by Wendy Tyson
Vaughn gave Mrs. T a tight smile, his mind focused on what she’d just said. Jamie on the computer all night, researching something. Only Vaughn knew it wasn’t for the police. And if Jamie had the look of the devil in his eyes, that meant he wasn’t happy about what he was finding.
Damn. Vaughn hoped to hell Allison was okay up there in New York alone.
Vaughn took a deep breath. He had three people in his life he loved. Jamie. Allison. And Mia.
He’d die to protect all three.
Thirty-Two
Allison shut down her computer. She debated what to do with this new information. If Tammy was, indeed, alive and fine, Vaughn should be told. He was busy beating himself up over her disappearance, and this would give him at least some relief. But something kept her from making that phone call just yet.
She had a visceral, whole body sort of intuition. There was a reason Tammy Edwards was hiding out. The boyfriend’s father and his underhand dealings. Tammy’s mother and her reluctance to call the police. That wacky manager, Denise Carr. Clearly, Tammy didn’t want to be found. Which either meant she simply didn’t want to be a star. Or she felt she was in danger.
Allison sat on the edge of the bed, nursing a headache. She needed to think. But first she needed to sleep.
Only with all the adrenaline coursing through her, with all the unanswered questions and loose ends, and free-floating anxiety, sleep just wouldn’t come.
Mia recognized Svengetti’s truck.
He’d led her to a boxy one-story house with ugly, asymmetrical windows. A paved driveway ran through a weedy front yard, around the side of the building, to a taller, boxier garage in the back. Between the house and the garage was an awning. Svengetti’s truck was parked under the shelter, tucked up against the house, nose facing outward. Mia did a K-turn in the narrow lot and pulled her truck up alongside Svengetti’s. The reporter continued to stare straight ahead, mute.
Mia found his silence unnerving.
A cursory look at Svengetti’s truck said it was empty.
Mia glanced around at her surroundings. She’d tried to pay attention while driving here, in case she needed to get away quickly, but the darkness and her unfamiliarity with the town diluted her senses. They were in an industrial neighborhood. Coming in, she’d noticed plain houses and, interspersed between them, small factory buildings and concrete auto garages. But here, tucked back behind this house, nothing was visible other than the blocky garage.
“So how do you know Svengetti?” she asked Jiff.
“We traveled in the same circles once upon a time.”
“Were you part of the Tarasoff bust?”
Jiff smiled. “Hardly. I just had the misfortune of being assigned the financial section of the paper.”
“So you reported on the family.”
Jiff turned his head slowly, weighing his words. “My name was on the byline.”
“Did they go after you, too?”
“Nothing so blatant.”
“Then what happened?”
“Let’s just say I’m now covering pee wee football and neighborhood yard sales.”
“So they ruined your career?”
“They made sure it never got started. Among other things.”
Mia watched as a car pulled into the driveway. She tensed, the beat of her heart suddenly the loudest sound in the car.
It was the same vehicle that had pulled into the intersection just a few minutes ago, the car that stopped whatever tail was following her. With relief, she saw Svengetti behind the wheel. He held up a hand for her to wait.
“So why do you stay here? In the Wyoming Valley?” Mia asked Jiff quietly, keeping her eyes on Svengetti. “If they’ve ruined your career, if they’ve made it difficult for you to find a better job, why not move on?”
This time, Jiff’s eyes flashed with the heat of a thousand hells. “That woman you met? That’s my mother. She’s alone now. Because of them.” Jiff spoke mechanically, a man reciting news unrelated to him. “My father was seventy-two, alone and suffering from dementia. Two armed robbers on a December night. My mom, at Bingo. The police said the motive was theft. But Dad wouldn’t have put up a fight. He was wheelchair bound. And my mom said nothing was stolen.”
“A hit?”
“He was a sitting duck.” Jiff’s voice cracked. “Who does that?”
A sitting duck. Like Jamie. Mia swallowed. “So you stay for your mom?”
Mia watched as Svengetti got out of his vehicle, walked around the edge of the house, disappearing from Mia’s sight. He had a gun.
He reappeared just as Jiff said, “No. I stay because they still exist.” His voice cracked again. “Two can play the revenge game, Ms. Campbell.”
It was almost ten minutes and two perimeter walks before Svengetti finally called for Mia and Jiff to follow him. He led them around the back of the garage, through a thicket of overgrown hedges, to a dilapidated shed. After opening the padlock on the shed, he slid the door aside and flicked on a small flashlight. Inside the shed were a lawn mower, several trimmers, and an assortment of shovels and rakes. The smaller tools had been hung neatly on the walls. Svengetti moved aside one of the trimmers and directed the flashlight’s beam to the back of the shed. After a second, he located a small metal ring. This he pulled. The floor of the shed gave way to a trap door, beneath which was a set of stairs.
Svengetti vanished down the portal. Jiff went next. Mia hesitated. Once down there, what was to stop Svengetti from locking her in...or worse? How well did she know this man? Suddenly the outrageousness of her situation slammed her in the face like a rock.
