“It was Mario Esposito’s son. He was not bloody. There were no gunshots. The police aren’t involved. The poor kid’s girlfriend found him in the bathroom and screamed. That’s all I know, Delilah,” Becca said.
“Girlfriend, you say?” Delilah asked.
“Dear, let’s say we’ll talk about this more in two days, when I know more and am emotionally capable of holding an actual conversation?” Becca asked. Then she abruptly hung up.
Chapter 7
“Do you have any enemies?” Becca asked.
Mario chuckled.
Sitting in the high-backed upholstered chair in the dim, intimate back room of Mario’s upscale Italian restaurant, she stared hard at the subject of her interview, analyzing him. He didn’t seem off-put by her frankness. Becca didn’t know what to make of that. Normally, men reacted with a certain disdain when confronted with her open confidence. She wasn’t exactly a shy woman. And that rubbed some guys the wrong way. However, other than a certain reluctant reticence, the man appeared completely unfazed by Becca’s assertiveness.
“What’s funny?” Becca asked after a short pause. It had struck her belatedly that the response was a bit odd. While she wasn’t a trained interrogator, she felt it was reasonable to expect a normal person to react with a certain measure of diffidence or dismay when confronted with such a query.
A cool breeze sauntered through the room as the thick black door to the kitchen burst open. A tall waiter wearing a crisp white dress shirt and a clean brown apron whisked past, rushing toward the dining area bearing a heavy oval tray in each hand. The glasses full of ice water teetered as the guy moved, threatening to spill at any moment. Becca turned and watched the man, appreciating the speed and precision with which he worked. However, she felt her heart rate rise as she waited for the inevitable crash.
She exhaled with relief when that crash didn’t occur. She blinked, returning her attention back to the man across from her. “You have a well-trained staff,” Becca said. Being a restaurateur herself, she could appreciate when in the presence of a peer who so obviously shared the same dedication to experiential excellence.
“Thank you. I do try. You know what they say? Food is love. Italians, we use food as a means of expression. It’s community, you know? It’s what brings us together. Plus, many people only appreciate Italians for our cuisine. We have such rich regional cultures, beautiful art, great music, but we’re known for pizza and pasta,” Mario said, shrugging as he chuckled good-naturedly.
“Back to the subject, why would anyone want to kill your son? You didn’t answer me. I really am just trying to help. Like you asked me to. I can’t help if you withhold information or lie to me, Mario. Really, I need to know if you have any enemies,” Becca said.
A clock on the far wall ticked, punctuating the tense silence that hovered in the air between them. A small candle in a glass dish cast a narrow cone of soft light along the green wall. It danced with the movement of the thin flame. Becca found herself looking at the framed map of Italy adorning the wall above her interlocutor’s head. Squinting, she tried to read some of the unfamiliar names. “Catanzaro?” she asked.
Mario smiled fondly. His eyes became warmer in an instant. He licked his fleshy lips and rubbed his hands together, seemingly eager to talk about Catanzaro, of all things. “Yes, it’s part of Calabria,” he said.
“Calabria?” Becca asked, equally confounded. “That is part of Italy, right?” she asked. She didn’t like not knowing things, especially when she was supposed to be extracting information from a potential murderer.
“It’s my home. It’s the southernmost point of Italy. Well, if you exclude Sicily,” Mario said. He hesitated when he said that last word, as if trying to disguise some ill-intent.
Becca seized on that. She wanted Mario to feel uncomfortable. To be off-guard. “You don’t like Sicily?” she asked. “I thought that’s where you were from. I think everyone here thinks that,” she said.
Mario turned a peculiar shade of red. He began breathing heavily. Glancing away, he swiped a hearty hand over his face before returning his gaze back to Becca. “Sicily is a wonderful place. They farm,” he said.
