But I failed, he’d respond, if he could. He knew he’d never see Sophie again. Grant was better for her anyway, much better.
He stared at the grimy warehouse ceiling, unsure if the encroaching dimness was due to fading daylight or his eyelids drooping. He was tired, so tired.
He’d been unable to save his mother when he was a child, and he hoped by some grace of God he might be able to join her soon, to apologize for failing her so completely, to make her understand how he’d simply lost his way. He had failed so many people. A pang of sadness pierced his heart when he realized his own son Ben was going to grow up without a father, just like he had. Hopefully his son would fare better than he had. Perhaps it was a blessing for Ben that his fucked-up father was leaving him for good.
Finally succumbing to his fatigue, Logan allowed his eyes to flutter shut. All was quiet in the warehouse.
31. Until Morale Improves
Grant sighed heavily and felt hot tears well up in his eyes. Great. He was crying. Again. Some kind of mobster he made—no wonder Lo had called him a wuss when they were kids.
He was supposed to be preparing the ship for the day’s sold-out cruises, but instead he was standing by the controls, staring into space and thinking about Sophie, only Sophie. Her look of fear and mistrust, the betrayal evident in her clipped tone, the finality of her parting words—it all had haunted him for the past twenty-four hours.
Roger brusquely entered the bridge, and Grant quickly swiped at a wayward tear, hoping his boss hadn’t witnessed his little display of weakness. He pretended to clean the steering mechanism, methodically running a wet rag over the gleaming silver wheel.
Disdainfully studying his employee, Roger set a plastic bag on the counter and grumbled, “I see you’re still moping around, Madsen.”
He halted his cleaning charade and looked down, trying to prevent any more tears. “Sorry.”
Roger sighed. “Why don’t you talk to her, try to explain things?”
“I did try!” Grant insisted, lifting his chin and staring at Roger defiantly. “After work last night I took her purse to her apartment, and I freaking begged her roommate to let me talk to her. But Kirsten told me Sophie was at her father’s, which I know was a total lie.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because Sophie hates her father; she would never go there. I’m sure she was hiding right inside the apartment, refusing to see me.” He sighed. “There’s nothing I can do. It’s over.”
Roger had no idea what to say, and Grant leaned down to extract the window-cleaning solution from the cupboard.
Perking up, Roger offered, “Screw Sophie. Why don’t you just go to your Uncle Angelo’s club and find some hoochie-mama to cuddle up with?”
Grant popped up immediately with a look of incredulous anger.
“Or not,” the older man amended.
“Please do not ever discuss my uncle, my dad, my brother …” Grant’s indignant voice trailed off, and he found himself fighting tears once again. He was so sick of his family, so sick of them ruining his life.
“When I first hired you, Joe told me you’d be fine if you just stayed away from your family,” Rog said sympathetically. “I didn’t understand that then, but I’m finally getting the picture now.”
“You probably shouldn’t have hired me in the first place.”
“You’re right,” Roger snapped. “I would never have hired you if I knew what a fucking Debbie Downer you’d turn out to be. I’m so sick of this mopey shit—all over a damn chick! Pull it together, Madsen.”
Grant sniffed. “Yes, sir.”
Emphatically pointing his index finger in the air, Roger continued. “That reminds me! I bought a sign announcing a new policy for all employees, effective immediately.” He shot a disappointed glance at Grant. “It was your sulking ass that prompted me to get this.”
Roger scooped his bagged purchase off the counter and turned to the console, taking out a hammer and nail before banging the drawer shut. Grant studied him curiously for a moment, but decided to get back to work.
Roger stuck his tongue out the corner of his mouth as he nailed the plaque to the wall, then stood back to admire his handiwork.
“Let’s see if ROTC boy learned anything in college,” Roger called. “Come over here and read this.”
Dutifully Grant came over to the plaque, which was adorned with a skull and crossbones, and read aloud, “The beatings will continue until morale improves.”
Despite himself, he felt a slight grin coming on.
