Dina Santorelli

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Dina Santorelli Page 13

by Baby Grand


  "What the fuck!" Katherine said, bolting upright. "How did that asshole Harvey Levin get his hands on an Albany police report? Nurberg, that goddamn novice!"

  "It could have been anyone," Phillip said. He turned the monitor toward him. Charlotte's soft, kind blue eyes stared back at him.

  "Yes, you're right." Katherine was leaning on the table and running her fingernails up and down the wheelchair scratches. "People will sell nude photos of their mother for fifty dollars and virtual bragging rights."

  "But this isn't even Los Angeles?"

  "Oh, Phillip, please. You're a public figure, makes you fair game for any juicy story no matter the jurisdiction."

  The cell phone rang again. The caller ID said CNN.

  "Jesus, CNN is calling. Don't answer it. Where the hell is Maddox? Get him on the phone. Damn, now we need to get a statement together fast."

  Katherine was in the zone.

  "I thought we were going to stay quiet, like the detective said."

  "It's too late for that." The mansion phone rang. "Get Nurberg on the phone. We have a mole."

  Phillip agreed, but, for no particular reason, other than an increasingly small well of denial, or perhaps hope, he decided to play devil's advocate. "You don't know that, Katherine."

  "The hell I don't." Katherine was pacing up and down the length of the table and then stopped to survey the workers outside through the front window. Henry was chatting with Barry outside the guardhouse.

  "You were with Henry the whole time?" she asked. "During your drive?"

  Before Phillip could even think about a response, Katherine asked, "Did you use the phone at all? Was it in Henry's presence? Did Henry talk to anyone? Did he use his phone?"

  Phillip had seen Katherine like this many times before, her brain on overdrive, trying to connect the random dots of a giant puzzle. She wasn't particularly looking for answers to any of her questions, but liked having a witness to her mental checklist.

  Katherine focused back on the room, then on Phillip, and then on her laptop computer, which still showed the photo of Charlotte. She pulled the screen toward her and away from her husband. Beneath the photo and the Excel document, in a separate browser there were no fewer than six tabs displaying various search results for the name "Don Bailino." She closed them all and deleted the browsing history.

  "We have to remember that everything we do and say will be seen and heard by the people who have Charlotte," she said.

  The people who have Charlotte...

  Probably for the first time in his married life, Phillip Grand realized he was a step ahead of his wife. And he didn't like it. Not at all. Little did he know that, at that moment, his wife was thinking the very same thing.

  Chapter 28

  Rosalia had outdone herself: a western omelet, stuffed with green peppers, onions, and ham—served with home fries and buttered toast. On a normal day, a cup of coffee and a cigarette was as close as Reynaldo got to the five major food groups, and as worried as he was about his aunt, who looked as though she hadn't slept a wink, he had to admit that it was nice to have a home-cooked meal for a change.

  "Gracias, Tía," he said, as she refilled his glass with orange juice.

  "De nada, Reyito," she said, patting his head.

  The small television sitting on the kitchen counter was playing a rerun of Family Matters, Rosalia's favorite program next to The George Lopez Show, but she ignored it and began putting the dirty pots and pans into the sink for washing. Watching his aunt scoot about the kitchen, Reynaldo again thought of his mother, and that familiar lump lodged in his throat. As the water fell from the faucet into Rosalia's soapy sponge, he thought of his mother filling the sink so that he, as a boy, could take a bath.

  "Ay, Rey, that's yucky," his mother had told him once, when she caught him sucking the water out of the sponge. She had taken the sponge from his mouth and tapped him on the head with it. According to his mother, everything bad was yucky—her favorite American word. It would be twenty years in August that Reynaldo would never hear his mother utter that word again, twenty years since she had stood on the street corner across from Crain's Grocery, her hands filled with shopping bags, smiling, maybe even whistling, as witnesses later told police. She never saw the car that hit her. Reynaldo ran his fingers along his cheeks and chin and felt the prickliness of his uncut beard and the loose, sagging skin of his cheeks, which every day seemed to sag a little more.

  "I should go to work," Rosalia said, inching Reynaldo's plate closer to him and sitting down.