“What’s wrong with farming?” Becca asked, raising one eyebrow. She needed to exploit every opportunity afforded her. Otherwise, people might become more aware of the fact that she possessed no Earthly clue how to conduct an investigation. And, of course, she still had several sneaking suspicions that there was something off about Mario. She hoped it wasn’t that he was a criminal. But even if he were just your average, run-of-the-mill male sleazebag, Becca intuited that he wasn’t just some shrewd, hardworking businessman who enjoyed serving great food. There was more to the man and the story behind him than he wanted to divulge. And it was her job to find out what that was.
“There’s nothing wrong with farming. Did I say there was? My friend, without farmers and their produce, I would have no restaurant. Someone has to provide the food. Like I said, food is the thing that brings people together. Food is culture. How could I harbor any antipathy for the people that produce the food?” he asked, raising his hands. He shrugged.
“Do you want me to investigate this?” Becca asked suddenly. She honestly wanted an answer to the question. The entire ordeal was beginning to feel like a colossal waste of time. Not only that, but it was starting to seem evident that it would require a level of emotional investment that she just didn’t seem willing to make. Her reservoirs had been spent when she’d been confronted with a corpse in her pastry bar bathroom, then forced to recount every morbid detail for the town gossip. However, in the back of her mind, she knew that switching topics erratically could be a great way of achieving the objective of keeping her verbal sparring partner off-guard.
Widening his eyes, Mario cleared his throat as he leaned forward. He went to grab Becca’s hand, then thought better of it at the last second and pulled away. His swarthy tone went a peculiar shade of red as he fought the rising tide of panic clearly evident in his mannerisms. Fiddling with the cloth napkin resting on the thick wooden table next to his beefy left hand, Mario remained silent as he stared down at it.
Finally, he spoke. “Of course, I want you to,” he said. “He, he was… my son,” Mario said, practically choking as he uttered the last words. Tears formed in his eyes. Wiping his face, the proud man looked away, trying to hide his moment of vulnerability.
Stricken by a surge of maternal instincts at the poignant display, Becca instinctively reverted back to thinking of her own daughter. Much as the girl annoyed her sometimes, Becca could never imagine a world in which her most precious relationship was suddenly and irrevocably shattered. Even though she didn’t want to feel a kinship with the man, with the credible allegations of corruption swirling around, the reality was that his tears forced her to feel for the man. His loss had been tremendous.
Yet, she reminded herself as she waited for an opportune moment to reconvene the conversation, if she were to investigate the tragic death, Becca would need to find a way to move past her emotions. She needed to separate feelings from truth. To become an objective, cynical observer of facts. If she couldn’t do that, she wouldn’t be successful. Not only that, but she might become an unwitting, inadvertent participant in whatever conspiracies Mario concocted. She needed to rise above any potential for manipulation if she were to do what had been requested of her.
Watching the man as he fought to compose himself, Becca tried to find a basis for comparison. Since she’d never conducted an investigation of this nature, she needed something to help her get in the right frame of mind. The closest thing she could come to was her business. Running the Three Sassters Pastry Bar required her to evaluate things without relying on her feelings. Either something would earn more money than she spent or it wouldn’t. Sure, Becca loved her employees like her own family. In truth, she genuinely thought of them as such. Nonetheless, being an entrepreneur had taught her that not even her own flesh and blood could be allowed to get in the wa
y of the bottom line. Her vendors and supplies didn’t care if David- her future son-in-law- was a good kid. They wanted one thing and one thing only: to get paid.
“I’m going to need something from you,” Becca said. She frowned. The words hadn’t been expected. She’d kind of blurted them out, before they’d even formed a coherent thought in her mind. Yet, she knew intuitively that she was headed in the right direction. “I need something to help me see that you’re really serious. Because I’m taking time out of my life, away from my own business, to do this. Heck, I’m risking my own reputation. So, even if I do feel really bad for you, I’m going to be honest: I question your sincerity and motives,” she said.
Becca took a deep breath. She’d dropped a bomb on the man.
Recovering quickly, Mario faced Becca. He wore a rigid frown. His features became tight and closed in an instant. The suddenness of the transformation was both unnerving and scary. He stared at her hard for several seconds before finally speaking. When he did, his tone was so low that Becca had to strain to hear the words he said clearly. “You’re very disrespectful. Coming into my establishment, asking for my money, asking to work for me, and then ridiculing my dead son,” he said.
