The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

  I guess she didn’t mind. She smiled back at him flirtatiously.

  “This way,” he said, gesturing with an outstretched arm. He took full advantage of the viewing angle, checking Lorraine’s taut legs and the taper of her waist as she walked ahead of him down the long corridor.

  Lorraine gave me a big smile as she entered the small conference room.

  I greeted her with an outstretched hand. “Thanks for coming in so early in the morning, Ms. Franco. I wish everyone was as cooperative as you are.”

  “I’m happy to help, but I don’t have a lot of time. Mr. Soto won’t be happy if I’m more than an hour late. I told him I had a dentist appointment, but he wasn’t thrilled about giving me time off.”

  “We’ll get you out as soon as we can,” Cabrera said.

  “Coffee?” I offered. “I promise you it’s terrible, as dark and bitter as the black hole of Calcutta.”

  Lorraine giggled. “I’ll take some anyway. Black is good.”

  I looked up at Cabrera. “Do you mind?” What I wanted to say was, “Wipe that drool off your chin. You look like an altar boy in heat.” I figured I’d better separate the two of them before something happened that we’d all regret.

  He didn’t look happy to be my gofer, but he did it anyway.

  Atop the conference table were several large books of mug shots. “Let’s see if we can speed this up for you. Cabrera said the men you saw in the office were business types—suits and ties, that sort of thing?”

  “Well, not exactly,” Lorraine began. “They didn’t all wear suits, but they didn’t look like laborers to me either. They all wore expensive clothing. One wore a Tommy Bahama cardigan. Another of them had a really nice leather jacket.”

  “Uh-huh. So, look,” I said as I reached for one of the books. “Let’s start with this one. I don’t want to waste your time looking at crackheads and junkies when we’re looking for an entirely different breed of criminal. There’s a fair chance that if they’re anywhere, they’re in this one. Sound good to you?”

  Lorraine nodded eagerly, but I could see that she was nervous. “Listen, I’m not a chicken shit, but I’m a little scared. I mean, I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I? I have to be realistic about this. If one of these guys is responsible for Rachel’s murder …”

  I hated this moment in the investigation process, but there was no alternative but to tell the truth. “Nothing is without risk, Lorraine,” I said frankly, “but you’re just looking at some pictures for now. I think you’re pretty safe.”

  She swallowed nervously and then it looked as is she was beginning to overcome her apprehension. “Okay. Let’s do it,” she spouted impulsively. She turned to the mug book and began examining the photos.

  Cabrera returned with her coffee and put it down in front of her.

  “It’s a nasty day,” she said, “cold and windy with that irritating fine mist that drives you crazy.” She sipped the coffee. “You weren’t kidding—this stuff is completely putrid.”

  “Truly dreadful, no bones about it,” I said. “Our coffee is sludge. I think it was reconstituted from the Exxon Valdez oil spill.”

  “That sounds like a safe bet.” She pushed it away. “I guess I’d better get busy,” she said and flipped the first page.

  “We’ll give you some space.” Cabrera and I left the room and closed the door. “You’d better get your testosterone in check before we end up with a sexual harassment suit.”

  Cabrera looked embarrassed. “I guess you caught me.”

  “Busted, dead to rights. If you were staring any harder, your eyes would’ve popped out of your head. What’s with you, not getting any?”

  “No. Not lately.”

  “Well, then pop into the men’s room and do a load by hand … or go get neutered or something. Geez, I’ve never seen you this bad.”

  “What can I tell you? She’s an attractive woman.”

  “Dominic, you know very well that woman may end up being a federal witness. How’s it going to look in court if the defense attorney asks her under oath if she’s getting poked by the investigating special agent? The case will go down the john, and you’ll have to kiss your career goodbye.”

  “Understood,” he said in a sober voice.

  “So you’ll mind your P’s and Q’s?”

  “And my twigs and berries.”

  I raised an intimidating eyebrow. “Dominic.”

