Violet Darger (Book 4): Bad Blood

by Vargus, L. T.

  But moving around incognito would be no problem for Vinny the Bull, at least as far as avoiding the attention of the public. With a jogging suit and sunglasses on, he sure didn’t look like any mob boss from the movies or TV. He came off like a random old man out for a run, practically invisible — one of those spark plug Jack LaLanne types, obsessed with health and exercise, probably juicing fruits and vegetables for all of his meals or some damn thing.

  Even without the workout gear, Vinny had never really looked the part of a gangster. He lacked the proud posture, shoulders slightly stooped, and he was utterly without that intensity, that underlying aggression so many mobsters seemed to exude out of every pore. Instead, Vinny smiled a lot, wore thick glasses over his soft eyes. He sported a big barrel chest that somehow made him look 60 by the time he was 28 and made him look around 90 now that he was actually 66. He looked a little goofy, if Jaworski was being honest. More grandpa than gangster.

  He’d been one of the best earners in family history, though, and not just on the criminal side of the operation. He had a nose for good opportunities, was shrewd in both investing and negotiating — a good enough businessman to make their dealings mostly legit, even, reducing more and more of the risk that came with being a criminal enterprise. He could eventually turn them into a real business all the way, given the time and support to make it happen.

  Vinny exhaled, his breath blowing into the receiver for a second before he spoke.

  “The time is coming when I’ll need you to act, and that time is coming soon. You understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now the old man’s voice got smaller. He seemed farther away.

  “I hate to do it. Hate to turn on my own family, but…. It wasn’t my choice, was it? I never wanted it. They pushed it to this. He did.”

  Jaworski knew the old man spoke of his cousin, Rocco.

  “I know he did.”

  “Family used to mean something. There used to be rules we lived by. Your kin. Your flesh and blood. That was something to be respected under any circumstances. Something sacred. Killing your own kin just didn’t fuckin’ happen.”

  He coughed a little, sounding his age for a moment.

  “When the end comes in this line of work, you don’t see it coming. You remember that,” he said. “The police get the drop on you, or your own men turn on you, put you down. Turn out your lights when you least fucking it expect it. But not me. Three times they’ve come at me, and three times I’ve survived.”

  Jaworski knew what Vinny was alluding to — he’d spent two other stints in hiding due to spats in the past. Power struggles, assassination attempts, though these at least came from outside his blood family.

  This new case was different, though, whether Vinny wanted to admit it or not. Everyone was scared of Rocco. Under his thumb by way of intimidation.

  Hiding was probably only going to prolong the inevitable — that’s what Jaworski thought, at least, though he didn’t care to admit it.

  “Anyhow, I still have some friends. No matter what anyone says or thinks, there are people who will back me in this thing. You included.”

  Vinny had fewer allies than ever at this point, the Polish hitman Jaworski being a secret from most all of the others.

  “With you, they’ll never see it coming. That’s what I think. The punch that hurts the most is the one you never see, the one that blindsides you, gives your reflexes no chance to bob or weave or ready your neck muscles to absorb the blow, reduce it to a glancing shot.”

  When Vinny got to rambling like this, Jaworski let him talk. Now the old man grew silent for a few beats.

  “I’ll be in touch, my friend. It might not be long now. Not long at all. I don’t think I have a lot of time to set it right. The sharks are circling. Waiting for their chance to move in for the kill. They smell my blood in the water, but I’m not dead yet. I’m still breathing.”

  Vinny never said goodbye on the phone. Jaworski couldn’t decide if superstition lay behind that quirk or not. The old man had a way of leading all conversations to an obvious conclusion — a resounding note of finality — and whenever he arrived at that point, he simply hung up.

  Of course, the head of the Battaglia crime family had no clue that his Polish hitman compatriot was the reason he was in hiding, the reason his life was in danger. The body in the vacant building — that of Angelo Battaglia, Rocco’s father? That was Jaworski’s handiwork as well — the unsanctioned murder of a made guy. It hadn’t been Vinny’s idea, no power play like Rocco thought.