Roger smiled too. He’d finally succeeded in cheering up the morose boy. “Maybe that bruise on your face, which looks even worse today, by the way, will send a message to those lazy-asses Tommy and Dan.”
Grant absentmindedly drew his hand to his face, and his smile quickly faded. With another sigh, he grabbed the spray bottle and listlessly went back to clean the next window.
Roger turned and descended the stairs to see if Tommy and Dan had arrived yet. If those fucking sloths were late again, they were definitely in for quite a beating. The boss was going to improve morale around here if it killed him.
* * *
“Come, Lucky!” Lieutenant Jo Ann Jemison hollered, clapping her hands to emphasize the command. With his tongue lolling happily, the black Springer Spaniel-Collie mix came bounding out of the shallow waters of Lake Michigan, a piece of driftwood clutched in his teeth.
“Good boy!” Jo Ann cooed, grasping the end of the wet wood. But Lucky continued to hold on. Jo Ann frowned. “Lucky,” she admonished. “Drop.”
Mischievous black eyes stared back at her as the dog clamped down harder and swiftly wagged his tail.
“Drop!” Jo Ann ordered again, taking a sweeping look around her to make sure that none of her superiors was observing her utter lack of control. Jo Ann and Lucky were only a quarter-mile south of the Naval Station Great Lakes, and it would not be unusual to find a commander or two jogging along the lake before it became too hot later in the day.
His owner gave the stick one more jerk, and Lucky maintained his vice grip, adding a playful growl. Refusing a game of tug-of-war, which the dog seemed to crave, Jo Ann trotted ahead and strolled along the waves lapping the beach, pretending to ignore him. Lucky galloped to catch up and nuzzled her hand with his snout, offering her the wood once again.
Casually looking down, Jo Ann swiftly grabbed the wood from the unsuspecting dog and this time managed to swipe it clean. “Ha!” she cried, victoriously holding it high in the air, while Lucky danced at her feet. Grinning, Jo Ann tossed the driftwood into the lake, where it was followed immediately by the black-and-white dog. He pursued the wood with tenacious glee before locating the floating piece and clamping it into his mouth.
They played this game for fifteen minutes as they headed back north toward the base. Lucky was finally getting the hang of releasing the wood on command, but Jo Ann was pretty sure his progress would be forgotten when they took their walk tomorrow. The dog was incorrigible. Suddenly Lucky veered away from the water toward several canoes roped together at a dock just outside the perimeter of the base.
“Lucky, get outta there!” Jo Ann chastised, hustling to the canoes once the dog poked his head under the canvas tarp. Lucky snatched his head back and barked frantically, puzzling his owner. As she approached the canoes, Jo Ann felt an unexplained creepy sensation quiver up her spine. She slowed her pace and cautiously took the last few steps.
“What is it, boy?”
The dog continued barking, poking his head into the canoe, then backing out. Jo Ann had no idea why she dreaded looking inside the canoe, but she could ignore her insistent pup no longer. Peeling away a section of the tarp, she stopped breathing when she saw the sleeve of a black leather jacket. Following down the length of the sleeve, she stared disbelievingly at a gray human hand.
Jo Ann let out a bloodcurdling scream.
* * *
“Get a hold of yourself, Lieutenant,” Captain Archibald Lockhart
commanded, watching his subordinate’s trembling hands clutch the leash of her spunky black dog.
Jo Ann gulped. “Yes, sir.”
Archie’s deep-brown eyes glanced toward the canoes, which were now guarded by two military police officers thanks to the lieutenant’s frantic call to the base from her cell phone. They were all waiting for local police to arrive. Gesturing to the canoe closest to the water, Archie asked, “The body is in that one?”
Lucky barked as if to provide his own answer, and his owner confirmed, “Yes, sir.”
Taking a deep breath, the captain strode to the canoe and, without a moment’s hesitation, peered inside. Once the sunlight hit the corpse’s pallid face, Archie inhaled sharply and took a step away.
