by Kris Calvert
Outside Jackson House, I waited for Tristan. It was already after three—our meeting was for three-thirty. After beating the shit out of Vito and finding the confession and map, I needed to get out for a bit—do some business. If I was going to figure the mystery out, I needed to think like Kostas. I needed to act like him. And that’s exactly what I had planned this afternoon.
“Sir?” I turned and found Bea Winters. Now dressed in her own clothes, she had Polly’s black dress, shoes and a hat box in tow. “I wanted to return these.”
“You can take them inside. Dinah will take care of it.”
She paused. “Okay.”
“Nice work today, Bea, taking down Vito.”
“Just doing my job, sir.”
I squinted at her in the afternoon sunlight. “You did it well. Thank you.”
She nodded and walked away, finding her way into the back door of the house. I zipped up my leather jacket and donned my aviator sunglasses. I could hear Tristan’s Harley coming in the back entrance before I saw him. I would wait until he turned off his bike to tell him he was on my shit list for making me wait.
Bea walked out the back door empty handed and I made the assumption she’d found Dinah. Her pace slowed down the stairs as she watched Tristan ride in, sans helmet. She paused on the steps and I couldn’t decide if she was avoiding him, or trying to catch a moment with him. Neither of them seemed to be the flirtatious type.
“You’re late,” I murmured, pointing to Tristan.
“Fuck off.”
“Nice. Where’s your damn helmet? What do you want to be? An organ donor?”
Tristan furrowed his brow, taking his gaze from Bea to glare at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Wear the helmet, Agent Bleu,” Bea said. “It would be a shame to mess up that pretty face of yours.”
I one-kicked my Harley, revving the engine. Shutting the face shield on my own helmet, I watched as Tristan put his on, all the while watching Bea walk back to the guest house.
I pointed to him and gave a nod to Maestro, now on guard duty at the back gate to open up and let us out. My golden toothed dealer in the titty bar had come through for me.
Tristan followed me all the way into the French Quarter. This time we weren’t going to a seedy dive, but a luxury hotel. It was time to meet the Big Man—Tommaso Falconi—and get one step closer to getting rid of the Balivino boys for good.
23
LEO
Tristan and I weren’t the usual guests at the Windsor Court Hotel on Gravier Street, mere steps from the French Quarter. When we roared into the valet area, the boys directed us to a tight corner where we could park the Harleys ourselves.
Leaving our helmets on the backs of the bikes, I did a quick sweep of the area. The courtyard of the hotel had a statue of St. George the dragon slayer and was rife with expensive cars and bellhops waiting to take care of the simplest need. I slipped the valet a hundred dollar bill as Tristan and I took the steps into the main lobby. The smell of fresh flowers filled the air. The hotel was known for its collection of paintings. I knew it as an old party pad from my days as a single man. As I never took a woman to Jackson House for sex, Windsor Court was my chosen place to tryst back in the day. It was easy to leave after the deed was done. I’d even arrange for breakfast the next morning and a car to take my date wherever she needed to go, but I never stayed. I never did anything until I met Polly.
Just the thought of my old life sent a chill of remorse through my body. Now that I had the love of a good woman, I couldn’t imagine what I was ever thinking. I paused, looking around the high ceilings and marble that set the hotel apart from other expensive chains and caught Tristan looking too. Then I remembered. Sex. That’s what I was thinking. The same thing on most healthy men’s minds twenty-four seven. It was a driving need and I quenched my thirst for it whenever I could.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. The Windsor wasn’t his type of place—at all.
“Seventh floor,” I said, nodding to the elevators on our left.
A crowd gathered around us as we waited. Women in Chanel suits with their well-groomed and aging husbands spoke to each other but steered clear of the two men with long hair in motorcycle boots and leather jackets.
When we stepped on the elevator, the well-dressed and well-heeled separated themselves from Tristan and me, sneaking judgmental looks our way. Tristan glanced at them. “Everyone having a nice day?”
