by Rosie Genova
I shook my head, trying to make sense of it all, but in the end, there was only one plausible theory. “They” were looking for me because I had information that was damaging to them. If not Florence and Jason, it would have to be Gerry Domenica or “Jackson Manchester,” the ride operator and sometime boyfriend of Alyssa. Both men bore a lion tattoo—was that a coincidence or were they connected somehow? Were they working together? Were they at this moment searching me out somewhere on this boardwalk? I tapped my foot nervously, watching out the windows as the trolley chugged past the brightly lit stands and arcades. When it screeched to a stop, I jumped.
“Here we are,” the driver called out. “The rides pier. Final destination! Final destination, everybody!”
Final destination. Let’s hope not. I stood up, still holding the pole for support, and hung back to let the family go out ahead of me.
“Bye, lady!” the little one said with a wave.
“Bye,” I said, “have fun.”
And watch out for crazy old gangsters and tattooed ex-cons. And desperate waitresses and lovesick women and rich, powerful men with something to hide. Hang on to those kids, I wanted to say as I watched them go, because suddenly my beloved old boardwalk is a dangerous place.
I stepped off the trolley, my legs leaden and my head spinning from exhaustion and fear. I took my phone from my pocket. Almost ten thirty. The rides pier closed at eleven, and once those crowds left, the boardwalk would be deserted. What chance would I have against one or more of them? You can’t think this way, Vic.
I slipped in among the tourists in line for fresh lemonade. Behind the stand was a small café area with a row of mirrors along its walls. I took a seat in the back; at least I could see them coming. Ditching my straw, I drained the lemonade in a few gulps and stared at my phone screen. I was at seven percent battery power. It would be thirty long minutes before I could reach Danny directly. I turned off the phone to conserve what was left of its power. Meanwhile, there were at least four people, one or more of whom might be a murderer, searching for me at this very moment. I looked around nervously, shaking the ice cubes in the bottom of my cup. Do I make a run for home? Or do I try to dodge them all until my brother can get here?
Well, I couldn’t do anything until I hit the ladies’ room. I stood up cautiously and slipped into the bathroom, used it hurriedly, and washed my hands. I pushed open the door with my elbow, still shaking my hands dry when the smell of patchouli reached my nose. Iris stood blocking the exit, her arms crossed.
“We’ve been looking all over for you.”
I let out a loud sigh. “I know. Where’s Richard?”
“He’s back at the table where you were sitting. We need to talk to you.”
No, I need to get out of here. My mouth went dry and my heart pounded wildly. We were in a public place—what could they do to me in a public place? “How . . . how did you know where to find me?”
“I saw you get on the trolley. And then we drove down.” She frowned. “What does that matter, anyway? It’s imperative we talk to you.”
I took a step backward. “We can talk right here.”
“Victoria, you’re being ridiculous. Just come back to the table so we can explain.”
I shook my head. “I want some answers first.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! You plan to interrogate me outside the ladies’ room?”
“Yes, in fact. Let’s start with that missing scarf of yours. How did Pete get it?”
She closed her eyes briefly as though she was considering what to say. “He found it outside Richard’s house. Richard is separated, but not divorced. His lawyers had made it clear that I shouldn’t visit him there, that it might affect the settlement. And it wouldn’t look good for the foundation.” She shook her head sadly. “And Richard would do anything to protect the foundation.”
Anything? Like murder? “So Pete was blackmailing you?”
“Yes.” The word came out as a sigh, both of resignation and relief. “For small amounts, now and then. I’d never know when he might show up at the store.” She shuddered. “I couldn’t have him hanging around the store, and I couldn’t have him bothering Richard, so I paid him to go away.” She looked at me directly. “But that’s all I did. Don’t you see that Richard and I are trying to help you?”
So you say, Iris. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
“My God, you are exasperating. Just come back to the table and we’ll explain.”
“Okay. But you go first.”
