“Who else besides the bookkeeper has the combination to the vault?”
“No one.” At my puzzlement, he clarified, “The upstairs vault is on a random time release. There is no set schedule for it to be opened.”
This time I didn’t have to feign confusion. “Why? Don’t you need access to that money for change for the cage or whatever?”
When he didn’t answer, I realized if he did, he’d be giving away too much information on the amount of cash on hand. In all likelihood, the upstairs safe held the big bills, but I found it hard to swallow that only one person had control over that much money.
Unless that money wasn’t even supposed to be there.
As a South Dakota girl I didn’t know the first thing about money laundering. Skimming didn’t make sense because I doubted there’d be any benefit in the Carluccis skimming from themselves.
Big Joe continued, “He did handle the transfer, according to Betty. But before she made sure he reset the safe, Rondelle showed up half naked, caused a ruckus, and he kicked Betty back downstairs.”
Yeah, so he could drag Rondelle into another room and rape her, the bastard.
My blood boiled. “So it’s his word against hers.”
“I’m fully aware my son neglected his responsibilities for a quick tumble, Ms. Collins. Little Joe made a mistake.”
“Doesn’t sound like you blame him for the missing money.”
Those long, thin fingers rolled a slow, steady drum-beat. “Should I? Especially since in the interim Rondelle has vanished?”
“That automatically makes her guilty?”
“In my experience, yes.”
I chewed on that for a second. “Okay, let’s assume you’re right. Tell me: How did Rondelle manage to sneak away from Little Joe? If they were doing the nasty, wouldn’t he notice if she’d disappeared?”
A pained expression creased Big Joe’s forehead. “You’d think so. Unfortunately my son has … shall we say, eclectic appetites when it comes to sex? Apparently Rondelle has taken advantage of these appetites on many occasions, none more so than that afternoon.”
What lie had Little Joe created for his father to cover up the truth that he’d raped Rondelle? In the next room? While he’d left the damn safe open? It had to be something that would paint Rondelle as a sneaky, controlling, money-grubbing bitch.
“How?”
“Evidently Rondelle rendered him incapable of escape.”
I made my eyes widen. I even let out a little shocked gasp—mostly because I knew it was total bullshit.
“Little Joe let her tie him up?”
Reggie snickered.
Venom shot from Big Joe’s eyes, ending Reggie’s hilarity.
“Her idea, according to my son. He swears she left him alone for at least ten minutes. Plenty of time for her to skulk back into the office and grab money out of the safe, don’t you think?”
The indignation I’d been holding back exploded.
“Let me see if I’ve got this scenario right: Rondelle, half naked, ties up poor, helpless, horny Little Joe. She would’ve had to gag him to keep him from hollering since the tying up was her idea, right? Leaving him with his dick flapping in the wind, she manages to run down the hallway—again, half naked, and sneaks into the office unseen, spies the open safe and starts grabbing piles of cash?
“Where does she put the money? Couldn’t stuff it in her bra. Could she even fit 150K in her purse? I’m assuming the safe holds big bills, let’s say hundred dollar bills, and supposing they’d been bundled into stacks equaling 5000 bucks each, she would’ve had thirty stacks to hide.
“So, she would’ve had to stash them in a backpack or briefcase that would’ve been conveniently located nearby. Oh, on a random day the safe is opened. Wouldn’t Little Joe be curious if she sauntered back in with a briefcase? Sure, she might’ve told him it contained sex toys to throw him off, but, being a man of ‘eclectic’ appetites, he’d want her to open it. If she didn’t? Well, we’re back to him getting suspicious.
“The other alternative is she put the bag containing the money someplace else. You really think she’d take a chance and leave it unattended in the hallway after going to all that trouble to steal it?
“Then once she’s had her wicked, wicked way with him, she unties him, kisses his cheek, grabs the money and skips off into the sunset?”
I didn’t bother to hide my revulsion.
