One Christmas, at the last minute, my father was called away to business in Switzerland. My mother decided to rent a cabin on the snowy banks of Lake Tahoe. It was going to be a “field trip.” When we were little and our father traveled, my mother often took us on educational “field trips.” We would visit the Redwood Forest or go whale watching in Baja California or hot air ballooning in the Southwest. My mother’s sense of adventure was always infectious. But the field trips had stopped when Christopher was sent to boarding camp.
That Christmas Eve in our small cabin at Tahoe we were on top of one another. A snowstorm most of the day kept us indoors. But around ten, the snow stopped and the skies cleared. My mother and brother were reading so I decided to go exploring down by the lake. The full moon lit up the area and made the snowy landscape seem magical. My mother made a worried face but I told her I’d be fine. Christopher didn’t look up from his book.
The lakeshore was magical. Everything sparkled in the moonlight.
It was cold enough for my breath to puff out in front of me, but I was dressed warmly with my down coat, thick scarf, hat and mittens.
I ventured out onto the dock that normally held ski and fishing boats. There was a bench at the end and I wanted to sit there and gaze at the beauty around me.
About halfway to the bench, the wood of the deck gave out and I plunged into icy cold water, going completely under. My clothes were instantly waterlogged and my vision nothing but black. I struggled to break the surface but when I came up my head smacked into the bottom wooden dock. Dazed and panicking, I flailed, running out of breath, desperate for air and light.
I knew distantly that the dock wasn’t that big that if I moved around some I would be sure to come out from under it, but the blow to the head had disoriented me. My limbs began to feel heavy and I felt myself slowly sinking until my feet touched something slimy.
At that moment, I was yanked hard and the next thing I know Christopher had flung me onto the dock. I was coughing and choking but breathing. I snuck a look at him, he was leaning over coughing and soaking wet, too.
He looked over at me and I saw something there I’d never seen before. Terror.
My brother had been worried about me. Frightened. For a brief second, I could’ve sworn he actually cared about me. Maybe even loved me. But then he turned his back and was gone, off the dock and up the hill to the cabin, not even waiting to see if I was behind him.
I got up and stumbled behind him. A few seconds later, my mother had flung open the door and ran to me, helping me up the hill. She put me in a warm bath and then to bed under a heap of old smelly quilts.
Christopher stayed in his room the rest of the night. In the morning, his car was gone. He’d already headed back to the Monterey Peninsula. When we got back the next day, he’d left a note from my mother saying he’d returned to Argentina early.
The next time I saw him he had come home for our parent’s funeral.
He left right after the mass.
A week later, I followed suit, packing up and moving to San Francisco.
I WOKE ALONE THE NEXT morning on the couch, my neck stiff, smelling like something had died. I dragged myself into the shower. Bobby had left a note saying something about hitting Starbucks because he didn’t really feel like drinking the beer in my frig for breakfast. He put a little smiley face by his name.
After my shower, I tugged on some yoga pants, a soft T-shirt and wrapped an old, warm cashmere sweater around me. I felt like I needed my blankie with me in the world today. I didn’t bother with makeup. Nothing could disguise the circles under my eyes on this day.
When Bobby returned with almond croissants and lattes, he also had the Chronicle with him. We sat at my little café table on my balcony overlooking the Bay, munching, drinking coffee, and reading the paper. We didn’t talk much. I had talked enough the night before for a lifetime. I kept sneaking glances at Bobby. His brow furrowed as he concentrated on what he was reading. It was cute. And too comfortable. Too normal having him there. I’d have to make an excuse for him to go.
CHAPTER NINE
BOBBY FINALLY LEFT. He looked like a puppy that got kicked when I told him I didn’t think we should ever see each other again. Then he got mad, grabbed a permanent marker off my counter and wrote his phone number on my mirrored dining room wall. I gaped at it, only distantly hearing the front door slam shut. After a few stunned seconds of silence, I angrily scrubbed the mirror with glass cleaner. But not before I remembered I had his number on my cell phone from when he called.