  "No, no, Aunt Ro." Reynaldo put his hand on hers. "They said to stay home. They will call you if they need you."

  "What if she is in the house? I know her hiding spots."

  "They searched the house. She isn't there."

  "Then where could she be?" A tear welled in the corner of Rosalia's eye until it got so fat that it fell onto the table. She wiped it with her finger. "Who wants to hurt a little baby?"

  "I don't know." Reynaldo squeezed his aunt's hand. He looked at the TV, his eyes squinting and then becoming very wide. "Dios mío!" he said.

  "Qué?" Rosalia asked, following Reynaldo's gaze.

  At the bottom of the television, in letters that raced across the screen, it read:

  "Breaking news: TMZ.com reports that Charlotte Grand, daughter of New York Governor Phillip Grand, has been missing for nearly twenty-four hours. An investigation is underway. We will keep you up to date on the latest events as we get them."

  The words kept running again and again, and Reynaldo clicked the remote to change the channel, when video footage of Charlotte eating a french fry appeared on screen. The image zoomed out, and Rosalia saw herself on television, standing behind Mrs. Grand, who was holding the little girl. Charlotte was smiling, exuberant, as the governor pinched her cheeks.

  Overcome with grief, Rosalia left the room as Reynaldo turned off the TV.

  The phone rang—an old-fashioned rotary phone that hung on the wall—and Reynaldo had to cross the kitchen to answer. When he picked it up, its long cord, which hung partly in a trash can, untwisted.

  "Rey?" Pedro's voice sounded scruffy and confused, as if he'd just woken up.

  "Sí. I'm here with Aunt Ro."

  "Did you see the TV? Is Aunt Ro all right?"

  "Sí, she is all right."

  "What happened?"

  "I don't know. The police are looking for Charlotte. That's all I know. Pedro, I don't know if I'm going to be able to come in today. I need to stay with Aunt Ro. Is everything okay at the garage?"

  "Uh..." There was muffled talking in the background.

  "Pedro!" Reynaldo stamped his foot. "You are at the garage, yes?"

  "Ricardo is there."

  "Well, get there too, and please remember to make sure to start the coffee."

  "That's Nada's job."

  "Well, don't forget to tell her."

  Pedro put his hand over the phone. "Nada, start the coffee when we get to the garage." The line opened again. "Okay."

  Reynaldo sighed. "Nada is there with you?"

  "Sí. I told you. Ricky doesn't mind." Then there was a pause. "Why, do you?"

  "I don't care, if no one else cares."

  "Oh, you lie, hermano."

  "Please, just get to the garage," Reynaldo said, "and make sure Ricky is nice to Mr. Pena, who is coming in for an oil change."

  "Oh, that prick," Pedro said. Reynaldo could hear Nada giggling in the background. "He accused us of using used oil for his oil change."

  "Just let it go, Pedro."

  "Not everyone's like you, Rey, eh? Let enough things go, and the whole world slips by."

  Chapter 29

  The warehouse was buzzing with activity. Two young male workers wearing jeans and identical navy-blue polo shirts were standing on a platform before one of two semitrailer trucks that had been parked just inside the rear wall. They waved to Bailino, who entered the cavernous space from the back parking lot. He waved back.

  Baili
no beamed with pride whenever he walked through any Upackk warehouse. When he purchased the company back in 1997, it was a struggling family-owned operation on the brink of bankruptcy. Nearly fifteen years later, it was the leading distributor of shipping, industrial, and packaging materials in the nation, with seven warehouses across the United States, including this one just outside Albany that also served as the company's headquarters and factory. Upackk's claim to fame—publicized prominently on its "Why Us?" Web-site page—was that it dealt only in materials that were green and made domestically. The company's most popular product was a starch-based peanut, a loose-fill packing and cushioning material made partially from shredded paper and a patented vegetable-oil base that made it just as durable and inexpensive as the popular Styrofoam peanuts or air-filled plastic bags—only more environmentally sound.

