by Wendy Tyson
Young Dominic. Young Alex. Such a contrast.
Allison stared at that picture. Dom looked much the same. He had his mother’s features and his father’s serious demeanor, even at that fledgling age. Although younger, Alex was nearly as tall as his brother, and gangly. He held his face at an angle, away from the camera. But the camera caught a glint of those knowing, perpetually-amused blue eyes. No smile—just those eyes.
On impulse, Allison hit the print button.
She moved on to the bakery owned by Gina’s brothers, Enzo and John.
She’d found several articles on the Fireside Bakery fire, short pieces that she picked through like a scavenger hunting for scraps of information. She pieced together what she could. The fire had devastated the bakery, the building burned to the ground, only the stone foundation remaining. And John had been hurt in the blaze. If authorities knew what had caused the blaze, the papers didn’t say. In fact, circumstances were suspicious enough to warrant an investigation by the police and the bakery’s insurance company. The news reporters didn’t come out and say it, but it was easy enough to read between the lines. Suspicion of arson.
Allison read through the last few articles. Nothing more about the fire investigation. One piece discussed area restaurants and noted the permanent closure of Fireside Bakery. The other was a five-line notation in the real estate section about the purchase of the “old Crayton farm” by the Pittaluga brothers. A quick county check told her they paid $475,000 for the property, and that was years ago. Zillow said the property was worth $1.3 million dollars today. A small fortune then, a small fortune now.
How the hell had two destitute bakers from another country purchased a farm worth that much money? Had the brothers ultimately received a settlement? But the bakery couldn’t have been worth a half a million dollars back then. Maybe Paolo had lent them money?
And then there was the fact the bakery burned down less than a year before Gina Benini’s death. Related?
Allison was starting to see connections. And she didn’t like where they were headed.
She printed off the articles she’d been reviewing. She tucked them and the photo of the Benini family into her purse. A glance at her watch said she had plenty of time to make another stop before her dinner date. The key would have to wait. She grabbed her purse and left.
It was eleven o’clock the next morning when Mia arrived at Vaughn’s apartment. He answered the door wearing nothing but boxers and a gray t-shirt, sporting several days’ worth of shadow. If it hadn’t been for her sense of urgency and the forlorn look on his handsome face, Mia would have taken him to bed.
But clearly it wasn’t sex on his mind.
Instead, Mia followed him into Jamie’s room. Jamie was in his wheelchair by his high-tech desk.
A mouthpiece extended from the computer to his chin. He didn’t look up when Mia entered.
Quickly, Mia read what Jamie had said so far:
I STARTED WITH THE COMPANY’S ASSETS IN THE STATES, THEN ITALY. IT’S A PRIVATE COMPANY, SO ONLY SO MUCH INFORMATION IS AVAILABLE. I FOLLOWED THE MONEY TO THE EXTENT I COULD. DUN & BRADSTREET, PRIVCO, BUSINESS INSIGHTS—ANY RESOURCE I COULD TAP. FOUND SOMETHING INTERESTING.
Mia said, “Hi Jamie, what was it?”
He looked at her with welcome surprise.
HELLO, MIA. I’M GLAD YOU’RE HERE. I DIDN’T HEAR YOU COME IN.
“You were so focused,” she replied. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”
IT’S MORE OF AN ODDITY. AS OF A YEAR AGO, BENINI ENTERPRISES HAS SEEN A FORTY-MILLION DOLLAR DECLINE IN ANNUAL REVENUES OVER FIVE YEARS. IN A COMPANY THAT TYPICALLY GENERATES 110-150 MILLION IN REVENUE EACH YEAR, THAT’S A HUGE DECLINE.
Vaughn said, “Okay, but we knew that.”
I’M NOT SURE WE KNEW THE DECLINE WAS THAT SEVERE. THAT’S ABOUT THIRTY PERCENT. A LARGE NUMBER.
Mia frowned, “Okay, so the company was vulnerable.”
RIGHT. AND THAT’S WHERE THINGS GET INTERESTING. TAKE A LOOK AT THIS.