No one answered. “Teniendo un buen dìa? No? Einen schönen tag haben? Hmmm…Ti auguro una buona giornata?” The group stood dumbfounded. I knew Tristan had traveled the world and spoke several languages—a fact the snobby crowd on the elevator wasn’t privy to. We exited on the seventh floor. Tristan turned as the doors shut. “Zàijiàn.”
Alone, I glared at him. “I know you could buy and sell all their asses, but really?”
“Sorry. I can’t stand judgmental pricks. Reminds me too much of my childhood.”
“Clearly. I will say the Chinese at the end was a nice touch.”
“Thanks.”
We followed the signs to room 707, a suite that took up the east end of the floor. I knocked twice and looked to Tristan. He gave me a reassuring nod.
“Yes?” A dark haired beauty opened the door. Wearing a tight white dress that clung to all her curves, she casually hung her arm on the edge of the frame as if she didn’t have time for us. She was young, but not too young.
“I’m Z. I have an appointment with Mr. Falconi.”
She stepped away from the door and ticked her head, motioning us to enter. The door closed and two mammoth bodyguards stepped out of the shadow. We put our hands in the air. Wise guys like Tommaso Falconi didn’t take chances. The bodyguard patted me down thoroughly, across my chest and around my legs and junk, then moved on to Tristan. We weren’t carrying weapons. Not today.
“They’re clean,” one said to the other.
The girl had disappeared down the long hallway but peeked around the corner to motion us in farther. “C’mon. He’s waiting for you.”
Tristan and I followed the curve of the hallway into an opulent sitting room. In the corner on a gold couch sat Big Man, Tommaso Falconi. In his early seventies, he wore an expensive suit and smelled of heady aftershave. Completely grey, he had eyes as black as night—the dark eyes of a ruthless killer. Notorious for his drug trading, he was best known for killing off his own family members when they screwed up. He wasn’t a man to be trifled with. If he even suspected Tristan was undercover FBI, we’d both be dead. Falconi was infamous for forcing his victims off the top of tall buildings. Assisted suicide was Big Man’s weapon of choice.
“Sit.”
“Mr. Falconi.” I offered him my hand first. “I’m Z.”
“So you’re the punk who bought ten twenty grand of heroin from that idiot, LaFleur.”
I thought of my golden-toothed friend who’d made this all possible. “Yes, sir.”
“You got your smack. What do you want? I’m a very busy man.”
I stood to pace the room. Falconi’s men bristled at my movement. “Do you mind if I stand? I think better when I’m on my feet.”
Falconi gestured to his bodyguards in approval, holding up a single finger.
“Mr. Falconi, I don’t know if you know who I am.”
“Leonidas Xanthus. Grandson of Kostas. Son of Demetri.”
Unease stiffened my spine. What if he took the meeting with the intent to kill me? Me and Tristan both? I hid my angst with a shallow breath and moved on. “I see you’ve done your homework.”
“I knew Kostas well. I also knew your mother, God rest her soul.”
I couldn’t hide the shock on my face. “You knew my mother? Sophia?”
He looked me up and down. The tough guy routine faded away. “You have her eyes.”
No one had ever told me I had my mother’s eyes—no one except my mother. I was taken aback and it showed.
Falconi cleared his throat, settling back into his original coc
ky demeanor. “I didn’t care so much for your father.”
My mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “That makes two of us.”
Falconi blinked slowly, deliberately. His reserved mien only made me more uneasy. “What is it you want?”
“I want to give you New Orleans, sir.”
Falconi’s brows rose, questioning my statement.
“Currently there are two major players in the drug trade in New Orleans. You clearly hold the majority of the dealers in your pocket.”
“Why are you bothering me with details I already know, young Xanthus?”
I stopped pacing and stared him in the face. “Because respectfully Mr. Falconi, what you don’t have is free reign of the city. Alphonso Balivino, Jr.—”
“A man loyal to your father.” Falconi cut me off.