Anger rose up in her. Becca stiffened. She smiled tersely. She reacted instinctively, not bothering to devote any thought to politeness. “I’m very disrespectful?” she asked, her tone rising. She stabbed one finger into her chest. She arched one eyebrow incredulously. “No, you’re very disrespectful. Trying to use your own son’s death to try to manipulate my emotions. And I didn’t ask for your money. YOU asked me to investigate. You practically BEGGED me not to call the police. And I still wonder why, Mario. I really do,” she said. She began breathing heavily. Grabbing her purse, she stood. Her chair scraped the wooden floor as she got up.
“You do realize that I have connections with both local law enforcement and the Mayor’s office? You’re not the only one who knows people, Mario. Not by a longshot. And I don’t care where you came from or how tough you think you are, my daddy was French Canadian. I grew up hunting my own food. My son-in-law and my cook were both in the military. David was with an infantry unit. So, cut the crap,” she said.
Mario once again turned an ugly shade of purple. Anger revealed itself in his tight frown and hostile eyes. But he managed to contain it. “Will you please sit down?” he asked.
“Why? I’m not happy sitting here wasting time AND being disrespected,” Becca said. “This stops now. I want 5% of your business. Non-negotiable. You give me a slice of the pie to let me know you’re serious. Show me that you’re not just using me. And, yes, if I own part of this place, it means I get to see the books,” Becca said, literally standing over the large and imposing presence. Her chest was tight and her nerves shook. Her hands trembled. Her legs felt like jelly. But she refused to abandon her course.
“Still want me to investigate?” she asked, the words slicing through the air between them.
Mario gulped. He glanced over as one of his servers, a thick young woman with shiny black hair, strode distractedly past. Waiting until she was clear, he fidgeted with his cloth napkin quietly. Finally, he spoke. And, this time, his tone reflected his nervousness. “Please, sit,” he said.
“My offer?” Becca asked, raising one eyebrow.
“Sure, sure, whatever. Five percent is peanuts,” Mario waved a hand dismissively. “No cost is too great to find whoever killed my son,” he said.
“Wait a minute. You think someone killed him?” Becca asked, plopping herself down into her vacated chair.
“Yes, I do. And if you’ll allow me to explain, you can switch your question back on yourself. I admire your courage, but you don’t understand what you’ve done. The only thing that allows me to push aside my pride, beside the fact that I doubt anyone important actually heard your insolent little display, is that MY SON IS DEAD,” Mario said.
Becca opened her mouth to speak, but then shut it. She decided it might be better to not allow any more impulsive bursts.
“Family is the only thing that matters in this life. We have nothing else. Not even our word. Promises can be broken. Contracts and treaties are subject to change. Our reputations depend on what others think. Countries and parties change. No one knows what God is or isn’t,” Mario said, raising his hands in the air. He shrugged. “The only thing that is important and lasting is family. If you were a Calabrese, you might understand this,” he said.
“I do understand,” Becca said.
“No, you Americans understand nothing. You think you do. And you love to tell others that you know better. But you don’t. And I don’t want to hear you lecture me on why I’m wrong,” Mario said, clearing his throat. He suddenly leaned back in his chair and glanced back toward the kitchen. “Water and wine, please!”
Exhaling heavily, Mario adjusted himself in his seat. He glanced surreptitiously toward the kitchen several times as he fidgeted with his hands, obviously anxiously awaiting the requested beverages. His coloration remained plum-colored. As the silence between them lengthened, Mario seemed to grow more nervous. Whatever it was burrowing a hole in his brain, it had to be good. For it consumed the normally self-contained, charismatic figure.
He muttered a vague thank-you as the server, this one a short, stocky man in a slick, messy apron, his long, thinning brown hair tied back into a tight ponytail. The thin, sallow waiter possessed an odd appearance. With his bad, pocked skin and sly eyes, he seemed the quintessential bad guy character from an old spy movie. He even had the little pencil mustache that appeared more like a stain on his upper lip.