Clearly sensing her hesitation, Svengetti said from below, “I didn’t invite you into my life, Sunshine. You’re free to go at any time. You want some answers, come down. You want to take your chances on your own, go ahead. Your tail is gone. Drive home and stay safe like I told you yesterday.”
Mia had come this far. She started down the steps to whatever lay beneath.
It was an underground apartment. Thick concrete walls encased a three-room bunker. The steps led into the first room, a ten-by-twelve living space with a futon, mini-kitchen, and small table and chairs. The ambience was pure Man Den.
Room two was a tiny bathroom with a toilet, sink, and floor with a drain. Overhead was a shower nozzle that would convert the whole room into a shower. A red First Aid kit was attached to the wall over the sink. The bathroom smelled of disinfectant and menthol.
The third room was a twenty-foot supply closet. Mia got only a cursory glance inside before Svengetti closed the lead-lined door, but in those seconds she saw boxes of canned goods, freeze-dried foods, and bins of neatly stacked medical supplies: antibiotics, syringes, tranquilizers, allergy medication, iodine, and other Armageddon necessities.
The man was ready for anything. Mia looked at him sideways, doubt creeping along the edges of her mind again. This wasn’t simply the doings of a man with a vendetta against the Mob. This was a paranoid person’s fantasy home. Was Svengetti mad?
Her senses on high alert, Mia followed Svengetti into the sitting area. He pulled out a kitchen chair. Mia and Jiff sat on the Futon.
“Before you get any ideas about me, I didn’t build this place. I bought it like this from someone far more paranoid than me.”
“Killmore?” Jiff asked.
Svengetti nodded. “Another colleague in the fight against organized crime,” he explained to Mia. “But he added a healthy dose of Book of Revelations crazy to the mix. Convinced America would be the target of a nuclear rogue state, he spent twenty years building this place.”
“The supplies look new,” Mia said.
“Some are mine, others I inherited.”
Jiff spoke. “Killmore died in a car crash eighteen months ago.”
Svengetti nodded. “Left his bunker and the game of chance took over.”
“Mob again?” Mia asked.
Svengetti and Jiff both shook their heads. “Drunk. Hit a tree head-on,” Svengetti said. “Paranoia fed by alcoholism. His widow sold me the house. She’d never bought into his theories. I paid cash. Zoning board doesn’t know about this underground playground, and the little missus gets herself a nice condo in Boca. Win-win.”
“So you hide out here as well as in the Poconos?”
Svengetti smiled. “Let’s be clear, I’m not hiding anywhere.”
“Then why go to the trouble and expense?”
Svengetti glanced at Jiff. Jiff nodded. “Because when the shit hits the fan, I will need somewhere to stay. And this is as good a place as any.”
Mia raised her eyebrows. “When the shit hits the fan? Sounds like you’re expecting something to happen.”
Svengetti glanced at the clock on the microwave and Mia followed his gaze. 2:12 a.m. Svengetti looked back at Mia. “Oh, I’m expecting that something will happen. And you and your friends just may be the catalyst.”
“What does that mean?”
Svengetti rubbed his face with two burly hands. Mia noticed the lengths of his fingers, the widths of his palms. Strong hands, steady demeanor. This was a man on pursuit and Mia, for one, wouldn’t want to be in his way. At the same time, there was something incredibly masculine and safe about Svengetti.
She realized with a start that she trusted him.
Svengetti put his hands down, resting them on the wooden seat arms, and sank back into his chair. The air in the bunker was stale. Beside her, Jiff fidgeted in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs and eventually settling for crossed arms and a sour facial expression. Everything about Jiff screamed “leave me alone.” But given what he’d been through, she could forgive his rudeness.
“When you arrived yesterday morning, I had a hunch that perhaps you were on to something. Young girl goes missing, boyfriend’s father is an employee at the landfill. Did time in jail. A definite gopher for the Gretchko family. And why would they need a gopher unless they were back in the game.” He stretched, yawned. “But none of that spoke to me.”
“Then what did?”
“When I spoke to Frist, he told me about the son. The fact that he was caught dumping.”
“That seems like kid stuff. Why would that be more of a red flag than anything else?”
Svengetti turned to Jiff, who was busy examining his nails. “Care to elaborate, Michael?”
Jiff looked up, bored. “The family is officially out of the business. On the books, they look clean. Even the Attorney General has dismissed them as a threat, for the most part. But if you wanted to stay in the business without risking any attention whatsoever, what might you do?”
“Something so underground that no one would catch you.”
“Or?”
How, indeed? Mia’s tired brain turned over the options. “Pay someone else.”
“That’s part of it.”
Mia thought about criminals, about some of the worst offenders and how they got away with their crimes. Serial killers, child molesters, white collar embezzlers. She said, “Do it out in the open.”
“Exactly.”
Svengetti stood, paced the length of the room. “You see, the kid, his ties to the family, it all got me thinking. What if they’d branched out. Into something invisible.”
“Something like toxic dumping?” Mia asked.
“Yes, exactly. Your boy’s actions were small stuff. Meant nothing. But what if it had been a test. Would the authorities notice a little pharmaceutical waste in the local streams? How much could they get away with before some environmental watch group started screaming?”