I felt bad about kicking Bobby out, but if I didn’t stop this thing right now, the next thing I knew I’d find myself doing something ridiculous like asking him to move in or something.
I’d never felt so alone in the world.
Every single blood relative I had was dead. Even though Christopher was a horrible person, he was my flesh and blood. When you were Italian-American, that meant something. He was also my last tie to my mother. Now that was gone, too.
The only thing I had left of my mother was that damn box. I stared at it on my computer desk. It had obviously been special to my mother. She had millions of dollars in jewelry sitting on her dressers in houses across the world and yet she found this box so precious, so valuable, that she was compelled to hide it.
The box was the key to her heart. It showed what really mattered to her. My father and Christopher and hopefully, if I dug around in it more, I’d find something that was proof of her love for me.
Maybe it was time to read the love letters. I needed to know it was possible to love someone and have them love you back just as much. Even if I never experienced that in my own life so far, I needed to believe that it existed. I wanted to cling to that belief. I poured a glass of cabernet sauvignon, my mother’s favorite, gulped most of it in one sip, took a big breath, and opened the lid of the hat box.
The letter I’d found on the floor of their house addressed to my mother was on top. I tore it open.
At first I couldn’t understand what I was reading, but when the implications of the letter became clear, I didn’t make it to the bathroom before I threw up.
It was a letter from the widow of the doctor who had performed my parents’ autopsies. The Geneva doctor had killed himself last month and left a note saying he had been paid off to lie on dozens of autopsy reports. Including my parents.
My parents did not die in an accidental fire. They were murdered.
The official report said they had burned to death in their lakeside Geneva home. The fire and subsequent deaths were ruled accidental, caused by an electrical short.
In reality, according to this letter, they both had bullets through their foreheads. As I read the letter, the horror of losing both my parents came back so hard I couldn’t breathe. It was bad enough believing they had died in an accident, but to have been deliberately killed? And by someone powerful — or at least rich — enough to cover it up.
Murdered.
My parents had been murdered.
And now my brother was dead.
As soon as these two pieces of information met, I knew what had been nagging at me the day before. It was how Christopher died. The way he died.
During Christopher’s long, rambling letters to me about Bridget, he had said several times that he blamed Bridget’s heroin addiction for ruining his life, and making him incapable of loving anyone ever again.
His hatred for the drug was so fierce, he said, he was considering spending his life going after the big dealers in the world and taking them out. He called heroin evil.
Bobby said Christopher died of a heroin overdose.
I knew that even if his madness made him turn to the one drug he blamed for ruining his life, he still would never have shot it up. Even if Christopher had wanted to die, if he had found some poetic justice in killing himself the way Bridget had, he wouldn’t have shot up. He would have snorted or smoked it.
He would never stick a needle in himself.
; Ever since he was a little boy he’d had an unholy fear of needles.
To me, this all added up to one thing:
Christopher was murdered.
Somebody was methodically killing my family. They had disguised it with a fire.
Slumped on the floor near my mirrored dining room wall in a sick daze, I watched myself in the mirror as I dry heaved. My eyes were bloodshot with little pink blood bursts that had appeared around my eyelids from the violent motion.
Why would someone kill my parents? I had no idea. Christopher? Well there were a million reasons. But I was convinced all three deaths were related. But why? It wasn’t for our family’s money. If I died, the money would go to charity. My parents had stipulated that in their will. If Christopher and I died before we had children, any money at our deaths would go to the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
None of it made sense.
I sat staring at the wall with my hand pressed to my mouth for a good hour before I finally, wearily, dragged myself to bed where I stared at the ceiling for the rest of the night.
