Onyx Webb: Book Three

by Diandra Archer

  “No shit?” Rocky said.

  Fat Sal made the sign of the cross. “On my mother’s grave.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Rocky said in disgust. “Next thing you’ll be telling me his tuxedo is a polyester blend or some shit.”

  Fat Sal shook his head and shoveled another forkful of food in his mouth. “Don’t know, never got to look at the label.”

  “Is that why you wear a tuxedo all the time?” Chuckie Bags asked. “You think wearing a monkey suit makes you 007?”

  “No, I wear a tuxedo to bring some class to the club,” Rocky said.

  “Class?” Phil said. “It’s a frickin’ strip club, Rocky.”

  “And a bowling alley,” Rocky said.

  “No one bowls anymore, Rocky,” Chuckie Bags said.

  “Not true,” Rocky said. “I brought a girl on to work the counter—smart, a real looker this one is. She’s got people coming in to bowl just so they can chat her up. Now, if I can just get Mary Ann to dance…”

  Phil stiffened. “Mary Ann? What does this chick look like?”

  “White girl, about five foot six,” Rocky said. “Strawberry blonde, green eyes. What, you know her?”

  Chuckie Bags let out a loud laugh. “Know her? Shit, Phil knows Mary Ann inside and out. Tell him, Phil.”

  Phil Spilatro glared at Chuckie Bags but said nothing.

  “Okay, I’ll tell him,” Chuckie Bags continued. “The stooge here knocked the chick up on a run to Milwaukee back when he first started. What are we talkin’—eight, ten years ago now?”

  “Chuckie,” Fat Sal said. “Maybe it’s best if you stay outta Phil’s business on this one.”

  Chuckie Bags nodded and went quiet.

  “Small world,” Rocky said. “I got an employee whose kids belong to Milwaukee Phil? That how you got the nickname Milwaukee? Knocking up underage girls north of the line.”

  “Kids?” Phil asked. “She’s got more than one?”

  “Yeah, two boys,” Rocky said. “Oldest one is nine or so. Other one’s maybe a year, but what do I know about kids?”

  Phil stood up and left the room.

  “What got into him?” Chuckie Bags asked.

  The timing definitely fit, Phil Spilatro thought as he worked his way up West Belmont toward Rocky’s Pins & Poles club.

  It had been eighteen months since Phil had run into Mary Ann at the Villa Venice, the night Declan Mulvaney beat the shit out of him in front of everyone for insulting her.

  Could the younger kid be Declan Mulvaney’s?

  Phil was pretty sure Declan was the guy who robbed Fat Sal. And if the younger kid was his, it was possible Mary Ann knew where the Irish prick was hiding.

  Phil pushed through the front door into the darkened club and heard the sound of bowling pins. Once he allowed his eyes to adjust he saw her, standing behind the counter with her back to him. Even from behind, Phil could tell it was her—girls like Mary Ann were hard to forget.

  Phil reached in his pocket and found his switchblade and made his way slowly toward the counter.

  Mary Ann finished placing the last of the bowling shoes into their small cubicles and turned around to find Phil standing directly in front of her.

  “Hey, sweetheart, remember me?” Phil asked.

  “What do you want?” Mary Ann asked.

  “I came to ask you a question,” Phil said as he pushed the button that released the blade and raised the knife. “And if you answer honestly, I might not cut that pretty face of yours, understand?”

  Mary Ann bobbed her head, eyes wide now as Phil pressed the sharp blade against her cheek.

  “Your oldest boy is mine, right?” Phil said.

  “You know he is,” Mary Ann said.

  “And the other kid, the younger one?” Phil said. “That one is Declan Mulvaney’s, right?”

  Mary Ann did not respond.

  Phil pressed the blade of the knife harder into Mary Ann’s cheek. She wasn’t sure if she should tell or not, but fear got the better of her and she nodded yes.

  “And Declan’s the guy who took Fat Sal’s money, right?”

  “Money?” Mary Ann whimpered.

