Blood Wine

by John Moss

  “Bonnydoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “About ChâteauNeuf-du-Pape?”

  “The Ninth Chateau, yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At home.”

  “Are you secure right now?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  “I’m on my way,” said Miranda.

  She put down the phone. Clancy, who was obviously more comfortable flirting with Ellen Ravenscroft than talking with Spivak and Stritch, sidled over to her desk, Ellen close behind.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “What’s up? How do you know anything is up?”

  “I have been to Walden Pond with you, I know everything you’re thinking.”

  “I doubt it. But how about hanging out with Ellen for a while. I’ve got things to do.”

  “For the rest of the day?” said Ellen, hardly able to contain her glee.

  “Yeah,” said Miranda. “Can you two amuse yourselves?”

  “Can we amuse ourselves? Oh yes,” said Ellen, “without a doubt.”

  “You need backup?” asked Clancy.

  “No,” said Miranda. “Anyway, you’re out of your jurisdiction. You two have fun.”

  “That’s like — you’re telling us, have fun?” said Ellen.

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on, love,” she said, taking Clancy by the arm and leading him toward the elevator. “See you all later.”

  Miranda was surprised by the lack of security when she passed through the walkway gate in front of the Ciccone house. She had picked up her semi-automatic from the superintendent, which had been evidence in Philip’s death and then held while she was on suspension, but she did not say where she was going. She swung the large brass lion’s head knocker on the door and, incongruously, could hear chimes ringing inside. After a delay and some fumbling with the latch, the door swung open.

  Tony Di Michele bowed his head slightly in greeting.

  “I’d shake your hand,” he said, “but one of mine seems to be missing.”

  “It happens,” said Miranda. “I’m surprised to see you up and about.”

  “I’m surprised to see you alive.”

  “No one wants to kill me any more,” said Miranda. “Unless you do. A life for an arm? Not your style?”

  “What makes you think I have style? What makes you think there aren’t people out there who want you dead?” He led her toward the kitchen. “Frankie’s in here.”

  “Tony.” She stopped him. “Sorry about the arm.”

  “Me too. But fair enough. I nearly took down your friend.”

  “Why? Why kill Elke?”

  “It was die or be dead. I thought she’d get me out of there. And if not, then not. You got us both out — I owe you.”

  “Very cryptic.”

  “So why do you think you’re safe?”

  “I can hear you two,” said a voice through the door. “Come in here and we’ll all talk.”

  Frankie Ciccone turned from the sink where she had been cleaning vegetables and wiped her hands on her apron before reaching out to greet Miranda.

  “Excuse the domesticity,” she said. “I’ve let Maria go, just on holiday, until things settle down. Tony, be a good boy and get us a couple of drinks. Make them weak, it’s still early.”

  When Tony left the room, she turned to face Miranda squarely, assessing her openly, as one might a prospective daughter-in-law.

  “Tony lived with us when he was at university. Sometimes he stayed at the fraternity, sometimes here. Vittorio was very close to Tony.”

  “Why is he here? What about his arm?”

  “You don’t think we’ve got doctors in Toronto? He told me you did that to him, that it had to be done. As soon as I heard, I said he should come for a visit.”

  “So he’s not here as a bodyguard?”

  “What bodyguard? He’s only got one arm. I’ve been talking to Linda Sebastiani. She’s sorry it went so badly. Her Carlo, you know he was trying to help you.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps saying.”

  “And you don’t believe it?”

  “How is Mrs. Sebastiani?”

  “She’s all right. She’s staying with family. That was a good thing you did, saving her life. Tony’s too.”

  “Her husband saved her life.”

  “Yes, he did, but so did you and Captain Clancy.”

  “Do you know Clancy?”

  “Not really. Carlo knew him.”

  “Really?”

  “Not like you think. I mean, we all know police, sooner or later.”

  Tony brought in the drinks and the two women settled in at the breakfast table. “You want me to stay?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I’ll be watching TV.”

  “Keep it low.”

  “Before we get down to true confessions,” said Miranda, “can you explain why Carlo Sebastiani would want to protect us, and from whom?”

  “Carlo was a patriotic American.”

  “So he said, and was your husband a patriot, too?”

  “Yes, I suppose he was.”

  “What’s going on, Frankie?”

  “I heard you talking to Tony. What makes you think you’re not in danger?”

  “From whom? Good grief, Frankie, who the hell is causing the mayhem?”

  “We’re at war.”

  “Who is? The mob? A gang war?”

  “No. There’s us and there’s them. We were business associates, but it hasn’t worked out.”

  “Who’s them, Frankie?”

  “The enemy. That’s the problem, it’s hard to say who they are.”

  “Have you ever heard of collective paranoia?”

  “Was it delusional? They’ve killed so many already. They’re very real.”

  “Is it about drugs?”