“Wrong. I’m not that stupid. I’ll give it to Little Joe for his imagination. But no way in hell did that happen. Someone else took the money.”
If there even was any money missing. This might’ve all been an elaborate lie on the Carlucci’s behalf to justify tracking down Rondelle because of the disk.
Tension soaked the air.
Big Joe stared at me inscrutably. Was he figuring out where to dig the hole to have me buried in?
Reggie huffed, hands curled into fists. All Big Joe had to do was give the word and Reggie would feed me lunch in the form of a knuckle sandwich.
“Is there something else you’d like to share?”
I glanced up at Big Joe. “Of course, I could be wrong.”
I lifted my hand and pointed to the camera in the corner.
“What about security cameras? From what I’ve seen you’ve got every inch of this place covered. Does the disk from that day show her actually stealing the money?”
More sticky silence.
“Interestingly enough, the disk from that day is missing.”
“Don’t you have copies archived within your security system?”
Reggie cleared his throat.
Big Joe’s mouth turned dark, prune-like. “When Little Joe took over this casino, I urged him to update the surveillance system. He did. By upgrading to encoded disks.”
“That’s it?”
“To say the current system is antiquated is putting it mildly. Since we don’t often use the rooms up here, these cameras are on a separate feed from the ones in the main casino.”
Hence, the separate, lone disk. “Why didn’t you call the cops?”
“Why bother without the evidence?”
Point taken. Then again, missing disk and missing money gave them a great motive for wanting her dead.
Yes, Rondelle had taken the disk, but not because she’d stolen the money.
But in reviewing that disk, she saw who did.
His fingers stopped moving. “Can you see our dilemma now?”
An intercom on the desk buzzed.
He scooted forward and punched a button. “Yes?”
“Sir, I hate to bother you, but your son insists on opening the Jack Daniels reserve. He’s, umm, very insistent and several customers have already left—”
“Say no more, Henry. Reggie will be down immediately.”
Reggie stood.
I couldn’t help but prod him. I dug out the yellow ticket. “Hey, while you’re down there, Reg, could you validate my parking? Then have the valet bring it around? It’s a blue Nissan Sentra. Big dent on the roof. Can’t miss it.”
His neck bulged. He scowled so hard his eyebrows almost covered his big nose.
All Big Joe said was, “See to Little Joe,” and Reggie was gone.
Dammit. I’d still have to pay for parking. If I was allowed to leave.
Big Joe sighed. Pressed back in his office chair and gazed up. “Do you have any children, Ms. Collins?”
Huh? “No.”
Time dragged on. I didn’t dare break his reign of silence.
Finally, he said, “Children are a curious thing. They can grow up in the same house, with the same mother and father, same financial circumstances, same education, same priest, same set of expectations.
“So how is it I’ve got three sons who never have caused me a minute’s worry, but the fourth one is a complete and total fuck-up?”
“Was that a rhetorical question?”
Head back, he continued to stare at the dingy ceiling tiles. “I could make excuses for hi
m. Or I should say, I have made excuses for him.”
“All that makes is a sorry excuse for a human being.”
He chuckled. “Know what’s ironic? I bought this casino to keep my son from further screwing up my other businesses in New Jersey. I’d thought without his brothers or me interfering he’d find his own way. Find success. Within one month, I had to send in a fulltime babysitter.”
Reggie. Wondered how he felt about being a highly paid Mary Poppins.
“Bud Linderman claims you want to own Deadwood,” I said.
“Bud Linderman is a rednecked idiot. I don’t want to own the casino I’ve already got, say nothing of more. There’s no money to be made here.”
Maybe Linderman was paranoid, seeing problems where there weren’t any. Would that make him dangerous? And careless?
“My businesses that are profitable are suffering because, once again, I’m here putting out my son’s fires.” Big Joe sat up and swiveled so quickly it made me dizzy. “Do you know for sure Rondelle didn’t take the money?”
That question shocked me almost as much as his confession about his disappointment of his son.