  “Don’t play stupid, Mary Ann,” Phil sneered.

  “I don’t know anything—”

  “Hey!” a voice called out from behind. “Mary Ann, you okay? This guy bothering you?”

  Phil pulled the knife away from Mary Ann’s cheek. She hadn’t answered his question, but she didn’t need to.

  Phil could see it in her eyes.

  “No,” Tommy said for the third time. “Besides, Mary Ann didn’t say Declan did it.”

  “She didn’t have to,” Phil said. “It’s obvious. Mulvaney needed cash, Sal got hit, and now he’s in Orlando doing his deal.”

  “And you got all this from her eyes?” Tommy said.

  “Up yours, Bilazzo,” Phil said. “You know—”

  “Enough,” Fat Sal said. “I’m giving you a direct order, Tommy. Get your ass to Orlando and take care of it.”

  “And when you do it, tell him I said hello,” Phil said. “And drop his ass in the swamp for the crocodiles to rip apart.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s alligators, Phil,” Chuckie Bags said.

  “What?”

  “In Florida,” Chuckie Bags replied.

  Fat Sal shook his head. “Alligators, crocodiles, I don’t give a shit. I want Declan Mulvaney dead.”

  “And if I refuse?” Tommy asked.

  “Then I gotta kill you, don’t I?” Fat Sal said.

  Tommy could see there was no way to argue his way out of the situation. It was three to one, and they were right. He had vouched for Declan, and the problem was ultimately his to fix.

  “Fine,” Tommy said. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Fat Sal said. “And after you shoot the son of a bitch, get a hacksaw and cut him in half.”

  “Good idea, Sal,” Chuckie Bags said.

  “You want me to cut him in half?” Tommy said.

  “You heard me,” Fat Sal said. “And take photos so I know he’s really dead.”

  “Twenty years I been with you and suddenly my word ain’t good enough?” Tommy said.

  “Of course it is, Tommy,” Fat Sal said. “But do me a favor and cut him in half anyway.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Charleston, South Carolina

  July 31, 2010

  According to Forbes magazine, Declan Mulvaney was the world’s 212th richest person with a net worth of $4 billion, just below Richard Branson on their annual list.

  In truth, the number Forbes used was inflated by at least $1 billion due to recent downturns in the value of real estate that had yet to be re-calculated.

  But whatever. A billion here, a billion there.

  What no one really understood—including the people at Forbes—was that Declan’s true wealth was not in the land he owned nor in a bank vault in Switzerland. His real wealth came in the form of two things: information and relationships.

  Information was the currency of the wealthy, from the Rothschilds to the Vanderbilts to the Carnegies.

  As the legend went, Nathan Rothschild built his wealth by gaining both political and financial information ahead of his competitors. In one amazing stroke of brilliance, Rothschild used carrier pigeons to bring back information with news of Wellington’s victory over Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo before anyone else in London.

  And then there were the relationships.

  Declan had often quipped that if he were robbed at gunpoint, he’d tell the thief to take his money—just don’t take his Rolodex. It wasn’t a joke. The money could be replaced. The Rolodex could not.

  Declan kept two separate Rolodex files in the office at his mansion in Charleston. The first contained the names and private phone numbers of some of the most powerful people in the world, each filed under the first letter of their last name.

  The second Rolodex was a collection of various professional service providers he’d
used over the years—lawyers, tax attorneys, accountants, limo services, and the like—each of which was organized under the type of service provided. For example, the cards for every limousine service Declan used when traveling were filed under the letter L.

  Declan turned the knob until he came to the P tab, where he had cards for all the private detectives he’d used over the years—a total of three.

  The first was a card for a man who had written a shoddy report the last time Declan used the man, so he pulled the card from the file and tossed it in the trash can next to his desk.

  The second card was for a man who did decent work, but who, Declan had learned, was a progressive liberal who bundled money for Obama in the last election. Seconds later, that card met with the same fate as the first.