With a subtle shift of his jaw, Jamie used the mouthpiece to change screens. Mia found herself looking at a Google Maps satellite view of a portion of Calabria, in Italy. Lots of green with a few patches of gray and one large area with concentric circles of white.
“What is it?”
Vaughn said, “The Benini property?”
Jamie flipped back and said:
YES. TWELVE MONTHS AGO, THE COMPANY PUT IT UP FOR SALE. FROM WHAT I CAN TELL, AFTER REDUCING THE PRICE TWICE, THEY HAD A BUYER THROUGH AN ITALIAN BROKER. THE DEAL WAS SET TO CLOSE NEXT MONTH.
Mia pointed to the screen. “What are the circles?”
I THINK IT’S AN OLD QUARRY. FROM WHAT I CAN TELL, THE PROPERTY HASN’T BEEN USED IN YEARS.
Vaughn said, “Marble?”
MAYBE.
Mia said, “What happened to the deal?”
BENINI PULLED IT.
Vaughn sat straighter. “Why?”
I CAN’T TELL YOU WHY. BUT THE TIMING IS QUESTIONABLE.
Mia considered this. “Did it happen after Paolo’s death?”
A FEW WEEKS BEFORE.
Vaughn said, “Who pulled the deal? Could you tell?”
NO.
Mia turned the possibilities around in her mind. “Did they have a better offer?”
NOT THAT I COULD FIND. BUT IT’S POSSIBLE.
“Then why pull it if they needed the money? What else would they want to do with an old quarry?”
Vaughn said, “If it is a marble quarry, maybe they want to mine it again.”
BUT TO GET IT UP AND RUNNING AGAIN WOULD TAKE CAPITAL THEY DON’T HAVE.
Mia thought about her conversations with Svengetti, Frist, and Jiff. A perfect place for dumping toxic waste?
“That may fit with what I learned last night.” She shared her adventures, from her meeting with Svengetti to the time she left the underground bunker.
Vaughn looked at her, his eyes dark. “You took a lot of risks.”
“I’m fine. I knew what I was doing.”
Vaughn stayed quiet. Mia saw the clenched jaw, the tight fist. He glanced at Jamie, then back at her. He was furious with her, furious and probably at least a little scared, and trying hard to stay cool. Mia was deciding whether to be flattered or angry when Vaughn’s mobile beeped. He glanced at the screen. “Right back.”
Mia stared at the satellite view. Nothing for miles and miles. A perfect spot for a perfect environmental crime?
When Vaughn returned, he looked relieved.
“That was Allison,” he said.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s still in Ithaca, wrapping up a few loose ends. She has some good news.”
“Francesca turned up?”
“No, unfortunately. But she thinks Tammy’s okay. Allison found recent photos of Tammy with Kai, taken after Tammy disappeared. They’d been posted to Kai’s Facebook page. Buried in the midst of other shots. But Allison recognized her.”
“So, she did run away. Maybe she’s not connected to Francesca’s disappearance after all. Which means I asked questions about the Russian Mob for nothing.” Making myself a potential target, Mia thought.
Mia glanced at the Google Map, now back up on Jamie’s screen. He too was staring at the monitor, deep in concentration.
THAT’S GOOD NEWS, BUT I’M NOT SO SURE SHE’S OUT OF TROUBLE.
“But Allison said—”
I KNOW, VAUGHN, BUT I THINK IT’S TOO EARLY TO DISMISS A CONNECTION. GIVEN HER BOYFRIEND’S ASSOCIATION WITH THE GRETCHKOS, THE FACT HER FATHER WORKS AT THE LANDFILL, AND THIS—he nodded toward the monitor—YOU HAVE TO CONSIDER ALL POSSIBILITIES.
Vaughn hesitated, a battle between hope and reality taking place on his face. Finally he said, “At least she’s okay.” The longing in his voice made Mia yearn to put her arms ar
ound him. At that moment, he sounded so young.
YES, HOPEFULLY SHE’S OKAY. BUT LOOK AT THAT MAP AGAIN.
Mia and Vaughn directed their attention to the Google map, at the strange circles embedded in the Italian countryside like pustules.
“So what?” Vaughn said.