  “Yes. No. You have to understand, we operate like any business — both inside and outside the law. They are different. They sell us ‘goods’ from the source. They bring in …” she paused, then shrugged, “… heroin … from Afghanistan. We buy it here. It’s good for them, good for us. Except they are not businessmen. It is not money that drives them but power, the destruction of power.”

  “Come again? The destruction of power?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re saying these are not revolutionaries but terrorists.”

  “Yes, you understand, there is a difference.” Francine Ciccone smiled. She seemed relieved. “They are impossible to fight, even for us,” she continued. “They are innumerable — literally. And they are not afraid of death. That makes them dangerous, even to us. Especially to us.”

  “Especially?”

  “They know if we die, society applauds.”

  “But why kill you?”

  “Because, as Carlo told you, we are patriots.”

  “Carlo and Vittorio discovered where their money was going, and the Mafia wanted out, yes?”

  “The Mafia wanted out. Yes.”

  “And there is no getting out.”

  “There is no getting out. Your worst enemy is someone who once was your friend.”

  “Are they punishing you for turning against them, or are they afraid you’ll blow their network open?”

  “Both, I think. They are afraid because they need to remain invisible to be effective. They are not a network, they are a cabal of zealots spread through the world, like Coca-Cola, like cocaine, they are everywhere. The ultimate multinational. And they are waiting, building their resources and waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For the end to begin.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “We’ll know when it starts. Vittorio was horrified —”

  “Like Carlo —”

  “Like Carlo.”

  “Because it would be bad for business. If the world as we know it collapses, they’re on the street.”

  “You are a very cynical woman.”

  “No, I watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”


  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There is a character named Spike who recognizes that the end of the world would be a bad thing, even for bad people. While he personally might survive the Apocalypse, since he is already undead, there would be an extreme shortage of blood, and he’s a vampire.”

  “You have a very strange mind, Detective. I have never watched Buffy, but I understand the concept.”

  “Of the Apocalypse?”

  “Of the aftermath. And that is why Vittorio died, that is what Carlo died for. And that is why these people would like you dead as well.”

  “And you?”

  “Yes, of course. I know everything about their interests. They are afraid of me. They would like me eliminated. I would imagine they know you are here right now. They watch this place, but they assume my home is a fortress. For the time being we are safe.”

  “How long would that be?” said Miranda.

  “Until night.”

  “We’ll call in reinforcements.”

  “Against what? These people fade like a fart in the moonlight and gather from nowhere like maggots.”

  “Very poetic. Tony said he was trying to take down Elke. Why? How does she fit in with all this?”

  “Carlo thought she was on our side. Tony didn’t trust her. When Tony was shot by the bomber, he figured she was behind it.”

  “Why would Carlo think she was on your side?”

  “Good question.”

  “What do these people want?”

  “If you need to ask, you cannot understand. That is a direct quotation.”

  “From?”

  “Mr. Savage.”

  “So much for understanding Armageddon. How does the wine scam fit in?”

  “These terrorists, they moved heroin from Afghanistan across to Lebanon.”

  “And shipped it for the North American trade inside the wine casks?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was win-win for you, you made money on the wine, you made money moving the drugs, buying them cheaper than you could bring them in on your own.”

  “Yes,” said Francine. She was amused to be talking openly about business to a cop. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” she said and smiled.

  “No,” said Miranda. “It’s not as simple as that. We’re allied in a common cause right now, you and I. But don’t kid yourself, Frankie, we’re not friends. You are a pillar of society and you are the scum of the earth. So much for society.”

  “Well, perhaps I don’t like you as much as I thought. Righteousness is unbecoming.”

  “Have you ever gone down into the streets to see what wretched lives —”

  “I was born there,” she snapped. “For me, Morgan’s family was upper crust.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a way things work, Detective. There are you guys and there’s us. It’s not always pretty, but for the most part, society keeps on track. You’re always going to have losers and winners, and good guys and bad guys. And it’s not always easy to tell who’s who without a scorecard.”

  “But your new partners, they screwed up the game.”

  “Something like that. You’ve got to know the rules, to respect the rules, otherwise nobody wins. You know that line about anarchy. Mere anarchy. It’s Yeats, I studied literature at U of T, Yeats is talking about the banality of absolute chaos, he says:

  Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold,

  Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”

  There was an edge of defiance in Frankie’s voice. “Isn’t it great what an education can do?” she said, then continued, as if she had just made up the words: “‘And what rough beast ... slouches toward Bethlehem to be born.’”

  In spite of her righteous outrage at the source of Frankie’s opulent lifestyle, Miranda admired the woman’s feisty intelligence. In other circumstances, they might have been friends.

  “If you’re worried they’ll close in after dark, perhaps we should be planning an escape,” she suggested. Frankie nodded her agreement.

  “What’s going to bring this all to an end?” Miranda asked. “I mean, if we don’t call in reinforcements, either from your side or mine? And I see your point, if we do, they back off and wait. It’s catch-22. If we get backup, we won’t need it; if we don’t get it, we’re in deep trouble. But the alternative isn’t appealing.”

  “What alternative?”

