.”
I nodded, not liking where this was going. It was bad enough that I’d just found out Mosconi was dead. I didn’t want to be tied up in the investigation as well.
Detective Hunt interrupted my panicked train of thoughts. She’d softened slightly, probably seeing the fight or flight look on my face—mostly flight. “Can we go talk somewhere a little more private? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
I nodded, turning as she stood up. We walked through the maze of desks and chairs, and I saw a few heads turn our way as we wound our way back toward the elevator. As I approached my friends, I saw them both looking past me at Detective Hunt. I stepped between Luci and Donovan, turning around to face Detective Hunt. She stopped in her tracks, taken aback by the sudden wall of six-foot muscle before her, reassessing her situation.
“Detective Hunt, meet Donovan and Luci. My friends. They were also at my appointment with Jim Mosconi yesterday.”
The detective took a second to lock eyes with Donovan and then did the same with Luci. No one spoke. An elevator door opened instantly and the four of us piled into the elevator. Luci pressed the lobby button, the initial descent adding to my upset stomach.
To bring Luci and Donovan up to speed, I said, “Mosconi’s dead. Apparently, he committed suicide.” I had to give my friends credit. Whatever reaction they had to the news didn’t show on their faces. “Detective Hunt here was going through his personal belongings.”
Luci asked, “How did he do it?”
Detective Hunt returned Luci’s stare a moment before answering. I decided maybe it was an effective interrogation tool she’d learned over the years: Always pause before speaking, so the interrogated feel their answers are under constant scrutiny. “Apparently hanged himself.”
“Apparently?” Donovan spoke quietly, but his voice still filled the elevator. “You have reason to think otherwise?”
Detective Hunt suddenly seemed to deflate ever so slightly before the questions of my large friends. “I didn’t say that. What I’m doing is standard procedure. We have a guy who died in his apartment with no witnesses. We just want to be sure what we think happened is actually what happened.”
The elevator doors opened, interrupting further discussion. We walked as one through the lobby, the guard at the desk registering a surprised look when we passed his desk. As we stepped into the chilly New York afternoon, Detective Hunt took the lead, moving us quickly down the street to a nondescript coffee shop near the corner. Inside, we spread out around a table near the entrance.
“Coffee?” Detective Hunt asked.
We all declined.
“Can’t get enough of it, day or night. I’ll drink coffee anytime.” She headed to the register counter, ordered, and brought a cup of dark coffee back a few moments later. “Black, that’s how I like it. Strong.” She sat and got straight to the point. “Tell me why you met yesterday.”
“With Jim Mosconi?” I asked.
In response, Hunt stared at me like I was an idiot, finally nodding once in response to my question. A small pad and paper appeared in her hand. Luci caught my eye, tacitly warning me to be careful.
Luci asked, “What reason do you have to think that Mosconi didn’t commit suicide?”
Detective Hunt
turned on Luci, her eyes boring into him. “Who’s asking the questions here?” Luci, not one to ruffle easy, matched her look calmly, waiting for an answer.
From across the table, Donovan responded, “We should be because we haven’t done anything. Sitting here talking with you is more of a favor on our part than out of any legal requirement. So if there was a quid pro quo, the outcome could be much more successful for both of us.”
I had trouble not smiling. Luci and Donovan were tag teaming the detective. Hunt slowly peeled her eyes off Luci and pinned them on Donovan. He met her gaze with the same implacable demeanor as Luci’s, not leaving much room for Detective Hunt to maneuver. She could either get angry or play ball. She sat back in her chair, assessing the situation, her eyes slowly moving from Donovan to me to Luci and back to Donovan. Finally, she settled on me.
“Okay, Jon Fixx. You’re the one whose name came up more than once in Mosconi’s daily journal. The guy was a strange bird, didn’t have a lot of friends. He’d been notified that he was becoming a bit of an anachronism at the paper, so his job was on the line. We think he was working on a big story, but we’re not sure what. He clearly had a drinking problem.” She paused. “Okay. Quid pro quo, Fixx.”
I glanced at Luci and Donovan to see if they had any objection to my speaking, but they had both sat back in their chairs, quiet. I turned back to Detective Hunt, trying to match her stare as my friends had, but I kept blinking, ruining my chance of seeming tough and unruffled. In addition, the combination of feminine and masculine qualities inherent in the detective’s persona threw me for a loop. Upon first meeting her, I had found her looks too severe, too tough, the angles of her face and chin too masculine to find her attractive. But her face had softened a bit, and her ability to sit with three men, two of whom would make any normal person nervous, made her seem sexy. I’d caught Donovan giving her a head-to-toe once-over before we entered the coffee shop, so he had noticed the feminine side of Detective Hunt before I did. Realizing I was getting lost in my writer’s head, I quickly refocused, getting my mind back on task. “I met with Mosconi because I’ve been researching a book about the history of the Mafia in the United States. He’d written a few articles of interest about the Mafia’s current state of affairs, and I wanted to see if he had any unpublished information that would help me with the book. Didn’t really get very far. I was hoping to meet with him again, but . . . ” I trailed off. “Quid pro quo, why do you doubt he committed suicide?”
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