  “Absolutely.” He raised his hand. “I solemnly swear not to check out Lorraine’s smoking hot ass when you’re around or I’m in a position to get caught by anyone else in the department.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “So are you going to stick around all day to make sure that I don’t misbehave?” Cabrera asked.

  “Actually …” I winked at him. “I’m on my way to the Israeli Embassy. Elias wasn’t poisoned, and he’s out of quarantine, thank God.”

  The door opened behind us. Lorraine was standing in the opening, smiling broadly. “I found one of them,” she said proudly. “The one with the expensive leather jacket. Thomas Linuzzi. Have you heard of him?”

  Cabrera and I looked at one another with alarm and rushed back into the conference room.

  Chapter 25

  Lorraine Franco pulled her coat tight with two hands and cinched the belt as she emerged from the building. She felt goose bumps on her bare legs and was annoyed with herself for having chosen fashion over function, but she had wanted to impress Agent Cabrera and had chosen an outfit suitable to the task. The weather was still raw. A fine mist of rain pummeled her as she strode away from the FBI building. She grimaced as the rain hit her face and then noticed a Starbucks across the street. After being teased with a cup of swill in the FBI office, she felt as if she needed a good cup of coffee before jumping on the subway into Queens.

  The window was filled with the happy faces of several patrons who looked warm and cozy within. She checked her watch and decided that there was time for her to grab a quick cup before heading back.

  A hunter green Cadillac stopped just up the block less than twenty feet from the coffee shop.

  Tommy Linuzzi barked instructions to his driver as he exited, slammed the door, and began strutting toward the coffee shop. He wore a snug-fitting gray sweater that adhered tightly to his muscular upper body. There was arrogance in the man’s gait. He walked with a fearless authority that came from complete and unflinching confidence. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark Ray-Ban sunglasses. He examined his cowboy boots as he walked down the street and buffed the tips on the backs of his pant legs as he approached the coffee shop.

  Lorraine took a sip of her piping hot coffee and reveled in its warmth. She noticed daylight fade outside the window as a massive figure momentarily paused in front of her. She was feeling a bit dreamy and had probably heard the door open, but did not look up. She was still shivering from the cold. In the next instant, Linuzzi placed his large hand on her arm.

  “Jesus Christ.” Lorraine clutched her chest with her free hand and shrieked, but her voice trailed off into a breathless whisper, and her coffee cup went flying. The lid came off, and the coffee splashed on the counter and against the window. Steam from the vaporizing liquid floated past Linuzzi’s face like fog.

  She froze as she examined his features and realized that she was now face to face with the criminal she had identified from a mug shot just minutes earlier.

  The photograph did not capture his cocky expression or his intimidating demeanor. Confronted by this flesh-and-blood monster, one question leapfrogged to the forefront of her mind: Am I going to die?

  Linuzzi grinned demonically as he cocked his head to the side and began to speak. “Lorraine, sweetheart, why so jumpy?”

  “What?” Lorraine’s eyes darted back and forth like those of a frightened doe. “How do you know who I am?”

  “Tell me, Ms. Lorraine Franco,” he said, ignoring her question. “Do you know who I am?”

  “What?”

  He squeezed
her arm tightly and spoke authoritatively. “I said, do … you … know … who … I … am?” He grinned at her in a way that froze her heart.

  Lorraine tried to free her arm, but it was locked down as if secured by a vise. “You’re hurting me.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” Linuzzi’s face was mere inches from hers, in-your-face close. “So, who am I?”

  Lorraine took a deep breath, but it didn’t help to calm her. “I-I saw you in my office.” She tried to free her arm but couldn’t. She barely managed to lift it off the counter before Linuzzi slammed it back down. He grinned at her even more broadly.

  “Is that the best you can do? The next thing you’re going to tell me is that you were at the dentist this morning.”

  The breath caught in her lungs.

  “That’s right, sweetheart, I’m onto your little tale.” He released her arm. “Just so that we understand each other, I’m going to tell you exactly who I am.”