“I know this man,” he quietly informed the MPs, thinking immediately of his friend Commander Joe Madsen. Then his mind quickly flashed to an image of Grant Madsen’s frightened face, imploring Archie to let him pass at the foot of that basement stairwell, his arm trembling as he held the gun. Archie felt sick.
“You do, sir?” one MP incredulously inquired.
“I know this man,” Archie repeated, in a stronger voice this time. “His name is Logan Barberi.”
“Well, that will save us some time identifying the body then,” a voice announced behind him.
Archie swiveled around and found a petite woman staring back at him, her neat, reddish-brown bob framing her face and her green eyes flashing intensity and intelligence. She wore a fuchsia blouse underneath a black suit-jacket and pants, giving her a no-nonsense, business-like appearance. “You’re the commanding officer on this base, sir?” she asked.
“Captain Archie Lockhart, ma’am,” he confirmed, reaching out to shake her hand.
“Detective Marilyn Fox, Great Lakes Police,” she responded, pumping his hand with a surprising strength. Archie then noticed two men just behind her, who appeared to be equipment-laden crime-scene techs.
Lucky began barking and wagging his tail, anxious to meet the newcomers.
Glancing at him, Marilyn asked, “That’s the dog that found the body?”
“Yes,” Archie replied. “Along with his owner, Lieutenant Jo Ann Jemison.”
“Okay, I’ll need to interview her. Could you please join the lieutenant over there, Captain, while we get to work on the scene? I’d like to look things over before talking to you further.”
“Of course, Detective,” Archie replied. “The lieutenant could use a little support right now anyway. She’s rather freaked out.”
Marilyn smirked. “Yeah, it’s not every day you find a dead body while walking your dog.”
As Archie rejoined his subordinate, he heard the detective tell one of her techs, “Smell’s not too bad yet. TOD must be recent.”
About ten minutes later, Marilyn interviewed Lieutenant Jemison while Archie observed the techs hovering over the scene—snapping photos, brushing for fingerprints, and conversing with the coroner who had recently arrived.
“Okay.” Marilyn sidled up to Archie, her voice friendly and engaging, “I’m finally ready to ask you a few questions, sir. How do you know the deceased?”
“How did he die, Detective?” Archie asked quietly.
Marilyn paused, unsure whether to share such information with a potential suspect. Just about everyone was a suspect at the moment. But wanting to see his reaction, she informed Archie, “Looks like he was stabbed in the chest.”
A look of pure sadness washed over him as he cleared his throat. “Very well. To answer your question, I’m good friends with Logan Barberi’s uncle, Commander Joe Madsen.”
She jotted down some notes. “I see, so Joe Madsen is the brother of Mr. Barberi’s mother, then?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You said you know Mr. Barberi’s uncle—that’s what helped you identify Mr. Barberi?”
“Joe brought his nephews and his sister to live with him on the base back in, when was that, 1986? Back when Enzo Barberi was sent to prison for life.”
Marilyn scribbled furiously. “So that’s when you met the deceased?”
“I met Logan once in the O Club back then, but he didn’t stay here long. He ran away to live with his other uncle, Angelo Barberi.” Archie looked wistful. “Joe was crushed when Logan ran away. Anyway, Logan was only about thirteen when he lived here. I recognized him as an adult because his picture was in the paper during Angelo’s trial.”
Archie gave the detective some time to get all this down before he added, “You should also know that Logan and his brother were arrested near this base a little over two years ago.”
“Really?” Marilyn said. “So Mr. Barberi had a brother.”
“Yes, ma’am—Grant Madsen.”
Catching her questioning glance, Archie explained, “Joe adopted Grant after his sister, Karita, died from cancer. Karita was the boys’ mother.”
Nodding her head, Marilyn continued, “Why were the brothers arrested?”
“I caught Grant trying to steal a bag of cash from a bar nearby.” He rubbed his jaw. “Grant pointed a gun at me, but I subdued him, and then he was arrested.”
Arching her eyebrows, Marilyn asked, “And Logan?”
“Logan was arrested in the bar’s parking lot, but somehow he wasn’t tied in to the attempted robbery. Grant wasn’t talking, and Logan had a good attorney, I guess.”
