Verona

by Deaver, Jeffery

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Jeffery Deaver

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781542016070

  Cover design by Adil Dara

  Two households, both alike in dignity,

  In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

  From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

  Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

  William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

  One

  Friday, July 1

  So this is how you die.

  My God, my God!

  Horrible . . .

  He was staring at a car burning furiously in the road ahead. Black smoke swirled upward into the late-afternoon sky like a cyclone, deep-orange flames roiling below. The vehicle had swerved and crashed head on into an abutment of a bridge over a small creek.

  Donald Lark, sitting in the back seat of his Escalade, leaned forward and told the driver, “Stop, stop!”

  “Yessir.” Evan steered onto the shoulder and braked. He climbed out, telling his boss, “Stay here, sir.”

  Lark’s pudgy hand dug for his phone in his suit jacket pocket. He retrieved the Samsung and hit nine-one-one. He gave the dispatcher the details of the accident and the location. The woman said nothing about previous reports, which suggested the occupants were dead.

  She said fire and police would be there soon. Lark knew the deserted area well—this was the route to his country house. “Soon” would be at least twenty minutes.

  The smoke parted momentarily and Lark was shocked to see on the rear of the burning Subaru a sticker.

  MY DAUGHTER IS AN HONOR STUDENT

  AT STUYVESANT MIDDLE SCHOOL.

  Was the girl inside?

  Please let her be home! It would be impossible for anyone to survive. The flames were gutting the interior. Fire was a particular fear for Donald Lark. He still bore the scars from the time, at age eight, when he tried to douse burning grease in a frying pan; the resulting explosion disfigured his arms and swiped his mother’s brows clean off. He was more horrified at her disfigurement than his sizzling skin.

  How you die . . .

  Lark rolled down the left rear window and leaned out. He debated joining Evan. Lark was in his midsixties, hardly old. But while the former teamster had once been in strapping shape, he was no longer. Muscle was now fat, and the heart temperamental.

  The SUV was about thirty feet from the crash and he could feel the stinging waves of heat driving toward him on the summer breeze. His eyes and nose stung from the acrid smoke. Evan—a large man, a steady man, with a shaved head and broad shoulders—was lifting the tail of his black jacket, protecting his face as he moved closer to the conflagration.

  He saw his minder slowing, squinting against the smoke. “I can’t tell!” the man shouted. “I can’t tell if anybody’s in there.”

  Anybody . . .

  Maybe the girl.

  Or maybe someone not so innocent. Maybe tweakers high on meth, driving fast after sucking in the poisonous fumes. They’d bought the car second- or thirdhand.

  Maybe young Sarah or Claire or Amy was fine.

  Donald Lark, the father of two daughters and a son, blessed himself and prayed that the latter version of the accident was the truth.

  Crouching, Evan moved closer yet, disappearing behind the shadow of smoke. Then a shout: “There’s nobody inside. They got out!”

  Ah . . . Thank you, Lord.

  Sarah, Claire, Amy . . .

  Lark called, “Any sign of them nearby?”

  Evan didn’t answer. The black smoke thinned, and Lark could vaguely see his driver on the road’s shoulder, bending down, reaching for something. He rose.

  But . . . wait. What was this? It wasn’t Evan. This man wore a combat jacket and a black baseball cap, pulled low.

  My God. A pistol with a silencer on the muzzle was in his hand.

  Lark broke a thumbnail hitting the window-up button and lunged for the front seat, slamming the door lock.

  But then he heard the noise he knew he would. Click.

  The doors of the Escalade unlocking.

  This was why the assailant had been bending down—to fetch the key fob from Evan’s pocket.

  The rear passenger door was opening.

  This would be another gunman.

  Donald Lark sat back and fixed his eyes on the crucifix rocking gently from the rearview mirror.

  Ah, but no, I was wrong. This is how you die.

  Two

  Tuesday, July 5

  Sam’s Bar and Grille had been in the Panhandle forever.

  The place had a disinfectant, Lysoly scent to it. Brendon Nagle swore he could also smell cigarette smoke, which must’ve been off-gassing from the warped wood paneling; smoking had not been allowed in any city building for years. There was a jukebox with tunes nobody wanted to listen to and some arcade spaceship game left over from the 1990s. A toddler would have found it boring.

  On the wall were washed-out pictures of unfamous boxers and football players from obscure teams. Also, sturdy men with big, curly hairdos, dressed in tight shorts and tighter T-shirts, grinning at the camera. Their sculpted arms were crossed over solid chests. There was no indication of the sports they’d been involved in, if they’d been involved in sports at all.