SO, IF WHAT THIS GUY TOLD MIA IS TRUE, AND THE GRETCHKO FAMILY IS LOOKING TO DIVERSIFY, THINK ABOUT THE POSSIBILITIES THIS PROPERTY OFFERS. REMOTE. AN OLD QUARRY. I THINK MIA’S RIGHT. THERE IS A HUGE MARKET FOR TOXIC WASTE DUMPING. NATIONALLY AND INTERNATIONALLY.
“Benini could also be a prime company for an organized crime outfit looking to launder money,” Mia said, thinking back to her talk with Frist. “An otherwise legitimate business with an infrastructure abroad. If it’s not dumping, the Mob could be financing the quarry’s reopening as a means to launder money.”
“And they have other properties, some of which are in developing countries,” Vaughn said.
Mia looked at Jamie. “Are you suggesting that the Mob has Francesca?”
I’M SUGGESTING IT’S A POSSIBILITY. WHAT IF FRANCESCA DIDN’T WANT TO GO ALONG WITH THIS? WHAT IF SHE STOOD IN THE WAY OF A DEAL BETWEEN THE TWO FAMILIES, THE TWO BUSINESSES?
“Then what about Tammy?”
Mia put her hand on Vaughn’s shoulder. “Tammy may have seen more than she should have and run.”
RIGHT. IN HIS OWN MISGUIDED WAY, KAI COULD BE PROTECTING HER.
“But what could she have seen?”
Jamie met Mia’s gaze over the computer mouthpiece. I GUESS THAT’S THE QUESTION.
Thirty-Four
It was nearly noon by the time Allison reached the Pittaluga farm. This time, she studied the property from a different perspective. Namely, cost. How much income would a farm like this generate, and would it be enough to pay the taxes? Allison hadn’t found any bank liens, so presumably the brothers owned the farm outright. But they would still need to pay the costs associated with keeping up the farm. And much of the land now stood empty.
As with the last visit, the house and grounds were immaculate. Allison pulled the car near the Victorian and climbed out. After all she’d been through last spring with Maggie McBride and the Arnie Feldman murder, she should be more accustomed to sticking her nose in other people’s affairs. But it never seemed to get easier.
Allison heard a noise like a faint but high-pitched roar, followed by a sharp bark. The next thing she knew, the world’s smallest dog came bounding around the side of the house, barking wildly. That was another thing that had changed. Before Brutus, Allison would have been terrified. Now she stood her ground, startled but amused.
“Bonnie, no!”
Allison looked up. An old man was standing by the porch. He had a shock of white hair centered in a strip down the middle of his head. The sides of his scalp and the skin on his face and neck were smooth, pink, and stretched to the point of shiny. His nose, a mere two slits in his face; his chin and lips, nearly nonexistent. The lack of eyebrows and eyelashes gave him a childlike, surprised look—as did his open, innocent gaze.
Allison had worked in a pediatric burn unit for a semester during graduate school. She knew the signs of extensive burn damage. The resilient spirit of her young patients came back to her now, along with a deep stab of sympathy for the man in front of her.
This must be John Pittaluga, she thought. The fire devastated him, too.
“Bonnie doesn’t know you,” the man said. His voice was heavily accented, thick and viscous, like he had a mouth full of cotton. He bent down and picked up the Terrier, cradling her in his arms like an infant. “Who are you? I don’t know you, either.”
“Mr. Pittaluga?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m an acquaintance of your brother, Enzo.”
John looked at her blankly. “He’s not here. He went to the store to get chicken feed. We have chickens.” He tilted his head, seeming to make a connection. “Do you want to see the chickens?”
Allison smiled. With a glance at the big house, she nodded, wondering when the housekeeper would come out and chase her away. “I’d love to see the chickens.”
John grinned. Allison followed him past the house, down a path through the flower beds, and over a small hill to the chicken coop. A large, red, shed-like structure on wheels occupied one end of a grassy yard, enclosed by a fence and dotted with mature trees. Inside the fence, about fifty chickens pecked at the ground. Others gazed down at them from lower tree branches, balancing fat bodies on thin limbs.