  Company sales increased slowly every year, despite the recent economic downturn, and last year Bailino invested millions by installing a robotic picking system that aimed to increase Upackk's efficiency while reducing labor costs. Over the years, he had been approached many times to go public, but was never interested. He was told that without accessing a substantial source of corporate funding, the business could never survive, let alone thrive. Bailino loved exceeding expectations.

  "I thought you weren't coming in this week?" George Smith raised his head when Bailino walked into the office, his small, round eyes showing just above the monitor.

  "Yeah, well, I thought I'd stop in since I was nearby... I visited my Uncle Gino," Bailino said.

  "Oh." George's right eye began to twitch. "That's right. I forgot. How is he related to you again?"

  Bailino smiled. He knew that George, who served as the Albany warehouse supervisor, was working with the Feds to monitor his business operations. The government suspected, and perhaps rightly so, that the Bailino family's close ties to the Cataldis made them a perennial red flag for illegal activity. Over the years, Bailino's homes had been raided, his vacations interrupted, but nothing was ever found, and no criminal charges were ever filed against him. Bailino suspected that George had been approached a few years back, since that's when the interest in Bailino's personal life, and all the questions, had started. About a year and a half ago, Bailino followed him one night into Tanzer Park and spotted one of his secret meetings along a hiking trail.

  George wasn't the greatest spy the Feds had ever enlisted, since he was sort of an uptight fellow whose right eye twitched whenever he was nervous, but he was competent. And despite the obvious, Bailino thought he was a decent guy—he did his work, seemed to take care of his family. Plus, Bailino wasn't worried. The warehouse was clean. After all, the shredded paper used to make his award-winning packing peanuts had to come from somewhere.

  "Yeah, well, he's not really my uncle. He and my father were close back in the day. Grew up together. Served in the war."

  "Oh, that's right." George said. "You look kinda tired for someone who's on vacation."

  "Yeah, well my teenage... nephew is here staying with me on spring break. A bunch of my cousins are in town—to pay their respects. I have a full house. Is this the last pickup?" Bailino pointed toward the warehouse.

  "No, there's one more scheduled." He handed Bailino a clipboard with rows of data highlighted.

  Bailino stepped over to his office, where a pile of boxes had been placed on his desk. "What's all this stuff?"

  "I don't know. I signed for them yesterday. They had personal written on them, so I just left them on your desk."

  Bailino looked at the return address on the top box. The package was from the Wounded Warrior Project. Bailino had worked with the organization, which raised awareness and funds for severely injured servicemen and women, for years. He opened the box—tsk, tsk, tsking at the use of Styrofoam—and pulled out a gleaming bronze award. He read the inscription: "To Don Bailino in appreciation of his generosity of support and ongoing commitment to the Wounded Warrior Project."

  There was something else in the box. Bailino reached in and pulled out a framed photograph of a group of men standing in the desert. Bailino recognized the image from his trip last year to Iraq. To the left of Bailino were several Wounded Warrior executives, to his right was Kid Rock.

  "Another one, huh?" George said, looking at the award over Bailino's shoulder and placing a file on Bailino's desk. George always seemed to have to stop in Bailino's office whenever he was opening a personal package. "They really love you over there." He pointed to Bailino's shelves of awards and trophies. "Looks like we may have to build another shelf." George busied himself over by the shelving units, stalling as he waited for Bailino to open the other box.

  Bailino ripped it open and pulled out a gourmet chocolate gift basket containing cocoa, truffles, and cookies. He read the card: "Don, just a little something to thank you for helping to publicize our recent networking event. You're so SWEET. Love, Barbara."

  "Nice, truffles," George said, returning to Bailino's side. "You want me to bring it out to the guys?" Cakes, cookies, just about anything that was edible, could be brought to the warehouse, any time of day, and be gone, crumbs and all, in less than ten minutes.

  Bailino inspected the ingredient list for the truffles, which were flecked with bits of dried cherry and encased in white chocolate—"the perfect treat to give to that special someone," said the packaging.

  "Nah, I'm going to take this one home," Bailino said.

  Chapter 30

  "Bob, what's the status on Dover?"