She rolled her eyes but walked past me back into the café area. I followed behind her, looking for a way to make a run for it. I might be able to handle Iris, but there was no way I could get past her and Barone. But the table was only steps away now, and I met Barone’s dark, angry glare. Without hesitating, without even thinking, I darted past the table, past the startled faces of the other patrons, and tore through the line of people waiting for drinks. While Iris and Barone shouted behind me, I ran for my life, my feet pounding the wooden boards.
Take the sidewalk. Take the sidewalk. But there was only one ramp to the street out here, and it was at the end of the boardwalk. I had reached the Ferris wheel; doubled over from running, I ducked behind it to catch my breath. For a wild moment, I thought about getting on it—they couldn’t chase me to the top of the ride. And my fear of heights was nothing compared to my fear of dying. But the line was long, and I’d be waiting out in the open. I shook my head. I had to keep going; I had to hang on another twenty minutes.
I stayed among the crowds near the rides, tired to the point of haziness. Here and there, people were starting to leave the boardwalk, and lights were blinking out in the stores and arcades. I moved into the shadow of the carousel house, studying the clusters of people still milling about its entrance. A broad-shouldered man with cropped hair had his back to me; when he turned, I caught the flash of white of his collar. Father Tom. Now that help was so close, I opened my mouth to call out to him, but shut it abruptly. He had his hands on his hips, a slight frown on his face. Because as I watched him, I realized that Father Tom wasn’t out for an evening stroll on the boardwalk; he was looking for somebody. And I knew that somebody was me. Was he trying to help me? I wanted to believe that, I truly did, but Pete’s will might be telling a very different story about our old family friend. I had to get out of here.
What have things come to, I thought, when you can’t trust a priest? I turned cautiously, trying to stay out of his line of vision. Behind the carousel was a grassy lot and an empty stretch of boardwalk that led to the last street ramp. From there it was only a few blocks to my cottage. I would take another minute to rest; if all was clear I’d do a sprint through the lot and down to the sidewalk. The lights of the carousel house partially illuminated the empty lot, but beyond it was dark. I’ll be running blind, I thought with a shiver. But I don’t have a choice.
Picking my way around trash and broken bottles, I took one step, then another, looking left, right, and back over my shoulder. I was halfway across the lot when I broke into a run. The end of the boardwalk was just ahead of me; I picked up my pace, my arms pumping, my chest still aching. The street ramp beckoned like an open palm, and I thought, You got this, Vic. You got this.
And that was when I saw him. He was walking up the ramp, and in the light from the street I could see the outlines of his shaved head and muscular arms. I pivoted so fast I nearly fell, but pushed back toward the grassy lot. I had nearly reached it when I heard him behind me.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Wait! I have to talk to you!”
You and everybody else. Take a number, brother. I sprinted back across the grass as his voice faded behind me. I rounded the side of the carousel house until I heard his footsteps die away. One or two tourists still lingered. It had to be close to eleven; any minute now Danny would get my text. Just a few more minutes and I’d be safe. But the crowds were thinning
. Stands and arcades were closing, leaving me fewer and fewer places to hide.
The lights on the Ferris wheel went black, and I pressed myself against the outside wall of the carousel house, my heart thudding and my breath coming hard. Four of them were looking for me now, and I didn’t know which of them I could trust. If any. I stayed against the wall, shifting my feet sideways, thinking if I could get to the door, I’d duck inside. Not a good idea, Vic. Good old “Jackson Manchester” probably has a key. He might even be in there right now, waiting.
I bent my head, feeling the tears behind my eyes. I couldn’t run anymore. In fact, I could barely walk. And then there was a deep male voice in my ear, saying exactly what I was thinking.
“C’mon, Victoria,” Richard Barone said. “Don’t you think it’s time to give it up?”
Chapter Thirty
Richard took my arm as gently as he had spoken and led me inside the carousel house, where a livid Iris was waiting. The place was empty of tourists, and the carousel horses formed an eerie tableau in the darkened arcade.