“True,” I agreed. “But not to me. Balivino has taken to the drug trade in addition to extortion. You see sir, the Marcello family is all but gone. They were Balivinos’ lifeblood. Now he’s turning his eye to dealers and junkies. Your dealers and junkies, sir.”
Falconi sat back into the couch with a heavy sigh. “This means nothing to me.”
“Balivino has many of the New Orleans police officers on the payroll—including the Chief of Police, Foster Norwood.”
Falconi stroked his slick, grey hair from his forehead to the nape of his neck.
“These aren’t grass-eaters, Mr. Falconi. They’re being paid outright by Balivino to protect the dealers and their locations. Chief Norwood is taking the biggest chunk of change.”
Falconi stared at me, then looked to Tristan. “You think I don’t know this already? I got the Feds breathing down my neck and this small time fuckwad is fucking me over.”
Falconi was calm—like the sea just before the hurricane hits and destroys everything.
I took the computer printout from my pocket, unfolded it and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. “These are the locations and the names of the officers on the take. Their plan is to turn you over to the Feds, arrest your men and get you the hell out of New Orleans.”
With a slow and lazy blink of his eyes, Falconi leaned into the coffee table and looked at the list. “Where did you get these names?”
Tristan and I looked at each other. “A young police officer gave his life getting that information to me. I’d like to put it to good use, sir.”
Setting back on the couch, Falconi crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”
“If you can put the squeeze on the officers and the dealers at these locations, I can feed the information to the right people.”
“Right people?” His eyes tightened, revealing years of wrinkles.
“The good cops, the clean ones. They’ll arrest the cops on the take—that is, if the Chief is out of the picture. The Balvinos’ pipeline from Mexico will dry up the moment they don’t have the cash to buy the goods.”
“And how do I know you’re not going to turn me over to the Feds and these good cops you speak of?”
“Omertà.” The word rolled across my tongue as if I used it every day. I was sworn to a mafia code of honor, a code of silence. Literally meaning manhood, it was my promise to the family to maintain absolute silence when questioned by law enforcement. If Falconi knew anything about me, he knew I was FBI. He knew I’d worked both sides of the trade.
Falconi said nothing, but picked up the paper for the first time and took a good hard look.
“What’s in it for you? How do I know you’re not trying to set me up in order to give your old friends the inside track in New Orleans?”
I sat, leaning into the conversation and narrowed my gaze. “I left town two years ago, Mr. Falconi. The Balivinos thought I was dead. It was my only way out at the time. But they’re desperate for cash. So desperate they were willing to fuck with the wrong people.”
“And who might that be?”
I stared his dark, murderous eyes down. “Me.”
Falconi scratched his chin, making a wry face. “You want nothing? No money No action?”
“I want the Balivinos gone. Forever.”
“And you trust me to do that?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
A wicked grin erupted, covering Falconi’s face. A hot flush spread across mine. He stood and shook my hand. There was no turning back.
24
POLLY
I peeked into the room before opening the door completely. Inside, the nurse stood over Oscar, an iPad in her hand.
“How is he?” I asked, moving closer.
“He’s doing well—all things considered. I worried the move would be too much for him but every time I count him out, he rallies like a champion.”
I smiled down at Oscar and took his hand in mine.
“Honestly, as old as he is, I can’t believe he’s made it this far.”
I ran the back of my hand across his forehead. “You don’t know Oscar.”
Breathing on his own, he no longer needed the ventilator, although I could see the machine in the corner of the room. The makeshift hospital was now in Oscar’s suite at Jackson House. I only hoped it would give him the strength to get well. He had a resurrection to make when this was all over.
“Has he been awake at all?” I asked.
“We sedated him for the move this morning,” the nurse explained. “He’s been in and out all day. The pain is still severe.”
“And the blood clot?”
