Worst Fears Realized

by Stuart Woods

  He had some lunch, then answered the house phone.

  “Mr. Menzies, it’s Jeff, at the front door. A gentleman is here with your car.”

  “Yes, Jeff; tell him I’ll meet him in the garage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Menzies rode the elevator down to the basement, where the salesman went through all the Mercedes’s features and controls. He wanted badly to drive the car, but that would have to wait until his driver’s license had been issued. He did not wish to allow even the possibility of a brush with the law. He thanked the man and returned to his apartment.

  He rang Jeff on the house phone. “There will be some parcels delivered later today,” he told the doorman. “Things I bought earlier in the week.”

  “Of course, sir; I’ll bring them right up when they arrive. And how is Mrs. Menzies doing?”

  “I’m afraid she has had a stroke,” he replied. “I’m very concerned about her, and I’ll be leaving in just a few minutes to be with her.”

  “I’ll remember her in my prayers,” Jeff said.

  “You do that, Jeff,” Menzies replied. He hung up the phone with a smile on his face.

  27

  D INO WALKED AROUND THE MERCEDES, considering it carefully. “Jesus, it’s a sinister-looking thing, isn’t it?”

  “The only exterior differences from the standard E Class are the side moldings and the front air dam,” Stone replied, opening the car door. “And the black, rear-seat glass. Of course, under the hood it’s a whole new ball game.”

  “Let me drive,” Dino said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Stone said. “You always drive as if you’ve just stolen the car; the only way you’ll ever get your hands on this car is on a track, if you want to go to that much trouble.”

  “You’re a real pain in the ass, Stone,” Dino said, sliding into the passenger seat. “You know that?”

  “I know,” Stone said. “I’ll get us to the Brooklyn Bridge, and you’ll have to direct me after that. I’ve never been farther into Brooklyn than the River Café.”

  “And that’s not very far,” Dino said. “Drive. I’ll watch our ass; I don’t want anybody tailing us to the Bianchi place.”

  Stone pulled away from Dino’s apartment house. “This is going to be an interesting dinner,” he said. “I’ve never met your father-in-law.”

  “You’re a lucky man,” Dino said. “He’s a poisonous old son of a bitch. Don’t let him offer you any work; he’ll own you before you know it. He’s never let me forget how we got the apartment.”

  “How old a man is he?”

  “He won’t tell anybody, but he’s got to be seventy. You’d think a lifetime of crime would show up in his face, but there’s no justice. By the way, assume that anything you say is going to be overheard by representatives of one or more branches of the federal government.”

  “He’s wired?”

  “Probably not, but he never really knows. That little anxiety is probably the only punishment he’s ever going to receive in this lifetime.”

  “Surely the feds are going to get him one of these days; they get them all, eventually.”

  “Don’t count on it, pal. An FBI man told me a few weeks ago that they’re still not even sure that he’s Mob. I mean, he’s got a miniconglomerate of legitimate businesses that never break a law or fail to pay taxes, so he can explain his lifestyle. He does business with the city and the state, and he never tries to bribe anybody. Every conceivable law-enforcement agency has been through every company with a fine-toothed comb, and they’ve never found a thing. Last time the IRS audited one of his businesses, he got a half-million-dollar refund.”

  Stone laughed aloud. “He sounds like a real piece of work.”

  “Listen, he’s made enough legit bucks to live like a goddamned Florentine prince. He’s got a palazzo in Venice, which ain’t exactly Mafia country; he’s got an oceanfront house in Vero Beach, Florida, where no mobster has ever shown his face. I don’t think he’s ever even been to Sicily, where his people come from.”

  “If he’s done so well legitimately, then why does he stay mobbed up?”

  “I’ve got my theories about that: to begin with, his first money came from his father, who was one of the originals, right out of Prohibition. Eduardo, though, went to Columbia and got both a law and an accounting degree. What he was learning, I figure, was how to hide the sources of the money, and this was during the Hoover years, when there wasn’t even supposed to be a Mafia, according to that jerk, J. Edgar. Eduardo, when he got out of college, never went near anything that could be identified with the Mob, except his father, who died at sixty, when Eduardo was in his late twenties. By the time the FBI started paying attention, he was so far removed from anything crooked and the past was buried so deep that they were never able to get anything on him.”