  The third card was for a man named John Boyd, a retired police detective-turned-private eye Declan had used to identify the Disney executive responsible for overseeing land acquisition for the new theme park in Orlando. Without that information, Declan had no idea where he’d be today. Not on Forbes’s “World’s Billionaires” list. That was for sure.

  That had been almost fifty years ago, and Boyd had to have been in his early fifties at the time. Not only was John Boyd out of the private eye game, but he almost certainly was dead.

  For the heck of it, Declan dialed the number on the card—curious to see if the number was still good and who might answer.

  On the third ring a man answered. “This is John Boyd.”

  Declan was so caught off guard that it took a few seconds to find words to say. “Yes, my name is Declan Mulvaney. Many years ago, I hired a John Boyd who—”

  “John Boyd was my grandfather,” the man said. “I get tired of saying ‘the third’ every time I answer the phone, so I leave it off. How can I help you, Mr. Mulvaney?”

  Declan released a little laugh, embarrassed at his reaction. “Actually, it’s my grandson, Koda, who needs assistance in a delicate matter. Your grandfather was extremely trustworthy, and I was hoping it might run in the family.”

  “Can you tell me the nature of the task?” Boyd said.

  “That’s the reason this is a delicate matter,” Declan said. “He needs help identifying someone who is most certainly dead.”

  “As much as I would like the business, I think a forensic pathologist would be more appropriate,” Boyd said. “If you’d like I could refer you—”

  “The situation is difficult to explain, especially over the telephone, Mr. Boyd. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to meet with my grandson and allow him to explain everything in more detail? I’d gladly pay whatever fee you deem appropriate.”

  After a long silence, Boyd said, “Of course. I charge $250 per hour plus expenses. The first consultation will be free, unless I believe I can be of service. Is that acceptable?”

  “Yes, quite,” Declan said.

  “Very well,” Boyd said. “Hang on while I grab a pen.”

  Other than the size of the fee, the arrangement with John Boyd III was exactly the same as it had been with his grandfather. And though a lot of water had gone under the bridge, Declan could have sworn the voice on the phone was exactly the same as he remembered it fifty years earlier.

  The meeting between Koda and John Boyd took place at Koda’s penthouse apartment in the 55 West building that same evening.

  Did Boyd understand the delicate nature of the situation?

  Yes.

  Was there any chance the media would find out Koda was the person who’d hired him?

  No.

  Did Boyd think he could identify the girl with the little bit of information he had to go on?

  Maybe.

  How long would it take?

  Less than a week.

  “That fast?” Koda said.

  “Within seven days I’ll either have the girl’s name, or I’ll report back that no such person exists,” Boyd said.

  Boyd handed his business card to Koda. “This is my private number. If you think of anything that might be helpful, anything at all, feel free to call.”

  “John ‘Stormy’ Boyd,” Koda said, reading the card aloud. “Old School Detective Services for the Modern Era. I imagine there’s a story behind the nickname?”

  “Yes,” Boyd said. “I was born in a storm cellar during a tornado, and, well, the name just sort of stuck.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Crimson Cove, Oregon

  December 29, 1937

  Hell Daniels’s real first name was Clayton, but most everyone had taken to calling him Hell due to his habit of using the word hell in virtually every sentence he spoke.

  “Hell,” Hell Daniels said to the district attorney, “you know the media is going to have a field day with this.”

  If the DA was being brutally honest and showed his cards, he’d have to admit how thrilled he was to have a crime of such magnitude happen within his jurisdiction. Instead, he played his cards close to the vest.

  “Jeez, Sheriff, I wish I could just stand back and let this go,” the DA said, unable to hide the gleam in his eye. “But I’ve got to charge her with something. The people demand it.”

  Sheriff Hell Daniels went quiet, kicking at the floor as if he were trying to get gum off the bottom of his shoe, deep in thought.

  Hell Daniels had been the first to arrive on the scene, making his way through the pouring rain to the half-burned caretaker’s house where he found Onyx Webb, severely burned and lying unconscious on the bathroom floor. Pacing in the hallway nearby was Claudia Spilatro—daughter of Las Vegas mobster Faustino Spilatro, who owned a summer home in the cove—half out of her mind, crying, and screaming.