“Please don’t bullshit me or think you have to tiptoe around the truth, though, God knows, you’ve had no trouble telling me exactly what you think so far.”
Me and my big mouth. But maybe for once my mouth had kept me from wearing cement shoes.
“Yes, Rondelle told me she took the security disk. But it was a little hard for her to grab the money while your son was raping her in the next room.”
Not a single change in his facial expression.
“And you believe her?”
“About the rape? Without question.”
“Have you seen the disk?”
“No.” I exhaled, slowly. “I’m not going to sit here and tell you Rondelle was the most virtuous woman on the planet. But the fact remains your son raped and sodomized her. That is not her fault. And she has the evidence to prove it.
“It sickens me, the ‘she-tied-me-up’ version he fed you. It’s beyond ridiculous. You know it is, or else you wouldn’t be talking to me, would you?”
Drum drum drum, interspersed with a probing stare.
“I had my suspicions.” He removed his glasses, pressed his thumb above his right eye socket and sighed wearily. “Did Rondelle tell you what she’d planned on doing with that disk?”
“Not specifically. She’d mentioned taking it to the Lawrence County States Attorney’s office. Whether or not she did …”
“It’s possible she hasn’t done anything with the disk and might still use it to blackmail my son.”
I debated on telling him Rondelle wouldn’t be blackmailing anyone. I held back. “Someone ripped you off, Mr. Carlucci. That someone was not Rondelle.”
Again, he tortured me with silence.
“I wish it had been her.”
Briefly, I felt sorry for him. Difficult to swallow that someone you love is capable of betrayal. Then I remembered how the men in his employ had threatened me, broken into my house, smacked me around and beaten an innocent man.
The tiny bit of sympathy evaporated.
I cleared my throat to garner his attention. “Is there anything else?”
“No.” His blank eyes met mine. “If you do hear from Rondelle, contact me.”
“Why should I?”
“My patience only stretches so far, Ms. Collins.”
Yikes. I think I actually heard the thin thread snap in the abrupt stillness of the room.
“I will get answers. Having to track you down for them? Not fun for me, definitely not fun for you.”
“Ah, sure, I’ll call you.”
“Wise decision.” He spun back toward the windows. “You know the way out.”
I successfully avoided Reggie and Little Joe as I escaped to the parking garage and out of town.
But I knew I hadn’t seen the last of them.
CHAPTER 21
THE STUPID SON OF A BITCH WOULD BE DEAD INSIDE two minutes.
No close range shots this time. No chance to see the look of surprise. Or feel the vibration of fear as his life was snuffed.
With his left hand he yanked the red bandana out of his pocket and mopped the sweat from his forehead.
Through the scope, he saw the man fumble the wire cutters.
Frustrated, the man swore and grabbed the replacement section of 10-gauge wire that had fallen to the ground. He began to twist it around the fencepost. Dropped his glove. Took his own sweet time standing up and getting back to work.
Get moving, old man, I ain’t got all day.
He lifted the rifle slightly, and squinted through the scope again. About 150 yards out. Ideal range.
The man turned around.
A clear shot.
Oh yeah. The pocket on his yellow polo shirt made a perfect bulls-eye.
Not a breath of wind whispered his murderous intentions.
He pulled the trigger. Pulled it twice more before the body crumpled to the ground, amid broken barbed wire, milkweed, and dirt.
He waited, keeping the scope trained on the form in case he’d missed.
But he never missed.
Gun down; he studied the blazing midday sky. With any luck no one would come looking until dusk.
By then he’d already have served as a buzzard’s afternoon snack.
CHAPTER 22
THE MAIN DOORS WERE OPEN AT FAT BOB’S AND STILL the sour scent of booze, unwashed bodies, and mildew lingered.
Whew. This place could benefit from an industrial-sized air freshener.
A bartender with the mass of a John Deere tractor was parked behind the bar. He eyed me like he knew me but couldn’t quite place my face.
“What can I get for ya?”
“What’s on tap?”