“Why do you keep running away from us?” Iris hissed, her angry voice echoing strangely in the empty building.
I jerked my arm from Richard’s grip. “Why do you think? I don’t know what you might do.” I glared at Richard. “And I don’t know what you might have already done.”
Iris let out a loud huff. “Don’t you ever get tired of playing detective?”
Richard put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay, hon. She knows we don’t intend to hurt her.”
“I don’t know any such thing. My brother is on his way, probably with backup, so don’t get any ideas.” Please let that be true. I looked from one to the other of them. “You said you wanted to explain. So answer my questions.” I felt like someone in a movie—or in one of my own books. Keep them talking and help will come. Maybe.
“Ask me anything you like, Victoria,” Barone said.
“Iris has already admitted that Pete was blackmailing her. Was he blackmailing you, too?”
He looked at me steadily. “I was nowhere near this place the night he died.”
“That’s not an answer,” I said. “Pete knew my uncle had probably been set up for a crime he didn’t commit. And I suspect he also knew that the real killer was part of Leo Barone’s inner circle. So your great-grandfather’s organization was not entirely ‘bloodless,’ was it, Richard?” I raised my chin and looked him straight in the eye, feeling as though I had little to lose at this point. “Keeping that from going public would be motive enough, wouldn’t you say?”
He shook his head, a slight smile on his face. “Victoria, think about this for a minute. If I’d wanted to keep Pete quiet, I would have set him up in his own house with a regular pension. I could have given him a hundred times what he asked for. Don’t you understand that blackmail was a game to him? He felt like it gave him power over people.”
“Well, it was a game that got him killed. And you’re not immune to that game yourself, Richard,” I said. “You can’t tell me you don’t enjoy having power over people. You knew my uncle was innocent all along. You’ve probably had those papers for years. You only gave them to me when you thought I was getting close to the answer. Pete may not have been a threat, but I was.”
Barone shook his head. “I never touched that old man.”
“Maybe not,” I said, “but you might have hired someone to do it.”
“Somebody like me, maybe?” Gerry Domenica stepped from the shadow of the doorway, holding a snub-nosed pistol that looked like something out of an old movie. He looked at each one of us, grinning widely, the gold tooth prominent. The gold tooth.
“You were here,” I said shakily. “The morning after the storm. You were here with the cleanup guys. I remember now.”
“Do you, miss?” he said. “I could tell you were a smart girl. Too smart, maybe.” He held the gun out and I shrank back. “Are you smart enough to reck-anize this? Nah, why would ya? It’s the gun that killed Nino Mancini.”
“The one the police never found all those years ago,” I said slowly as a creeping chill settled over me. Because it was all becoming clear now.
“I made my bones with this,” Domenica said proudly. “I was only sixteen. Mancini had crossed Mr. Leo, and I couldn’t let that go, could I?” He turned to me. “That uncle of yours was always hopped up on somethin’. I made him drive me that night.” He gestured with the gun. “Boom, boom. Two shots and it was all over. Then I got outta there like a bat out of hell.” He shrugged. “Too bad your uncle got the blame.”
“And Pete knew,” I said. “Because his brother, Alphonse, had told him. All these years you thought you got away with murder. But Pete knew the truth. He was a threat to you, so you killed him.”
He chuckled. “I ain’t sayin’ I did or I didn’t. But if I did, I did it for you, Richie. I did it for you and Mr. Leo.”
“You did it for yourself, Domenica,” Barone said. “You did it to cover up a crime you committed, a crime for which another man took the blame and spent years in prison.”
“And that’s something you wouldn’t want coming out now, would you, Richie? What with your big fancy foundation and all,” Domenica said, his voice sly. “Mr. Leo always said he didn’t have no blood on his hands. And I know you’d wanna keep people from knowing about poor old Roberto.” He twirled the gun around on his index finger and I fought the urge to drop to the floor. “You’d be surprised at how easy it is to get rid of an old drunk. Hypothetically speaking, of course.” He grinned widely.