  Like all things that got Jaworski in trouble, the murder wasn’t business. It was personal.

  Chapter 29

  Urszula Jorgensen’s parents lived in a gated community on the outskirts of Bloomfield Hills, one of the richest suburbs of Detroit. The median income here checked in at just over $170,000, compared to the sub $27,000 median in the city of Detroit. This difference showed in the architecture, especially inside the gates.

  The houses out here sported columns, spires, and ornate dentilation along the eaves. They sat far back from the street, huge lawns separating them from the rest of the world, expanses of green so flat and broad, you could have fit a football field in front of each house.

  Jaworski slowed to read house numbers on mailboxes, creeping his way toward his destination.

  And then he found it. His eyes scanned over the front yard, ornate flower beds breaking up the green. At last, he looked upon the hulking structure in the distance.

  The pale bricks stacked in striking ways Jaworski had never seen before. The large L-shaped structure featured two turrets framing the three cupped arches hanging above the front door, a glut of architectural details Jaworski had no words for. Three spires jutted out of the roof — two large and one small — and an immense brick chimney joined the trio of peaks.

  A fountain burbled in the decorative front courtyard lined with pea stone, perhaps a small statue standing in front of it, but he couldn’t be certain from this distance.

  A mansion. Anette and Jonas Jorgensen’s house was a mansion befitting a movie star. To call it anything shy of that would be offensive to movie stars.

  Jaworski pulled into the driveway, the black strip of asphalt that snaked a curving path through that field of perfect sod. He parked alongside the garage and killed the ignition. But he didn’t get out of the car.

  He’d been invited here for lunch, dining with his girlfriend’s parents for just the second time. This was his first visit to their home. Just driving through the neighborhood Jaworski felt out of place. A kind of discomfort he didn’t know how to describe, even to himself.

  He dealt with mafia millionaires on a regular basis. The boss and underboss both probably had seven figures in cash spread around in various stash-spots on their property, let alone their other assets. But, as a rule, the mafia guys maintained a blue-collar honesty and forthrightness no matter how much wealth they acquired, about themselves and about everything else around them. They spoke their minds, voiced both praise and criticism at full volume and really meant what they said. He always knew where he stood with them, could look into their eyes and read them.

  The other wealthy types he’d dealt with seemed to come from a different planet. They varnished everything in their lives with a veneer of politeness. Civility. A sheen, a layer of absolute cleanliness on the surface of all things, both physical and mental. They spouted praise with such gushing force it became impossible to differentiate the false from the real. Sometimes he thought that even they didn’t know what they really thought after a while, believing half their own lies at least.

  Funny how it all worked, he thought. He felt at home among the ruthless world of the mafia, knew to protect himself at all times, to use aggression and a quick wit to get what he wanted, knew that in the world of organized crime, his skills had tangible value.

  Polite society knocked these supports out from under him, tumbled him into confusion, into all that insecurity he’d felt as
a child. It made him feel dirty and poor. Made him feel worthless.

  It took a concentrated effort to bring his hand to the door handle and force himself out of the car, but he did it. Stood. Stretched his arms and back.

  He walked up to the house.

  Chapter 30

  The sky was still a murky gray, but the rain had stopped. They’d followed Jaworski all the way through the city proper, past the towering buildings downtown, through the industrial ruins, out into the suburbs, finally reaching their destination in the form of a mansion in Bloomfield Hills.

  The house was an immense brick affair with spires, columns, and a wide lawn with a fountain. It was all a little over the top, Darger thought, but she’d seen it done with less taste.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Jaworski climbed out of his car. Closing the door, he paused for a moment and stared back down into the vehicle. He yanked at his jacket and twitched his shoulders a few times. Darger realized he was checking himself out in the reflection of the window. He looked like a nervous teenager getting ready for a date, and that did not fit the stone-cold killer archetype she’d fit him in.