Jiff nodded. “There are some incredibly rural areas around here. The people are poor, and there are no rich yuppies calling the EPA when their creek smells funny. Companies get away with shit. But most would rather not take the chance.”
“So they hire a third party,” Mia said.
“Exactly.” Svengetti pointed up, toward the ceiling. “Companies can’t have illegal dumping on their books. The Mobsters don’t want anything traceable. Everyone wins.”
“Except the environment.” Mia stood, hands on hips. “It happens in plain sight, and no one’s the wiser—unless they’re caught in the act.”
Svengetti said, “Yep.”
“But what does this have to do with Tammy Edwards, her disappearance?”
Svengetti and Jiff looked at each other. Mia could have sworn Jiff shrugged, but the gesture was so subtle she might have inferred rather than seen it.
Finally, Svengetti said, “Probably nothing.”
“Then why would someone bother following me?”
The two men exchanged another glance. “We’re not sure it was the Mob following you.”
“I don’t understand.”
Svengetti looked apologetic. “I was following you, hoping your questions had raised some interest. Something we could latch on to. Someone has been tailing you, only we don’t know who.”
Jiff said, “What else have you been doing, Mia? Who else might be following you?”
Mia thought about Francesca Benini. Could it be related? But she hadn’t been involved with the Benini family. She’d stuck to the kid, Tammy Edwards. And anyway, she wasn’t ready to mention Francesca to these men. They clearly had their own agenda, and she wasn’t divulging more until she had a chance to talk with Allison and Vaughn.
She shrugged. “Nothing, exactly.”
“That’s a half-assed response, Mia. We’ve been forthright with you. We were hoping you’d be forthcoming, too. Whatever else you’ve been doing could be connected to the Gretchko family. That’s why I wanted to talk with you.” Svengetti glanced at Jiff. “That’s why Michael finally agreed, too.”
Jiff said, “You could be in danger. These aren’t nice people.”
Mia thought back to the events of the last few days. “Did you run the plates?”
“Registered to a rental company in Pennsylvania.”
“If it’s a rental, it could be the Gretchkos.”
Jiff said, “Not really their style to simply follow you.” He glanced at Svengetti, who nodded for him to continue. “When the Tarasoff family was around, accidents happened, if you know what I mean.”
“But it’s possible it’s them. Especially if they were hoping I’d lead them to something.” Or someone, she thought.
Svengetti said, “Possible, yes. Probable, no.”
“Can you at least tell me the make of the car?”
Svengetti sighed. “Common vehicle.”
“Just so I know what to look for.”
“You’re out of your element. Sometimes it’s better to be oblivious. Like Michael said, you could be in danger. If I tell you, you’ll start to see it everywhere.” He sighed again. “Believe me.”
Mia pleaded with her eyes. “Tell me.”
Jiff said, “A white Honda Accord.”
Thirty-Three
The local library was a plain brick building, tall and modern in its dimensions. Allison had found the online index and, notes in her pocket, asked for the microfiche room. She followed the young librarian through a cavernous reading room, past the children’s section and into a small room at the back of the building. The room was warm, even with air conditioning, and had no source of outside light.
“Do you know what you want?”
Allison pulled out her notepad and handed the woman the list.
The woman raised her eyebrows. “All of them?”
Allison nodded. “’Fraid so.”
Allison placed her purse under a chair and settled in at one of the machines. The innkeeper had driven her to the car rental shop first thing this morning. She’d wanted to be at the library as soon as it opened, so she’d have time to look into the key before her di
nner with Alex this evening.
The librarian returned with sheets of microfilm. After a quick tutorial, Allison was left alone in the room. She took a deep breath and began reading.
After an hour, she looked up. Still alone, she pulled the notebook next to her and began to make notes. Nothing on Gina Benini. Benini Industries was mentioned in a number of local papers, especially when the bottling factory opened in 1982. Before that, the company was largely an importer and distributor, so the launch of the factory meant jobs, and the local media like stories about jobs.
But none of the stories discussed the Benini marriage, or Gina’s suicide—which seemed odd, because the media liked a sordid story even more than a good news story about jobs. The Beninis seemed like an important family with a robust company and an interesting history. Francesca was related to royalty, after all. Why not write about them? Unless the Beninis didn’t court the limelight, which, considering Francesca’s eccentric refusal to leave the house, made sense.
One feature, written in 1983, after Gina’s death, included a picture of the Benini family taken some years before, sans Francesca. In the photo, Paolo stood behind Gina. He looked handsome in brown pants, a crisp white shirt, and sports coat. A thin mustache graced his upper lip, and his patrician nose and serious, coal-nugget eyes stared straight into the camera. A man of his word, a man of business, proclaimed the photo. Gina Benini sat on a wooden armchair in front of Paolo, her arm around a young boy of about nine or ten—Dom. Both mother and son wore wooden expressions—mouths that smiled, eyes that remained flat and cold. Another boy stood several inches away, closer to his father than his mother, but apart from both. He had his arms pressed against his sides. His mouth was turned down, but his eyes were alive with mischief.