“Shut up, old man!” said a voice sharply. “Don’t say anything else.”
Four heads turned in unison to look at the tattooed man who stood in the open doorway. The gang’s all here, I thought. And which one of them killed Pete?
“Lorenzo, what are you doing here?” Domenica asked. “I told you to stay out of this.”
“I can’t stay out of it, Nonno. I’m in it, just like you are.”
Nonno? “He’s your grandfather?” I asked.
“You bet he is,” Domenica piped up. “He got that tattoo just like mine.” He slapped his upper arm. “Leo the lion.”
“That’s right, Nonno,” Lorenzo said. “It’s just like yours.”
“Yeah,” Domenica said. “That’s my boy. He got into a little trouble some years back, but he did his time. Right, Renzo?”
“Uh-huh,” Lorenzo said, keeping his eyes trained on his grandfather’s gun. “I did my time. Hey, why don’t you put that down now? Somebody might get hurt.”
Thank you, Lorenzo. At least somebody in this room has his wits about him. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. Domenica’s grandson had sought out Pete and probably used Alyssa to get close to him. He had access to the carousel house. Was he working for his grandfather or against him? Domenica was here the day after the storm, but had he arrived the night before? Had he come to kill Pete or to make sure the job was done?
“Put the gun down,” Lorenzo said again.
It was then that Richard stepped forward. “Lorenzo’s right, Domenica. We don’t want anyone getting hurt here.” He looked from grandfather to grandson. “And I’m sure we can all come to some kind of agreement, can’t we, gentlemen?”
Lorenzo shook his head and smiled slightly. “He means he’ll pay us off. Because Barone thinks that all he has to do is write a check to make things go away.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way, Lorenzo,” Barone said smoothly. “But I don’t want to see anyone hurt.” He turned to Gerry. “Domenica, can’t we at least let the women go?”
Yes, please. Let’s do let the women go. My heart gave a small flutter of hope, but Domenica shook his head. “Nobody goes anywhere just yet.” But he slid his arm down to hold the gun at his side, and I breathed a little easier.
“As I was saying—” Richard began.
“Never
mind what you were saying, Barone,” Lorenzo said. To my surprise, he turned to me. “Victoria, I was looking for you for a reason. I knew about your great-uncle, and so did he.” He pointed to Barone, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “I grew up listening to my nonno’s stories of the old days in AC, and I’m not gonna lie, I was impressed. He was an old-time gangster, you know. So I got the lion tattoo, thought I was a real badass.” He shook his head. “I served time for robbery, and when you’re inside, you have a lot of time to think. But also a lot of time to read. I worked in the prison library, and I found a lot of the same stuff you did,” he said to me. “And I had my suspicions about the Mancini murder. About . . . who really did it, I mean.”
At this, Domenica grinned widely. “He’s a smart boy, ain’t he?”
My God, I thought, he’s proud of what he did. And he doesn’t care that his own grandson knows he’s a murderer. “But why were you looking for me?” I asked.
Lorenzo held up his hand. “I’ll explain, but let me go back a bit, okay? I got the job here on the boardwalk, and that’s where I stumbled across Pete. I mean, he would just ramble on to anyone who would listen.”
“And you connected him to your grandfather and the old days in Atlantic City,” I said.
“Yeah. My grandfather used to talk about ‘making his bones,’ but it was Pete who suggested that it was Nonno who killed Mancini, and not your uncle. But I had to be sure. I asked my grandfather, point-blank, if he’d killed Mancini, and he admitted it.” He pointed to Barone. “So I went to see him. I told him what I’d found out and about meeting Pete. I wanted him to set the record straight. But instead he offered me money to make it go away.”
I looked at Barone, who stood stone-faced. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Please,” Lorenzo said. He turned to me. “I knew you were wondering about Pete’s death, too. I knew you’d gone down to talk to my grandfather; I wanted to warn you.”