  Lorraine rubbed her arm where he had hurt her.

  Linuzzi spoke softly so that she had to strain in order to hear him. “The name is Linuzzi, Thomas Linuzzi, but I’m sure you know that already. People call me the Collector because I collect mementos from those individuals who were, emphasis on were, stupid enough to piss me off. Now, if you have any doubt as to what I’m capable of doing to you, let me make it plain. If I wanted to, I could bend you over and fuck you like a dog right here in Starbuck’s goddamn window.” He paused to point at random individuals in the coffee shop. “Not one of these fine, law-abiding citizens would so much as lift a finger to stop me or remember my description when the cops came asking questions. Now do I make myself clear?”

  Lorraine nodded nervously as tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Good. Now why on God’s earth are you talking to the feds? They’re just a bunch of liars. They’re no-good, lying scumbag lawyers with guns. So if you’ve got some romantic notion that these guys are like James Bond, jumping out of airplanes to save damsels in distress, let me assure you that they’re not. They’re the biggest bunch of liars alive. Are you feeling me?”

  Lorraine agreed with another nervous nod.

  “Good. Now we’re getting along. I’m going to ask some questions, and you’re going to give me straight honest-to-God answers.”

  Lorraine nodded once more.

  “What did the police want to know?”

  “They asked me questions about the girl who was killed.”

  “The girl who worked in your office?”

  Lorraine confirmed with yet another nod.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That she was nice. That she was smart and worked hard. That’s all.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. That’s all.”

  “You’re not bull-shitting me, are you, Lorraine? Because if you are …”

  “No,” she replied nervously. “I told you that was it.”

  Linuzzi rubbed his chin while he pondered Lorraine’s brief answers. “I choose to believe you, and do you know why? Because I think you’re smart enough to understand what will happen to you if I find out that you were lying to me. Now they may question you again, and if they do, the only thing you’re going to say is that you don’t know anything else. Can you remember that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good!” He stood, walked behind her, and leaned over her back to whisper in her ear.

  Lorraine could feel his hot breath on her neck.

  “It took me about five seconds to find you. So if you think I just got lucky, think again.” He fondled one of her earrings and began to rub it back and forth between his thick fingers. “These are lovely. It would be a shame if I had to add these to my collection.” He turned and left abruptly. The entire exchange had taken just a few minutes.

  Lorraine had been so distracted that she didn’t realize that coffee was still dripping off the counter and onto her lap. She began to blot the hot coffee with a napkin as she watched his car disappear, and mouthed the one solitary thought that now dominated her consciousness, “Fuck you, asshole!”

  Chapter 26

  I heard Bocelli singing “The Prayer” as I entered the Israeli consulate office occupied by Ben Elias. His eyes were closed, and his hands were swaying back and forth as he savored the beautiful ballad. When he reopened his eyes and looked at me, I saw that his eyes were glassy. He hit the power button on the Bluetooth speaker, ending the beautiful song.

  His expression got to me. He looked so sad and remorseful. It was a little bit of an effort to put my professional face on and walk towards him with my hand extended.

  He held my hand in his. “Agent Mather, thank you for coming.” Elias exuded warmth. He looked into my eyes and smiled, but I could see that his sadness was still there, refusing to let him ignore its presence.

  “I didn’t expect to hear Andrea Bocelli singing ‘The Prayer’ when I walked in. It’s one of my favorite songs.”

  “What do you think about when you hear it?”

  My throat tightened. “My father.”

  “Has he passed on?”

  “No, but … he struggles.”

  I think he could see that thinking about my father was making me emotional. “Then I’d be very disappointed if it didn’t affect you, and I’m sorry that your father’s life is difficult.”

  “Can I ask what you were thinking about?”

  Elias shrugged. He looked pensive and sad all at the same time. “Everyone and no one, I suppose—first and foremost, this tragic woman Rachel Rabin, and all those who have senselessly lost their lives. I’m six thousand miles away from my homeland.” He sighed. “Andrea Bocelli is what I have instead of the embrace of a loved one.” He smiled unexpectedly. “But not anymore; now I have you. Please, Agent Mather, have a seat.”