“The medication we gave him has dissolved most of it, but he’s not out of the woods yet.”
“And Dr. Atwood?”
She looked around the room and seemed surprised he wasn’t there. “I think he went to get something to eat. Another nurse will be here soon to relieve me. I understand Dr. Atwood is staying?”
I nodded. Leo was paying him handsomely to provide around the clock care to Oscar. A bed had been brought in for Atwood while staying at Jackson House. The nurses were on twelve hour shifts between the two of them. They were also making a pretty penny. Leo didn’t care. I didn’t care. Oscar was worth more than anything to us. He was our family.
Leaning down, I kissed his hand and saw my ring sparkle in the light of the bedside lamp. There was so much I wanted to say to Oscar. So much I wanted to ask him. “Will you call me if he wakes up? Even for a moment. I’ll be here in the house,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Always stuck in the house.”
She nodded. “Sure. I’ll make sure we find you if he wakes up. But don’t get your hopes up. It might be a few days. He’s had a rough go of it.”
My lips thinned at her words. “I understand.”
Closing the door behind me, I went back to my bedroom. Leo had to go on an errand with Tristan. What that meant, I had no idea. The fact he didn’t tell me anything only meant that it was probably a really bad idea I would’ve tried to talk him out of.
Taking a seat in the sitting room, I opened one set of French doors and felt the warm afternoon blow in. I closed my eyes, allowing the breeze to wash over me. With a deep breath, I calmed the crazy in my head and took inventory of our life—our future. Being at Jackson House, even with the security team around and the mob trying to kill us all for the diamond on my finger, only made my desire to be at home in New Orleans for the rest of our lives even stronger.
Walking along the library of books on the far wall of the master suite, I stopped to look at the smattering of photographs, all in different and unique frames. The photos of Leo with Kostas were priceless. Leo was an adorable little boy who’d grown into a beautiful man—my beautiful man. I longed to live in the world where Leo and I could have children and not worry about something bad happening. I didn’t want to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life—especially if I had a baby on my hip.
I sat and stared at the mess Leo and I had made tearing the back off the Rembrandt to find the paper Kostas had left us. Sitting on Leo’s writing desk under a crystal paperweight, the wind lifted the edge of the parchment paper in a soft rh
ythm.
I picked up the pieces of black paper torn from the back of the frame and tossed them all in the wastebasket. Grabbing the parchment paper with the old pirate’s confession, I walked to the fireplace. Running my hands over the cold stone, I touched each angel, whispering the Bible verse aloud. “Then I looked and heard the voice of many angels, numbering thousands upon thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand.” I paused. Voice.
Going back over the seven angels, I looked for one different from the others—one with its mouth open. “Then I looked and heard the voice.” The seven angels were all different. Archangels, I knew there was one for every day of the week, but none had an open mouth or seemed to be voicing anything. I started over, working my way backwards. I wasn’t all that familiar with most of the archangels, only two. Michael and Gabriel. Stopping at each one, I looked for what set them apart from the others. It wasn’t much—until I got to the end. Michael was on the far left and carried a sword, but next to him was Gabriel. In Gabriel’s hand was a trumpet. “Gabe,” I said aloud. “You’re the only one capable of making a sound.”
I ran my hands along the smooth edges of Gabriel’s wings and body. I didn’t know what I expected to find staring into a slab of carved stone. One piece, there were no edges, no seams—although it was beautiful to look at.
I took a deep breath, dropping my hands to my side in defeat. I thought if I could find just one more clue. I agreed with Leo, the verse matching the mausoleum was a definite connection, but somehow I thought the two sets of seven angels would be linked.
The afternoon breeze turned chilly and I went back to the French doors to close them. A strong gust blew the parchment paper from my hand. I panicked. Quickly slamming the doors shut, I watched it float across the room, landing on the hearth.
“Good Lord, Polly,” I scolded myself aloud. “Pay attention.”