  “Then how does he run the family?”

  “When he wants something done, he whispers into somebody’s ear, and that guy whispers into another ear, and so on, until the source of the order is obscured.”

  “Why hasn’t anybody ever given him up?”

  “The young goombahs are so stupid that they can’t connect him with the family any better than the FBI. When one of them gets turned and testifies, he knows nothing to tell. I mean, they know, but they don’t know.”

  “And why haven’t some of the guys closer to him had him capped?”

  “He’s too smart; he makes them so much money they’ve got nothing to complain about. And my guess is he’s already got the succession worked out, so that there won’t be any big-time squabble when he finally dies, if he ever does.”

  “Why do you think he invited me to dinner?”

  “Who knows? I guess he’s heard about you from Mary Ann since she’s been staying out there. Anyway, he knows your name from when we were partners, and all that. I mean, he reads the papers, and you’re in them often enough.”

  They crossed the bridge, and Dino started giving directions.

  “Anything new on Mitteldorfer?” Stone asked.

  “Yeah, he’s vanished off the face of the goddamned earth,” Dino said. “That’s what’s new.”

  “Why would he do that?” Stone asked. “He’s got his unconditional release; he’s clean; and, apparently, he’s got some money. Why would he need to disappear?”

  “Well, I guess he might have thought we might like a chat with him after Eloise Enzberg was murdered.”

  “If he did her, surely he’s smart enough to see that her body wouldn’t be found in the East River, wearing a Chanel suit.”

  “Maybe, but also, maybe whoever’s helping him isn’t as smart as he is, and we know he’s getting help, don’t we?”

  “He has to be,” Stone agreed. “Maybe somebody he knew in Sing Sing?”

  “We’ve run down the names of everybody who served with him who’s been released in the past two years, and we can’t connect any of them. Where’s Sarah tonight, at home?”

  “She’s at the gallery, hanging her work. Anderson and Kelly are with her. The opening is tomorrow night, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “You and Mary Ann are coming, aren’t you?”

  “I am; I’m not letting Mary Ann out of her father’s house until this is over, if it ever is. Listen, Stone, after tomorrow night, I’m not going to be able to justify keeping a team on you and Sarah.”

  “It’s too soon to stop, Dino.”

  “Look, I report to people, you know? Nobody in the department is really convinced that these murders are connected to you and me. They think I’m crazy.”

  “What about the attack on Mary Ann?”

  “They’re saying that it was just a mugging attempt.”

  “Even when she described the same guy that we saw do the woman behind my house?”

  “They think I somehow influenced the description. Anyway, it’s been a while since anything happened, and they’re bored with the investigation. It’s been all I could do to keep them interested
this long. After tomorrow night, pal, you and I are on our own. You’d better give some thought to how you’re going to protect Sarah.”

  “I’ve hardly thought about anything else.”

  “I know it’s tough. I mean, Mary Ann and Ben are okay at the old man’s place, and I can watch my own back, but I don’t envy you, trying to keep a lid on Sarah. She’s not the type to like it.”

  “You’ve got a very good point there, Dino. I’ve talked with her about visiting her folks in England for a while, but she’s been out of New York for so long that I think she missed it, and she doesn’t want to leave.”

  “I think England is a great idea,” Dino said. “You want me to talk to her about it? Will that help?”

  “I doubt it; she’ll just think we’re ganging up on her, and she’ll resist all the more.”

  “Women,” Dino sighed.

  “Yeah,”

  “Here we are.” Dino pointed to a set of wrought-iron gates on the left. The ocean was on their right.

  Stone pulled into the drive and stopped at a security box.

  “Ring the bell, and tell them who you are,” Dino said.

  Stone did as he was told, and the gates swung silently open.