  He hoofed it up the paved path around a weeping cherry tree, hopped up the steps of the covered porch, and knocked. Neither she nor Luck uttered a word as they waited for the door to open. When it finally did, Darger leaned closer to the windshield, squinting with all her might, but it was no use. The particular angle they were at, combined with Jaworski’s enormity, blocked any view of the person answering the door.

  If it was Vinny Battaglia’s hideout — a long shot, she knew — he probably wasn’t answering the door himself. That seemed like Hiding Out 101.

  Hiding Out 101 also probably included something about going low-key, which this mansion was certainly not, and staying somewhere that wasn’t in your own name, but Darger got out her phone and searched the address anyway. Maybe she’d be able to find some kind of connection.

  The address brought up the names Jonas and Anette Jorgensen.

  Definitely not Italian, though Jaworski wasn’t either. So there could still be some connection to Vinny Battaglia. Maybe.

  She Googled the Jorgensens and found that he was a surgeon, and she was a playwright. In her searching, she also found they had a daughter — a graduate student at the University of Michigan named Urszula.

  On a whim, Darger checked the family out on Facebook. It was shocking the things some people posted on their public profiles for the world to see. She scanned through the daughter’s photos when a familiar face caught her eye.

  “Hey,” she said, angling her phone in Luck’s direction. “Take a look at this.”

  The picture showed Dominik Jaworski with his arm wrapped tightly around Urszula’s waist.

  “Huh,” Luck murmured, staring at the screen. Then he added, “Could just be… I don’t know… friends.”

  Darger swiped to the next photo. This snapshot also featured Jaworski and Urszula, but this time, the young woman was on his lap, arms strung loosely around his neck, and they were kissing.

  “That settles that,” Luck said, eyebrows raised. “But geez. He’s got close to ten years on her. I mean, she’s gotta be what, 22? 23?”

  Darger nodded in agreement.

  “You think they know?” Luck asked.

  “About Jaworski’s mob ties? I doubt the family does. As for the daughter… she might be young enough that it seems kind of dangerous and sexy that he’s ‘connected.’ But I doubt she has a clue what he really does. The violence he’s capable of.”

  Luck was staring at her.

  “What?”

  “Is that really how women think? That being mobbed up is dangerous and sexy?”

  She scoffed.

  “I don’t. But come on. Of course some women do. And don’t pretend that there aren’t men who romanticize it just as much. Ask a group of adult men to name their favorite movies, and I’d bet a decent number of them say at least one of the following: The Godfather, Goodfellas, Casino,” she said, listing them off on her fingers.

  He sighed.

  “I guess you’re right. But thinking about my own daughter being taken in by someone like that just… freaks me out.”

  “It should. Especially since you’re law enforcement.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Kids have to rebel somehow. What’s the best way to do that when daddy’s a cop? Or a cop-turned-FBI-agent. Date a criminal.”

  Luck had the look again.

  “That’s not funny.”

  Darger smiled. “I’m just teasing you. Relax.”

  He continued watching her.

  “No. I don’t think you are. There’s some truth there, isn’t there?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. My family wasn’t the typical case, so it’s hard for me to say.”

  Sensing that she hadn’t entirely eased his doubts, Darger patted his arm.

  “Honestly, I doubt you have much to worry about. She seems like a well-adjusted kid to me. Be straight and fair and above all, let her know she’s loved, and she’ll be fine. If you’re lucky, she’ll end up dating a cop.”

  Luck laughed.

  “I don’t know if I like that scenario any better.”

  Chapter 31

  Compared to the garish mafia mansions Jaworski had spent time in, the interior of the Jorgensen home came off as downright plain. No gold accents. No marble floors. No prominently displayed hot tubs. He’d stepped into a luxury home — the vaulted ceilings and chandelier in the foyer left no doubt about that — but it somehow still seemed…. Jaworski sought after the proper word. Tasteful. It still seemed tasteful.