Becca watched the figure as he faded away without a word, thinking that it’d be hard to forget someone of that ilk.
“Do you make it a habit to employ people that remind you of Jeffrey Dahmer?” Becca asked. She figured she’d already dug herself a pretty deep hole. It didn’t seem like trying to climb out was a pertinent idea. Instead, she hoped that by continuing to bore a path into the earth, she’d strike a golden lode.
Mario drained his water. Wiping his face, he seemed to be fighting to maintain his composure. He faced Becca and smiled. However, the gesture didn’t translate to his cold eyes. “Family,” he said.
“That man is your family?” Becca asked, genuinely curious. However, something about the scathing look Mario gave her shut her questioning down. She was beginning to realize that the interrogation game was more of a delicate dance. Sometimes she needed to take the lead. Other times, however…
“The reason I’d like you to investigate might seem odd. I can understand that. But I really do want to find who killed my son. And, yes, I think someone killed him. What I’m about to tell you has to remain between us. No matter what. If I don’t trust you on that, then we will be in a very bad place. Now, I will give you ONE opportunity to back out. I can hire private detectives. I have my own people. You say you know someone in the Mayor’s office? I have a special table for the Mayor. And I didn’t have an embarrassing spectacle on opening day,” Mario said.
Becca opened her mouth as if to speak, but then promptly closed it. She wanted to know how the man had acquired that embarrassing bit of intelligence. The idea that he’d been quietly digging into her own past disturbed her in more ways than one. But she remained quiet, waiting for more. She figured she’d gone that far, it wouldn’t do any more harm to linger a bit longer to see what unfolded. And, in truth, the subtle hint of danger that lurked in the background kind of turned her on. She enjoyed it. It gave her a little rush.
“What do you say?” he asked.
Chapter 8
“I’m in the federal witness protection program,” Mario said.
Becca nodded. She’d expected as much.
“I promise you, I will have you killed if I so much as begin to think you’re thinking of crossing me. You don’t cross me. You have already disrespected me in my own restaurant. The one I hoped to leave for my son. My precious Giovanni,” he said.
Becca gingerly sipped
the fragrant red wine provided by her host. She licked her lips. Looking down into the glass, she couldn’t help but appreciate the vintage. “Did you need a license for that? Wine? Because I feel like I should do a special. Maybe once a month, do a wine, cheese, and pastry thing?” she said, thinking out loud.
“My advice as a businessperson would be to do one thing very well. You’re already doing a lot. Coffee, pastries, that’s a lot. I mean, I would think that some people have a hard time figuring out whether you’re a bakery or a coffee shop. It might seem like a subtle difference, but it could be a big deal. Are you a bakery that sells coffee? Or a coffee shop that sells cannoli?” he asked.
“We rarely have cannolis,” Becca stated matter-of-factly.
Mario cracked a smile for the first time since their conversation had grown tense. “You get the picture,” he said.
“Okay, but, other than you threatening to have me murdered, why should I feel reassured about helping you? I mean, honestly, terroristic threats don’t scare me. Sure, I’d hate to have my daughter lose out. But we have life insurance. Tank could probably run the shop without me. Plus, offing people probably isn’t the greatest thing for business. I mean, how are you supposed to stay hidden if you’re committing what will probably be the only homicide in the county for the entire year?” Becca asked.
“You are a clever girl,” Mario said.
“Yeah, well, thank my ex-husband and daughter,” Becca said.
“Kids, they really can keep you on your toes,” Mario said.
“I really am tired, Mario. Can we please get on with this?” she asked.
“You really should learn more about the Italian way. It’s much easier to go through life if you slow things down. Appreciate the little things. Conversation, good food, good wine, all that,” Mario said. “That’s one thing I’ve never understood about America,” he said.
“Why are you even here?” Becca asked.
Slice of the Pie Page 7