  “A showdown.”

  “Miranda, they are fanatics. Nothing would please them more. And do you seriously think you and Tony and I could take them on?”

  “I thought you had someone living over the garage.”

  “Harry and Thelma are on holiday.”

  “Holiday!”

  “You don’t think we take vacations? Come on! And Maria, I told her to stay away for a few days. Then I called you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re the cop, you decide on our strategy.”

  “If we make a break for it, what’s going to stop them from waiting for us to come back? We can’t stay in hiding forever.”

  “Someone has to take down Savage,” said Frankie.

  “If he’s gone, things fall apart.”

  “Yes and no. Think of him as a catalyst. No, think of the terrorists as a virus, and he’s a point of infection. When he goes, his cohorts are still deadly but they go into dormancy.”

  “And the rest of us go into remission. Okay, first things first. We get out of here. My car is on the street. If they’re watching —”

  “They are watching!”

  “What about your car?”

  “Sure, we have several.”

  “Good. Tony can’t drive. I’ll have to do it.”

  “Miranda, that’s what Tony does. One arm or two, he’s the best in the business. He drives.”

  “Okay. We’ll shake them, right? I have a place near Cambridge in a little village called Waldron. We’ll go there. You’ll be safe.”

  “We?”

  “I have some business that needs taking care of.” Miranda smiled. “Meanwhile, we wait until dusk.”

  “Another drink?”

  “No thanks,” Miranda responded. “So, you knew Morgan’s wife?”

  “Lucy? Not well. She wasn’t right for him. Everything he liked about her was for what she wasn’t.”

  “Sorry?”

  “She wasn’t working class, she wasn’t stupid, she wasn’t summer camps and country clubs, she wasn’t big city, she wasn’t homely, and she wasn’t too flashy. She was safe, from Scarborough, a suburbanite then and now.”

  “Now?”

  “She’s married to an engineer. Two-point-four children. They vacation at Club Meds. Plural. A different Club Med every year. Without the kids.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I knew her before Morgan did. They didn’t really connect until after he came back from finding himself … on his so-called European tour. We talk sometimes. I’m her guilty secret, just knowing me, that’s as wild as it gets for Lucy these days. Don’t get me wrong, she was tough. A bully, really, and manipulative. Still is tough, about small things, I guess.”

  “Did he?”

  “Find himself? I doubt it. He came back and found her.”

  “Which was another way of losing himself.”

  “Yeah, I think being a cop, that was his best move. And leaving Lucy.”

  “You know a lot about Morgan.”

  “He’s the man I didn’t marry. Know what I mean?”

  “You think you might have?”

  “We’ll never know. You and him, rumour has it, you’ve got something going.”

  “No!” Miranda blushed and realized they were talking like friends at a sleepover. “Not that way,” she clarified. “He’s, he’s important, he’s my partner.”

  “You’d have done a lot better with him than the dead guy.”

  “Philip?”

  “Yeah, Philip Carter,” said Frankie, “that was the name he used.”

&
nbsp; Miranda felt her blood stirring, and she leaned forward in her chair. She reached across the table and took the other woman’s hands in her own.

  “Francine, what can you tell me about him?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “That’s not the point. No, I did not love him. How can you love an illusion? Even when we were together I knew he wasn’t real. But I wanted to think it was because he was married. I wanted him to be terribly unhappy, I didn’t want to risk being a diversion. It’s easier if you’re an alterative.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Frankie with a sly smile that Miranda took not as a judgement but a companionable gibe. By opening herself up for a nasty comeback, the gangster’s wife was making herself vulnerable. Miranda understood that.

  “Francine, the man was murdered in my bed, right beside me. I was supposed to take the fall. But the killer was too meticulous. One set of prints, mine, on my own gun. Not likely. There should have been layers of my prints. And he left proof I was drugged, in my blood. And proof I was raped —”

  “Raped! Savage raped you?”

  “He fucked me. I was unconscious.”

  “My God, what a cretin.”

  “How do you know it was Savage?”

  “It was, Miranda.” She drew in a deep breath. “I arranged to have the man who murdered my husband turned over to Morgan. We picked him up above Lake Superior, and he was heading for Minnesota. Things fell apart. He was killed by Savage. Morgan had a narrow escape.”

  “So I heard.”

  “We talked to the man, the Albanian, before we took him to the warehouse. I talked to him personally.”

  “Talked?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Miranda looked across the table at Frankie Ciccone, trying to imagine the other woman interrogating the man who had made her a widow. She could not put images to what she was thinking, but she shrank within herself, knowing how demeaning it is to inflict pain. And then her stomach churned as she remembered what she had been told about the man’s penis being lopped off and stuffed in his mouth. Maybe Francine wasn’t there for that part.

  If a severed hand was meant to be a signal, this was more so, but of what, to whom?

  “And?” she said.

  “Branko, that was his name. He clarified Savage’s role in your lover’s death. He explained who your lover was.”

  “Philip? Who?”