  28

  S TONE HAD BEEN EXPECTING SOMETHING like Don Corleone’s house in The Godfather—discreet, anonymous, hidden, even. What lay before him now was a perfect Palladian mansion behind five acres of closely mown lawn. “I don’t think we’re in Brooklyn anymore,” he said to Dino.

  “Just barely,” Dino replied. “There’s all kinds of Brooklyn.”

  Stone drove up the winding driveway and stopped at the front door in a circle of crunchy gravel. As they got out of the car the splashing of water from a stone fountain in the middle of the circle reached Stone’s ears. Before they could ring the bell, the front door was opened by a small, gray man in a black suit.

  “Good evening, Mr. Bacchetti,” the man said, in Italian-accented English.

  “Howyadoin’, Pete?”

  He shot a rebuking glance at Dino. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” the man said. “I am Pietro. Please come this way.”

  Stone and Dino followed Pietro through a marble-floored entrance hall and through a large, elegantly furnished drawing room into a small sitting room, paneled in antique pine. A cheerful fire burned in a corner fireplace. The pictures on the wall were of imaginary, ruined palazzos in the Italian countryside.

  “May I get you something to drink, gentlemen?” Pietro asked.

  “Scotch,” Dino said. “The good stuff, Pete.”

  “You know very well we have no other kind, Mr. Bacchetti. Mr. Barrington?”

  “A Strega, on ice, please,” Stone replied.

  Pietro beamed his approval and left the room.

  Stone started to take a seat next to the fire.

  “Not there,” Dino said. “That’s the old man’s perch. He’d have Pete cut your throat on the way out.”

  Stone chose another chair. “The man obviously doesn’t like to be called Pete, Dino; why do you do that?”

  Dino sat down. “Twenty years ago, he was Little Pete Drago, a button man for the boys on Mulberry Street. He’s probably got twenty notches on his piece, and I don’t want him to forget it.”

  “Twenty years? You certainly know how to hold a grudge, Dino.”

  “I’m Italian; it’s what we do.”

  Pietro returned with the drinks. “Mrs. Bacchetti is dressing; Mr. Bianchi is in the garden with Ben and will join you shortly,” he said.

  “Thanks, Pete,” Dino replied, sipping his scotch.

  Pietro left the room and closed the door behind him.

  “Be sure you don’t make any sudden moves in Eduardo’s direction,” Dino said to Stone, “or Pete’ll slip a dagger between your ribs before you know what’s happening.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The door opened, and two women entered the room. First, came Mary Ann, and she was followed by a woman so beautiful that Stone was transfixed. It took him a moment to get to his feet.

  Mary Ann came over and planted a kiss on Stone’s cheek. “Hey, baby,” she whispered, then she turned and indicated her companion. “Stone, this is my sister Rosaria; in the family we call her Dolce. Sweetie, this is our friend Stone Barrington.”

  Dolce Bianchi glided across the room and placed her hand in Stone’s. She was half a head taller than Mary Ann and clad in a perfectly cut black dress that accentuated her full breasts and her narrow hips. “Hello, Stone,” she said in a husky voice.

  Stone was nearly unable to speak. “Hello,” he finally managed to mumble. The woman looked like a Sicilian princess, he thought. Her hair fell in black waves to her shoulders, and she wore a single piece of jewelry, a diamond necklace that looked like something out of Harry Winston’s window.

  Before anyone could say anything else, Eduardo Bianchi entered the room. He came in so silently, almost stealthily, that Stone did not at first notice him. When he did, he was being greeted by a tall, handsome man, apparently around fifty years of age, with iron gray hair, white at the temples, and wearing a double-breasted, chalk-striped suit that had never known a wrinkle.

  “How do you do, Mr. Barrington? I am Eduardo Bianchi.” The voice was well modulated, cultured, accentless.

  “How do you do, Mr. Bianchi?” Stone thought that the man could host Masterpiece Theater.

  “Dino,” Bianchi said, “you may wish to say good night to Ben; he’s in his room.”