CHAPTER TEN
THE NEXT DAY, I DID everything I could to avoid thinking about the contents of the letter — or my realization that my entire family had been murdered. I sprawled on the couch in my pajamas. At times, I napped to make up for the previous sleepless night. Other times, I tuned into old black and white movies on the American classics station. I did everything to avoid thinking. But I knew I’d have to show the letter to my godfather. I’d head down to Carmel the next day.
I wondered if he already knew about Christopher’s death. If so, I was sure he was relieved.
It was the information in the letter I was really worried about. The revelation that my parents had been murdered would be devastating to him. He was my parents’ oldest and dearest friend. They had all grown up together in the same small Sicilian town. News that they were murdered might trigger a stroke or heart attack. I’d definitely have to warn his nurse before I let him read the letter.
By nighttime, I was restless. I ripped open my closet and threw all my clothes onto my bed. Finally, I settled on my favorite outfit, my super soft and worn-in leather pants, an oversized white T-shirt and a black blazer. I tugged on some Beatles-style flat boots and grabbed my apartment keys. I needed to get out of my place. So many things were racing through my mind I couldn’t sit still. A few drinks would quiet my mind.
The second I walked in the door of Anarchy, the bartender, Scott, caught my eye and nodded so that by the time I made it through the Saturday late night crowd, he’d run off the college kids in my regular spot and had a tumbler of Patron waiting. I downed the clear amber liquid, savoring the tingling warmth in my throat and pushed the glass back toward him without saying hello.
He didn’t raise an eyebrow, just refilled my glass.
I didn’t bring up my tiff with him last week for cutting me off. Four hours later, he was wiping down the bar when he nudged my head. My cheek was sticking to something gooey on the smooth wood.
“Gia? You want me call a cab?”
I grumbled and a few minutes later Scott had his hands under both my arms and was carrying me out to the sidewalk and depositing me in a cab.
“10 Jones Street,” Scott said and slammed the cab door shut.
“For Christ’s sake, she can’t walk two blocks?”
“Fuck offfff.” I hollered from the backseat. They ignored me. But Scott must have handed the cabbie some cash because the car lurched forward. I think I dozed off for a second because the next thing I knew my doorman had lifted me from the cab and dumped me in the elevator.
Pushing him away, I said, “I’m fine. Just sleepy.”
Before he closed the door, he rummaged around in my bag and put my house key in my palm. I threw it on the elevator floor.
“Ms. Santella, this elevator comes back down here with you in it, I won’t have a choice, I’ll have to call your godfather . . .”
“Oh, fuck it. I’m fine, God damn it.” My words were slurred, but I didn’t care. So, what? Was it suddenly against the law to tie one on? My godfather paid for my place out of the trust, but that didn’t mean he was in charge of me. I was twenty-three-years old for Christ’s sakes.
Lying in my bed a few minutes later with the room spinning, I wasn’t fine. I was fucked up. Again. At least this time I didn’t have some stranger in bed with me.
I drifted off to thoughts of my mother and father in bed with bullet holes through their foreheads. The nightmares grew in intensity until I woke with fright. Something was in my room.
Two shapes at the foot of my bed stood right near where the bright moonlight stretched in from the long wall of window.
My eyes were slits while I surreptitiously curled my hand near my head. It came back with my gun aimed at one guy’s crotch. I raised myself slowly to my knees and without looking, clicked on my bedside lap. Seeing the gun, the man closest to my bed put up his hands.
“Tell your buddy to toss his gun over here,” I said.
“Easy, now,” said one guy, dressed in designer slacks and a silk shirt. He looked like he’d been stuck on the 1970s train for a few years. He put out his hand in defense as if that would stop a bullet. The other guy near my dresser, wearing black jeans and a tight black T-shirt, must have been the muscle. He gave me the stink eye.
“Do it!” My voice was hoarse. I remembered then that I’d bummed half a dozen cigarettes off the guy at the bar beside me.
“Okay, okay,” the 70s-guy nodded. The muscle shrugged, pulled a heavy looking gun out of his holster and tossed it on the floor by the bathroom door with a heavy thud. Still closer to him than me. Shit.