“Bud, Bud Light, Coors, Coors Light, Miller, Miller Light, and Leinenkugel Red.”
“I’ll take the Leinenkugel.”
The pilsner glass he slid in front of me had a substantial head of foam. No wonder he worked the day shift. Even I could pour a better glass of beer. I tossed a five on the counter.
He snatched the money and brought my change. A blue flame flickered as he struck a match and held it to my cigarette.
“Thanks,” I said, blowing out the flare with my first exhalation. I sipped the amber-colored brew and my mouth, tongue, and teeth hummed “Ode to Joy.” On a hot summer day, a sip of cold, crisp beer is close to a holy experience for me.
“Haven’t seen you in here before,” he said.
I shrugged. “Mostly I’ve been in at night.”
“Ah.” Sensing I wasn’t in the mood for conversation, he busied himself, arranging liquor bottles, removing empties and lining them up on the far side of the bar. Breaking open the stacked cases of bottled beer and loading the individual bottles back into the glass coolers.
I stole a quick glance around. Kind of unnatural with no shitty music blasting or people getting drunk and acting like total jackasses.
With nothing else to do except enjoy my beer, I watched the bartender, namely the bloody dagger inked on his forearm. Since Martinez and Harvey had the same tattoo, I figured it must be a Hombres thing.
He got close enough that I didn’t have to shout over clanking bottles. Casually, I said, “Martinez around today?”
Any pretense of his earlier friendliness fled. “Depends on who’s asking.”
“Me.”
“And you’d be?”
I crushed out my cigarette. “Julie Collins.”
His eyes took on a harder edge. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“Yeah, I know.” I braved a smile. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Harvey don’t need anyone to tell him. He knows every little thing that goes on in this bar.”
“Is he here?”
As an answer, he picked up a phone and dialed. Angrily. Fixed his evil eye on me as he listened to the person on the other end of the receiver.
&nbs
p; I wasn’t surprised he’d reported a Julie Collins sighting. I’d actually expected my butt to meet the pavement much sooner than this.
“Mr. Martinez wants you to meet him in his private office.”
More time in close quarters with Martinez? Not wise. I needed to keep this relationship professional, though I wondered if I was the only one deluding myself about the status of that relationship.
I shook my head. “Tell Martinez if he wants to talk to me I’ll be sitting right here, finishing my very tasty beer.”
The bartender seemed reluctant to relay the message but he did so anyway.
“He’ll be right out,” he said, and dumped my spent cigarette butt. “Get you anything else?”
“Just your name. You know, so when Harvey kicks my ass I can tell him I tricked you into serving me. At least you’ll be in the clear.”
He grinned and it was a beautiful thing. Obviously he wasn’t a former hockey player; his perfect smile rivaled Martinez’s. “Name’s Big Mike.”
Oh. I’d heard the name before. No wonder he was so lousy at tending bar; he wasn’t a bartender at all, but one of Martinez’s bodyguards.
I held out my hand. “Nice to meetcha, Big Mike.”
“Same here.”
Big Mike yanked his back like I’d shocked him with a joy-buzzer.
When Martinez sidled in behind me I knew why.
“Ms. Collins. Haven’t you been warned about trying to charm my bartenders into serving you?”
Glad to see he was capable of lazy amusement after what we’d seen yesterday. “Big Mike here doesn’t count, seeing that he’s a bodyguard, not a bartender.”
“Smart girl.”
I rolled my eyes at the “girl” comment.
He purposely layered his body against mine as he leaned over and instructed Mike. “Bring us a pitcher of whatever she’s drinking and two glasses. We’ll be in the back. Hold my calls.”
“Yes, sir.”
I gathered my stuff, leaving the money for a tip.
When Martinez took my elbow, I didn’t respond with a forearm strike, as I had with Reggie.
He directed me to the first of two circular booths where the bars separated, where it was really dark.
I slid in. He slid in next to me. Right next to me. A bar napkin wouldn’t have fit between us.
Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2) Page 21