Marilyn’s green eyes narrowed. This certainly did not sound like a slam-dunk homicide case. “And Grant is still in prison, sir?”
“Yes, he was sentenced to three years at Gurnee.”
“Unless he’s out for good behavior,” she speculated, wondering if one brother had exacted revenge on the other.
“I haven’t heard whether Grant got out.” Archie shrugged. “It’s been a while since I spoke to Joe. Things got a little weird between us after Grant’s robbery.” Archie thought again how devastated Joe would be upon learning his nephew had been murdered.
“And Joe Madsen lives in town?”
“No, ma’am. He’s probably out to sea right now, but if not, he’s stationed in Norfolk.” While the detective was writing, Archie asked, “Are you going to call him about this, or should I?”
Marilyn paused. “Looks like I have a growing list of next-of-kin to notify. Let me see if I got this straight: Mr. Barberi had two uncles—Joe Madsen and Angelo Barberi, one father serving a life sentence in Gurnee, one brother who may or may not still be serving his sentence in Gurnee … anyone else I should know about?”
Archie bit his lip. “I think Joe mentioned once that Logan might have a kid of his own? I’m not sure.”
“I’ll check it out. I’d like to do the notification of death myself, but if you have Joe Madsen’s contact information, I would appreciate it.”
“You have my full cooperation, Detective. I was much closer to Joe than I was to Logan, but I want to find the bastard who did this and bring him to justice.”
“Good. And may I ask, Captain, your whereabouts for the past twenty-four hours?”
Archie was startled. She had charmed him into believing they were a team, then wham! She was good.
He nodded. “I was actually in Washington, DC, yesterday, Detective,” he said. “Meeting with Admiral Kearney. Just returned last night. I’d be happy to show you my travel itinerary and give you the Admiral’s number, as well as Joe’s information, if you’d like to accompany me to my office.”
“That would be lovely,” she smiled, pocketing her notebook.
Archie waited for Marilyn to check in one last time with the techs before they headed to the base.
* * *
“Carlo!” Angelo yelled, entering the foyer of his opulent house. He was shaking with rage and had no idea what he would do once he saw his son’s fucking face.
“In the kitchen, padre!” He heard a faint reply from the interior of the mansion.
Making his way to the large kitchen, Angelo was greeted by the sight of his son sitting at the table, stuffing pasta into his mouth. Noticing
the fury in his father’s black eyes, Carlo put his fork down and slowly stood up, taking a few uncertain chews.
Angelo crossed the room in a second and slapped Carlo across the face, causing him to reel to the side, coughing and sputtering. Somehow, Carlo managed to avoid choking on the pasta, and he cradled his burning cheek while righting himself, staring at his father with utter shock and disappointment.
“You promised you would never hit me,” he softly cried.
The Mafia boss looked at him incredulously. Since they’d just completed a scan for listening devices in the house this morning, he decided to speak freely. “That was before you decided to murder my godson.”
Carlo’s eyes widened. “What? Logan?” He looked horrified. “He’s, he’s dead?”The last word came out as a shocked whisper.
Thinking he should hand his son a fucking Oscar for that performance, instead Angelo gave him a slashing punch to the gut. Carlo doubled over, breathing laboriously for a few moments before moaning, “I didn’t do it!”
Angelo looked at him disgustedly. “Unless you want me to keep beating the shit out of you, you’d better stop. You’ve been gunning for Logan since you two were kids. I know it was you.”
Still doubled over, Carlo was glad his father couldn’t see his face, which bought him some time to decide how to play this. Acting stupid about Logan’s death clearly wasn’t working. Carlo was simply too intelligent to play dumb convincingly. There was also something appealing about finally being able to discuss his victory with someone who would listen. Tank and Meat had refused to talk about what happened in the warehouse yesterday.
Slowly returning to standing, Carlo tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his stomach and face. Although Angelo was fifty-four years old, he still packed a wallop. Carlo silently scolded himself for underestimating his father—he was the boss of the family, after all.
With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 33