  Hell did not trust Claudia and had serious doubts about her story.

  “I understand, but murder?” Hell said finally. “A trial like that is bound to cause one hell of a ruckus in a small town like Crimson Cove.”

  “Crime of this magnitude can’t be ignored. Besides, I already interviewed Claudia, and I have to say she’s damn convincing. Says Onyx Webb murdered Ulrich in cold blood.”

  “Hell, I’ve known Claudia Spilatro since she was first learning to walk,” Hell said. “Piece of work, that Claudia. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I can throw her. Hell, the whole Spilatro clan is connected.”

  “All I know is Claudia’s willing to swear under oath that she went out to the lighthouse to check on Ulrich and suddenly found herself at a German weenie roast—my words, not hers. Also, she’s got proof of her affair with Ulrich.”

  “Proof?” Hell asked. “What kind of proof?”

  “She’s got a child by the man,” the DA said.

  “Oh, hell, you know that doesn’t mean—”

  “She’s willing to take a blood test,” the DA said. “Think about it, Hell. Attractive young woman left to bring a kid up on her own, only to watch the man she loves burned up before her very eyes. Makes her a pretty sympathetic witness.”

  “Sounds like you’ve already got Onyx Webb convicted,” Hell said. “You at all in the hell interested in knowing if any of what Claudia’s saying is the truth?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the DA said. “If the Spilatro’s are connected like you say, no jury would dare go against Claudia, which makes Onyx guilty of murder whether she is or not. And between you and me, I sure could use the conviction, Sheriff.”

  Hell Daniels knew the DA was right.

  Onyx had clearly killed Ulrich Schröder. The only question was whether it was murder or self-defense.

  A murder trial was going to take place in Crimson Cove.

  Oh, hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Orlando, Florida

  March 6, 1964

  Tommy had been in Orlando for three days and had gotten nowhere in his search for Declan. And if he did find him—what then? Could he really kill his best friend?

  That was a decision for a later time. First, he had to figure out where he was.

  Knowing only that Declan’s scheme involved land, Tommy figured
his best bet was to stake out the County Assessor’s Office, where land deeds and property tax records were kept.

  On the fifth day, his hunch paid off.

  Tommy spotted Declan walking into the building. Ninety minutes later, Declan emerged carrying a file folder stuffed with papers, got in a dark sedan, and drove off.

  Tommy followed Declan to the Arrow Motel on Orange Blossom Trail and watched him go in room twenty-seven. Now all Tommy had to do was wait for him to leave again.

  Declan woke a little after eight in the morning, threw on some clothes, and walked three blocks down Orange Blossom Trail to the small diner he’d eaten in every morning for over a year. After placing his regular order—three eggs over easy, crispy bacon, a side of hash browns, and a half pot of coffee, black—Declan began studying the land records he’d gotten copied the day before.

  It was tedious work, but it had to be done.

  Two hours later, Declan returned to his room. But when he slid his key in the lock, he heard a loud click—and it wasn’t the lock. It was a gun.

  Pressed against the back of his head.

  “Don’t turn around,” a voice said from behind him. “Open the door and walk straight in. And no quick movements.”

  Declan did as told and entered the room. Once the door had closed behind him, Declan turned slowly around to find Tommy Bilazzo standing there with a .45 caliber Smith and Wesson in one hand, and a brown shopping bag hanging from the other hand.

  “Jeez, Tom, you had me scared shitless,” Declan said, releasing a long breath.

  “You should be scared,” Tommy said, his right arm still outstretched, the gun still pointed at Declan’s face. “You can’t steal money from The Outfit and think there won’t be hell to pay.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Declan said, trying to size up the situation. “What’s in the bag?”

  “It’s a saw,” Tommy said. “After I kill you, I gotta cut you in half and take a picture for Fat Sal to prove you’re dead.”