  Maybe, Nagle considered, they were ’70s gay porn stars. Sam might’ve swung that way.

  He thought this was hilarious but it wasn’t a joke he shared with the trim man sitting at the table across from him: Andrew, his twenty-six-year-old son.

  Or with somber, hulking Max Klempter, the other person with him. Max had a number of talents and interesting qualities. Appreciating humor, much less irony, was not among them.

  Nagle said to Andrew, “We’ll be inside maybe an hour or so is all. Then collect you and head over to Evergreen.”

  “Sure,” the boy said, and sipped his Stella. Nagle’s dark-haired son—who could’ve played the handsome college football star in an inspirational sports flick—was in chino slacks and a hoodie sweatshirt with a University of Texas logo on it, a longhorn steer’s long horns. There’d been a law school competition there. Moot court or something.

  Nagle finished his double Crown Royal and rose. Jowly and tree-trunk-solid Max stood too, leaving his Coke seven-eighths full. He was at full height faster than Nagle and stepped to the door. He perused the street. “It’s okay.”

  Nagle regarded himself in the dusky mirror behind the bar. The black suit was tight over his tall, bulky frame; he hadn’t worn it since a business partner’s untimely, and unpleasant, death three years ago. He straightened the tie, deep purple, and combed back his dark, thinning hair with a palm. Max had opted for charcoal gray.

  Andrew asked his father, “You knew him well?”

  Debating, briefly, what to share and what not. “Not so much. Just a business associate. I did some deals with him. Real estate.” He nearly added that the deceased had been a “stand-up guy.” But that sounded too much like a line from a bad Mafia movie and, anyway, it wasn’t true.

  His son nodded, possibly wondering what the “deals” involved, and return
ed to the file he’d brought to review. It contained loan agreements, balance sheets, land plats, assessor’s reports and easement records, all anchored by a dense and lengthy contract for the purchase of a commercial building, not far from where they were at the moment.

  The site for Lark’s memorial service was convenient.

  As was his death itself. But that was a different matter.

  Nagle noted Andrew was absorbed in the minutiae of the paperwork and jotting notes in the fine handwriting he’d mastered as a young boy. He was as sharp as they came. The boy—all right, young man—had taken the year off after graduating from law school, high in his class, and passing the bar. He’d decided not to get a job with a firm right away and had spent some time in LA and the Far East. He’d returned a couple of months ago and approached his father, asking if he could pick up some pocket money helping him out until he decided what field and firm he wanted to pursue.

  Nagle was delighted, though of course he made absolutely certain that Andrew was involved only in the legitimate side of N & O Transportation and Storage Services.

  The other part of the business? No, the young man was completely separate from that.

  Nagle and Max left Sam’s and walked up the street to Hannity Brothers’ Funeral Home. It was an old place, the façade as scuffed and burnished as a fifteen-year-old car’s bodywork. But it fit right into the neighborhood. No gentrification here, nothing quaint, nothing precious, nothing hipster. Donald Lark had enough money to be buried on Mount Olympus, but the Panhandle was where he’d grown up. The PH was his turf, the PH was where he’d wanted his memorial service to be, and, for all Nagle knew, it was where he planned for his ghost to roam the streets, scaring the shit out of anybody who’d crossed him in this corporeal life.

  As the two entered the building Nagle asked, “And?” The question was soft; other mourners were nearby.

  Max shook his head, not understanding.

  Nagle muttered, “Who. Did. It.” Impatient.

  “Oh. Word is nobody local. Most likely? Some banger from the East Coast, somebody Lark shorted. I don’t know. That Latino guy from New York, the one you wanted me to—”

  Nagle shut him up with a glare.

  Max would know instantly he’d committed a sin; he shouldn’t’ve uttered a syllable relating to Nagle’s operation, much less a fucking hit he’d considered! The big man revealed his regret at the lapse with a faint tightening of his thin, pale lips. Within the Nagle organization even the most obscure reference to anything illegal was forbidden outside his office, which was protected by a half-million dollars’ worth of antisurveillance devices. Nagle also assumed everybody he met in person or talked to on the phone was recording him, even Max and his son. Not that they would intentionally betray him; he did believe, however, that a clever cop or FBI agent might slip a bug into Max’s pocket or Andrew’s backpack.