  This was not the man I expected. I had envisioned a brusk and demanding Israeli cop, a man who fired questions like an Uzi spits bullets, a man who didn’t know the meaning of the word patience. I’d met many Mossad agents while serving in the Middle East. Most of them were overconfident and abrasive. My sense told me that Elias was a very different kind of man. I took a seat. “How are you feeling after that ordeal you went through? I mean, landing that jet in the water?”

  His eyes flashed. “Ya. That was pretty scary. I certainly never expected to find myself in the cockpit, fighting to stay alive.” He gazed toward heaven. “Thank God they got us out of the jet before we drowned. I’m sad to report that the result was not as good for the copilot.”

  “I haven’t heard. Did he die?”

  “Yes, he was poisoned, and I’m afraid the pilot will not fare much better.”

  “Do we know how?”

  “The doctors are still not sure how the pilots came into contact with poison or which poison was used, for that matter.” He shook his head sadly. “I came here to look into one tragic death and now … there may be three. I hope this isn’t a sign of things to come. The water landing incident has gotten quite a lot of attention from Israel’s military and intelligence agencies, as well as your NTSB, and Homeland Security department. From what I’ve seen, the media is having a field day.” He sat back in his chair. “But let’s narrow our focus to the death of Rachel Rabin, shall we?” He turned his legal pad to a fresh page. “Let’s get started.”

  I took a deep breath. “Sure.” I began with the story of Nelson Potts, the hapless fisherman who had accidentally discovered the body. Elias reviewed the ME’s findings, which reported the presence of heroin in the liver and the physical state in which the torso had been found. I covered Hodgkin’s astute observations and just how they led to the identification of Rachel Rabin via the serial numbers found on her breast implants. Following up on Dr. Levine’s suggestion, Hodgkin had reexamined her remains, found a trace amount of semen in one of the fallopian tubes, and had sent it to the lab for DNA analysis. The trip to Dr. Julia Levine’s office had been well worth my time.

  Elias was a meticulous note taker. I watched p
atiently as he scribed his notes in Hebrew, highlighting and underlining information he found of greater importance. He spoke minimally, asking questions to clarify only when necessary. “And who do you suspect in this heinous murder?”

  “The best we’ve got so far is that a group of men met with Soto at Transglobal on the evening we believe Rachel was murdered. One of them was recognized.” I sighed. “Unfortunately, the individual identified is a member of organized crime.”

  “A mobster?” he asked with alarm. “Italian Mafia?”

  “I’m afraid so. One of Rachel’s coworkers identified him from a mug shot. His name is Thomas Linuzzi, and as I said, he’s an organized crime figure, part of a family headed by a man named Anthony Silvestri.”

  “That could very well be the last thing I wanted to hear. Lawless men are capable of lawless acts and often able to outdistance justice. Such things are difficult for a man of God to accept, but I will say a prayer for this child’s eternal soul. Her killer must pay for her death.”

  I saw that the information had hit him hard. God only knew it was a lot for anyone to accept.

  “It’s a terrible travesty of justice. A child is butchered, and no one will be held accountable?”

  “We have suspects. We’ll—”

  “Bring an organized crime figure to justice? From where I sit, that sounds like an extremely tall order involving years of trial and litigation. No. There has to be a better way.”

  “You must have faith in us. We will get to the bottom of this.”

  “Agent Mather, I have every faith that you will do your best. Yours strikes me as a very uncommon class of sincerity. Still, I’m familiar with the American system of justice, and frankly I don’t have a lot of faith that these men will pay for their crimes.”

  I wanted to tie the whole matter up in a neat little package and hand it across the table to him—here, case closed, justice served.

  He sighed a long and troubled sigh. “Justice used to be so much simpler back in biblical times. Are you familiar with the law of King Solomon?”