“Yours too.”
The 70s-guy sighed and pulled a smaller gun out of his waistband, tossing it onto the bed, “We’re just here to talk.”
I didn’t want to talk.
I aimed to the left of the 70s-guy’s crotch and released the safety. The guy jumped about a foot. “Easy now,” he said again. “We tried knocking.”
“Get the fuck out of my place. Now.” My hand was shaking, from adrenaline, fear, and the weight of the gun, but my voice was steel. I was naked but I leaped out of my covers and onto my bed, standing with the gun held in both hands before me.
“Look at my tits and you die.”
The men both held their hands up and raised their eyes. “Jesus H. Christ. We just got a message. From your godfather.” The 70s-man’s voice was even.
My godfather? I lowered the gun. The 70s-man started walking my way.
“He wants you to come back with us. To his house.”
“In the middle of the fucking night? Are you crazy?” I held the gun back up.
“Like I said, I don’t ask questions of Mr. Guidi.”
That made sense. Maybe my godfather heard about Christopher’s death and sent these two goons to escort me safely to Monterey.
That’s when I saw something behind the muscle. On top of my dresser, beside my perfume bottles, lay a pair of black gloves, a coil of rope, and a duffel bag with a black plastic roll sticking out of it.
They weren’t here to talk.
My face grew warm. That’s when I knew.
The warrior knows that there are times in life when we must fight to the death. When every day becomes a battle. When we lose all faith in everything we’ve known, in everyone we’ve known, when our closest allies have become our enemies. When we realize that if we must die, we will go down fighting: ripping, kicking, biting, scratching, tearing and punching. We fight to the last breath and never ever give in or give up.
Someone wanted me dead, too. My own godfather. My knees grew weak. In an attempt to disguise it, I kneeled down onto my bed. Keeping my eyes on the men I reached behind me, under my pillow. When I snapped the silencer on, the 70s-guy started hopping from foot to foot.
“We’ll leave now.”
“Fuck you.” My intention had been to shoot them both in the legs and then run. But I thought better of it. I needed some things fro
m my place first. Besides, they seemed to be paying a little bit more attention to me now that I’d put the silencer on the gun.
“I’m going to ask you to slowly turn around and walk out of my bedroom. I’m going to be right behind you. You’re going to walk to my front door, walk down the hall to the elevator, get in and never come back. My gun has Teflon-coated slugs, you morons might know them as Cop Killers, so if either one of you monkey around, I’ll shoot both of you through the back with one bullet. Got it?”
The 70s-guy nodded. The muscle guy looked bored.
I followed them, my entire body shaking, the weight of the gun almost unbearable. I waited until my front door clicked closed. I slid the deadbolt and stuck my eye to the peephole. It wasn’t until their backs disappeared into the elevator that the full implication of what happened hit me. I slumped to the floor, holding my head in my hands. My own godfather, the one person left on earth I thought loved me, wanted me dead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I THREW A FEW PAIRS of jeans, a couple T-shirts, my laptop, my gun, ammo, the box from my mom, and all the cash in my safe — about forty thousand dollars — into a large camping backpack. I put on my jeans, boots, and a leather jacket, tugged a thick cotton stocking cap over my hair and peeked out my door. No sign of the goons. I hit the button for the elevator and then sprinted for the stairs. I left through the backdoor of the building, cutting through a nearby residential street down to Columbus Avenue and hailed a cab in front of a strip club. Within thirty minutes, I was in front of Kato’s house.
Even though it was four in the morning, when he opened the door, Kato looked like he’d been waiting for me to arrive.
“I need help. I need a place to hide.”
He didn’t even blink.
“Come in. The coffee’s hot.”
It was that sixth sense he had. He didn’t even comment on my appearance or the huge backpack I was lugging.
Gia Santella Crime Thriller Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers) Page 5