“We have forty-three chickens,” John said. “We used to have forty-nine, but a hawk got some.” John looked at the small dog in his arms. He tickled her under the chin and she closed one eye contentedly, keeping the other eye on Allison. “Bonnie here is not a good guard dog. I keep asking for a big dog, a Great Pyrenees or even a Labrador, but Enzo says they shed too much. And poop. He doesn’t want to pick up dog poop. But I would do it.”
Allison laughed. “Why is the chicken coop on wheels?”
John puffed out his chest, clearly proud of the chickens. “It’s a chicken tractor. We can move the coop anywhere on the property.” He pointed to a chicken, busily pecking at a patch of bare dirt. “See, the chickens eat bugs, which is good. And their poop produces compost, which is also good. If we move the chickens around the property, they help restore nutrients to the soil. Which is good.”
Allison was impressed. She felt a wave of warmth for this man and his childlike candor. So refreshing after spending days trying to weed through half-truths and dubious motivations.
“Are you in charge of the chickens, John?”
“The chickens and Bonnie are my jobs. Carol, that’s my nurse, doesn’t like animals, which is just fine with me.”
“How about your brother, Enzo? What does he do?”
John’s expression darkened at the mention of his brother. He frowned, scratched at the dirt beneath him with one thick-soled shoe. “He takes care of the business.”
“What business?’ Allison asked. “I thought the bakery had closed down.”
Another shadow passed over John’s face. Allison felt bad, but, thinking of Francesca, of Vaughn, she pushed. “Didn’t the bakery close years ago?”
John nodded. He patted the top of Bonnie’s head and for a moment Allison didn’t think he would say more. But after a long pause, he said, “Enzo takes care of the money. That was always his job. The money.”
“From the farm?”
“From the bakery, from the farm.” He smiled. “But I get to sell my eggs, and I take care of that money.”
Allison walked over to the edge of the grassy hill and sat down under a tree, hoping that John would join her. The sun was heavy in the sky, and sweat glistened on John’s face and ran down Allison’s neck in tiny streams. She worried about John’s skin in the sun. He followed her to the shade but didn’t sit.
“What happened to the bakery, John?”
He touched his face, his arms. “There was a fire.”
“Is that how you got this farm?”
John shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. They wouldn’t give us the money to make a new bakery. So maybe that’s why we came here. To raise chickens and corn.”
Allison looked at John Pittaluga. Clearly, he was mentally limited. Was that a result of the fire? Allison doubted it, unless something else happened that day, like a severe fall or asphyxiation. No, Allison was pretty sure that he’d spent his life this way. Perhaps his parents had sent him with his brother to keep an eye on Gina and to ensure they had one less mouth to feed. If Enzo agreed to mind his mentally-challenged brother, he got a ticket to the States. Or maybe the Beninis paid for their passage. She watched John now, nervously shuffling back and forth, anxious to please her yet put off by her questions. How to get the information without upsetting him?
“You were the baker,” Allison said.
“They, John? Who is they?”
John closed his eyes, rocked on his feet. When he opened them, he looked beyond her, at the house. “Enzo is coming. You should go.”
“I don’t think he’s—” but suddenly she heard it, the low rumble of a vehicle coming down the driveway toward the house.
“John, did you know Francesca Benini?”
Allison could almost see the cogs turning as he shifted from thoughts of his brother to her question about Francesca.
“Francesca Benini? She knew your sister, Gina?”
The rocking began again. Bonnie licked John’s hand and squirmed to be let down. He bent down and let her go, straightening back up slowly and with obvious effort.
“Gina is dead.”
“I know, John. Do you know how she died?”
“In her sleep. She died sleeping.”
He doesn’t know she killed herself, Allison thought. “Do you like Francesca?”
“Her eyes are funny.”
“Funny how?”
“Uh-oh. Here comes Enzo. Carol will be in trouble.” He stared in the direction of the house. “You, too.”
“For talking with you? But we had a nice conversation. And I got to meet the chickens.”
“For being a snooper. Enzo says you are a snooper.”
“Then you remember that I came before, John?” The mask-like face at the window, the shock of white hair.
His dark eyes stared into Allison’s own, and she saw the echoes of the man he might have been had the inequities of fate or genetics not altered his course. He ran one unblemished hand across his brow, wiping away perspiration.