  Dino left the room.

  Bianchi signaled for them all to sit. He took his own seat and accepted a Strega from a silver tray held by Pietro.

  Stone was glad of his own choice of the drink, and even more glad that Dino had kept him from taking his host’s usual chair. Bianchi exuded a royal presence, and Stone felt very much on his best behavior.

  “I hope you had a pleasant drive here,” Bianchi said.

  “Yes, indeed,” Stone said. “I was not aware of this part of Brooklyn.”

  “My family has slowly developed this part of Brooklyn over many years,” he replied. “My father wished to have a pleasant neighborhood in which to build a house. Unfortunately, he died before he was able to do so. It was left to me to build this place on land he had reserved.”

  “The house is very beautiful,” Stone said. “You are to be complimented.”

  “Thank you,” Bianchi replied with a small nod. “It is good to have a guest who appreciates it.”

  Stone felt confused. Could this man be the ogre of a father-in-law that Dino had for years disparaged at every opportunity?

  Dino returned silently to the room and sat down.

  “My daughter’s husband has never been susceptible to its charms,” Bianchi said, with regret in his voice. “Dino prefers…Manhattan.” He spoke the word as if the island were a prison colony off the coast of Long Island.

  Dino, uncharacteristically, said nothing.

  Stone and Bianchi chatted amiably for half an hour, while the others merely listened. Finally, Pietro appeared at the door and gave a little bow.

  “Ah, yes,” Bianchi said, rising. “Dinner is served. I believe we are in the small dining room, Pietro?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pietro replied.

  Bianchi led the way to a lovely little room and placed his guests at an antique round table set with Italian silver, English china, and French crystal.

  Stone found himself seated next to the lovely Dolce, who had not said a word since her father had appeared.

  Now she spoke. “I believe that you are in the practice of law, Mr. Barrington.”

  “I am,” Stone replied.

  “Do you specialize?”

  “I specialize in what my clients require,” Stone said.

  “Oh, good,” she breathed. “Lawyers too often forget that they are servants of their clients and not the other way around.”

  “I admit I have known such lawyers,” Stone said.

  “So have I,” Dolce replied.


  Stone, who had been only vaguely aware that Mary Ann had a sister, would have agreed with anything this creature had said.

  Bianchi spoke up. “My younger daughter would not be so familiar with lawyers if she had more often heeded her father’s advice.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Dolce said meekly.

  Stone felt that she was rarely meek. A risotto of porcini mushrooms was set before him. Careful to choose the correct fork, he tasted it and was transported to a country he had never visited.

  “Have you visited Italy, Mr. Barrington?” Bianchi asked, as if he were reading Stone’s mind.

  “I’m sorry to say that I haven’t,” Stone replied. “I have a friend who has just returned from several years in Tuscany and speaks highly of it.”

  “That would be Miss Buckminster, the painter, would it not?”

  “Yes,” Stone replied, surprised.

  “I knew her work when she lived in New York,” Bianchi said. “I thought she had great promise, though I felt she needed maturing as an artist. I understand that her recent work is much elevated in its perceptions.”

  “She is an excellent painter,” Stone said.

  “And you would know, would you not? Coming from a mother who was such an illustrious artist.”

  “Thank you,” Stone said. “Perhaps I inherited an appreciation of good painting from my mother, but none of her talent, I fear.”

  “I have tried on a couple of occasions to buy a Matilda Stone, but I have always been outbid.”

  Stone was astonished that Bianchi had ever been outbid for anything. “You must keep trying,” he said.

  “Oh, I will,” Bianchi replied. “I will not long be denied.”

  Stone’s empty plate was removed and replaced with a main course of osso bucco.

  “We are dining in the fashion of Milano this evening,” Bianchi said. “Milanese dishes are among my favorites.”

  “Everything is delicious,” Stone said.

  “I will tell my sister you said so. She does all the cooking for the house.”

  “Please give her my compliments.”

  “You will have an opportunity to do so yourself,” Bianchi said.