  Anette Jorgensen served a lunch of seared scallops with chanterelle mushrooms and a micro-green salad. Delicious. The elaborate plating looked like modern art, a level of cuisine Jaworski was only familiar with through watching a few episodes of Top Chef. The whole spread impressed, although Jaworski was fairly certain that a kitchen staff of some type had prepared the actual food, even if Anette had taken the credit.

  Finished with their meal, the four of them sat at the dining room table a while talking and drinking coffee. Jaworski didn’t chime in much other than to laugh or nod or shake his head when appropriate. The others seemed accepting of this level of interaction, all smiles and chuckles, and he was thankful for that. They’d invited a quiet man into their home, and they seemed OK with that.

  He felt like an outsider, but not an unwelcome one for once. He’d been invited into a world totally foreign to his own, and now he observed the upper-class species in its natural habitat. Watching the parents interact with their child fascinated Jaworski in particular.

  “How’s that thesis going?” Jonas asked, eying Urszula. “You give any thought to adding another undergraduate degree like we talked about? A real degree?”

  Jonas Jorgensen’s gray eyes seemed to perpetually express intensity. Jaworski felt the urge to look away when he made eye contact with the man, a panicky urge he hadn’t experienced since childhood. The head of the Jorgensen household managed to be imposing despite his scrawny frame. Between his narrow shoulders, oversized glasses and fussy beard, Jonas could have passed for a 30-something hipster, albeit one who had gone gray a little early.

  “The thesis goes slow and steady, as it should,” Urszula said between sips of coffee. “And English is a real degree, dad.”

  “Oh, I agree in the sense that schools continue to give out English degrees, and I’m sure they’re quite happy to collect your tuition. But what does one do with an MFA in English? You go to medical school, you learn anatomy, medicine, techniques used to save people’s lives. You go to graduate school for English, and you learn to what? Advanced use of the semicolon?”

  “You know there are other pursuits in life, right? Entire fields of work beyond medicine. The world doesn’t need 300 million surgeons, does it?”

  The smile fell out of Jonas’s eyes so hard that his face took on a grim, almost sociopathic expression not u
nlike that of Vladimir Putin. He gestured with the spoon he’d used to stir the cream into his coffee, ready to unload.

  Anette interrupted, a curious smirk on her lip. The mother, too, could pass for younger than her age — rail thin with cat eye frames perched on her bony nose.

  “Why don’t we have dessert?” she said.

  Jonas nodded, lowered his raised spoon, ready to give up the fight.

  The whole room seemed to take a breath as the mother rose from her seat. Even as she stood, her lips remained quirked like she was getting away with something. She headed for the kitchen.

  Part of Jaworski was thankful for her change of subject, thankful to see the fight broken up, but another part had found the father-daughter struggle endearing. His family had never really fought in that lighthearted-debate way, opting for hurled insults that quickly gave way to hurled fists. The ultimately respectful bickering of the Jorgensens amused him. Another soft, sweet facet of suburban life, he figured.

  When Anette sauntered back into the room, her smirk had blossomed into a full-blown smile. She carried a birthday cake in her hands, flames flickering atop the candles.

  Her eyes locked onto Jaworski’s.

  “We put together a little surprise,” Anette said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Jaworski smiled, not quite certain what was happening here. He ticked his head as she seemed to be speaking to him, seemed to be seeking a response. It was someone’s birthday, it seemed.

  As she neared the table, the cake blocked his view of her arms. The dessert seemed to hover there before her, descending toward the wood surface like a UFO sinking low enough to brush the corn tassels, its tractor beam open wide.

  It wasn’t until the cake touched down that the reality of the situation struck him. It was his 34th birthday today. They had put this together for him.

  He was so focused on the cake that he didn’t realize Jonas had stood to close the shades and hit the lights, darkness falling over the dining room, closing around them some. In a house this large, it was somehow possible to achieve pitch blackness inside, Jaworski noted — the room suddenly felt cave-like beyond what had seemed possible.