  Bob took another sip of his coffee. He could hardly keep his eyes open. "He wants to plea bargain, but I can convince him to take this to trial." He knew Turner liked headlines.

  "Good," Hick Turner said. He looked at his agenda. "Jefferies, what's going on with..."

  Bob tuned out once again. These late-morning meetings were such a bore. Since he'd made partner last year—the youngest man ever to perform such a feat at Worcester, Payne & Leach—he had somehow lost his verve for impressing the folks around the conference table. Been there. Done that. And done it well.

  He sat back in his chair, satisfied with the way things were going in his life. It really was all coming together for him now, Bob thought. Divorced, finally, although it had taken years longer than he'd anticipated. Awesome new car. Hot, young, new girlfriend—with no issues about going downtown. $500K a year. Six weeks' vacation. He was the king of world.

  The meeting adjourned, and, simultaneously, every lawyer reached for his or her smartphone and left the conference table talking to clients or colleagues. On his way out, Hick Turner detoured in Bob's direction. Bob pinched his upper thigh to increase his alertness.

  "Bob, meant to ask... Heard from Edward lately?"

  Bob winced. "Yeah, just yesterday."

  "Still buds, huh? College friendships really are the ones that last."

  "Yep," Bob said. "Buds."

  "Well, I hope you mentioned my offer again. We'd love to have him back. He's got quite the legal eye. Clients are still asking about him. Just this morning, old Joe Sentril requested Edward take the lead on his son's drug case. I didn't have the heart to tell him Edward left years ago."

  "Yes, I had mentioned your offer a while back," Bob lied, "but I think Edward's happy where he is with the Manhattan DA"

  "Shame about his mother. She was such a lovely woman."

  "Yeah."

  "And how's Jamie?"

  "Oh, she's fine, fine." Bob knew he was eventually going to have to tell Turner about the divorce, but the longer he could put it off, the better.

  "Publishing is tough right now. She finding work all right? You both should really come back to the house. I know Paula would love to have you for dinner again."

  "Oh, uh, that would be great," Bob said, thankful to feel his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and was shocked to see Jamie's number. He put on a smile. "Speak of the devil."

  "Oh, I'll let you take that." Hick patted him on the back and walked over to the large flat screen, wh
ich had been turned on at the far end of the conference room. Several lawyers were congregating around it.

  Bob stepped into a corner of the room. "Yeah," he said curtly into the phone. "Hello? Hello?"

  There was silence on the other end.

  "James, are you there?"

  Bob looked at his phone. The connection was still intact; seconds were clicking by.

  "I can't hear you. Can you hear me?" Nothing. "Whatever. Listen, Jamie, Edward is looking for you. Shocker, right? What, did you not check in?" Bob chuckled. "No, seriously, Jamie, call your brother, all right, if you haven't already. I hope you heard this. Call me later to tell me whatever it was you wanted to tell me. I'm in a meeting right now."

  He clicked off his phone and faced the conference room. Now everyone was watching the flat screen.

  "Hey, Scott, that's some strange shit about the governor, huh?" Steve Andrews, one of the new paralegals, walked over and handed Bob a cup of coffee. Andrews had been lobbying to get onto the Dover case for weeks, asking Bob if he "needed anything"—coffee, lunch, a pack of gum—while he was "stepping out" of the office. Bob wasn't interested in food, or Andrews, but he liked the attention.

  "What about the governor?" Bob asked, disinterested.

  "His daughter's missing."

  "Yeah, so? Not my problem."

  "Yeah, you're right." Andrews nodded. "But I wonder if this is going to affect the Brightest Minds thing."

  "The what?" Bob said. "You mean that legal internship?"

  "No, Grand decided to make it a part-time paid position. A consulting thing. He's looking to lure seasoned lawyers—one from each county—who are at the top of their game. He wants to create a roundtable of the best legal minds to sort through some of the shit they got up there in Albany. Kind of like King Arthur and his court." Andrews leaned in. "You know, you should apply for it. Some people are saying it's the quickest way to the state attorney general post, and then who knows? Especially if Grand runs for president like they say he will."

  Bob thought Sir Robert Scott had a nice ring to it.

 

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