  Was this paranoia? Obviously not. Because Brendon Nagle was still a free and wealthy man, despite ordering a dozen murders and committing hundreds of other Title 18 and state offenses.

  Then the mystery of who’d been the triggerman—brilliant assassin or meth-high thug—vanished from Nagle’s thoughts. He walked into the large parlor filled with those here to mourn, or celebrate, the demise of Donald Victor Lark.

  The Party of the First Part hereupon agrees to convey unto the Party of the Second Part that a certain parcel of property herein referred to as the “Parcel” no later than . . .

  Blah and blah and double blah.

  Andy Nagle had reviewed the documents for the sale and purchase of the building on Evergreen Avenue a dozen times and even if he wanted to, which he didn’t, he wasn’t going to read through the damn things again. He was looking to the bar.

  A middle-aged barfly—a floppy white guy—had paused beside him. “She’s mine.”

  “I’m sorry?” Andy asked glancing up.

  “The girl? At the bar? You were looking at her. The hot one with the long black hair.”

  That description probably wasn’t necessary, since she was the only person at the bar. She was proffering her driver’s license and, a moment later, receiving a glass of white wine he suspected was marginal at best.

  This was, after all, Sam’s Bar and Misspelled Grille.

  “What’re you asking me?”

  “I saw her first. You’re not making a move, kid. She’s mine.”

  Andy could smell an exotic, and repulsive, blend of liquor on his breath. He needed tooth work. Badly.

  She took a minuscule sip, set the glass down and pulled her iPhone from the right back pocket of her jeans, the place where, Andy believed, females were required to stash their mobiles. The phone was extracted with some difficulty; the jeans were extremely close fitting. She tossed her long, straight black hair back over her shoulders and set to work at the task required of a person alone at a bar, especially a woman in her twenties: reading through emails, texts or Facebook posts and studiously ignoring everyone around her.

  The man gave a haughty look of victory to Andy and staggered toward the bar. Andy rose and beat him there. He shot a look toward the man. Andy did not have the flint or vicious nature of his father but he was tall and strong and when he lowered his round head, topped with military-style crew-cut hair, and fixed unwavering eyes on someone, it gave them pause.

  “Prick,” the older guy muttered. Then returned to his bar cave in the corner.

  Andy leaned against a stool and said to the skinny bartender, “Another, please.”

  The man drew a Stella, handed it to Andy with a napkin wrapped around the sweating glass.

  “I could’ve handled him.” The sultry-voiced message was spoken without eyes leaving iPhone screen.

  He said, “I have no doubt about that in the world.”

  She glanced his way. Andy’s smile faded as he scanned her beautiful face, black eyes encircled by glasses with ocean-blue frames.

  He thought: Love at first sight.

  Inside the Hannitys’ funeral home, Brendon Nagle reminded himself to wear his somber face.

  The dim room, painted in pale green and carpeted in hotel-room dark gray, was packed. Maybe a hundred people were present, with those who were older or more jarred by the tragedy sitting, the others—the majority—standing in clusters.

  Subdued conversation. Classical music. Nagle had no idea what the tunes were. Music was more an irritant than anything to him, though he liked Christmas carols. And Camelot, The Music Man, and Les Misérables.

  Nagle and Max filed past the widow and the three grown children and a half dozen clones of grandkids, and other relatives, offering the regulation words delivered in the regulation timbre.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, you’re who again, yes, I heard he went quickly, a blessing, who are you again, it’s so merciful his mother passed last year, to have to bury a son, can you imagine, who are you again, yes, who are you again . . .”

  “We did some business together,” Nagle would say.

  “Oh.”

  One man who didn’t have to ask about Nagle or his shadow was Lark’s son, the oldest of the siblings. His nickname was Pete J. When Nagle had shaken his sweaty hand a moment before, in the receiving line, the pudgy, slovenly man had blinked. Pete J was his departed father’s main lieutenant; he was more than aware of how Brendon Nagle fit into the city’s crime schematic.

  Nagle and Max then joined the queue to pass by the casket, which was closed. The killer or killers had not spared ammunition. Four or five rounds to the head. Hollow points. There was only so much that the Hannity brothers could do cosmetically.

  On top of the casket was a photo of Lark, beaming, taken at around age fifty, when he’d consolidated his control of the Panhandle. Nagle suspected that someone in the Lark organization had chosen this particular pic as a snub, reminding Nagle and everyone else present that it was Lark who’d won the Panhandle War.

  Nagle bowed his head over the shiny box and thought, So long, prick.

  “Get me a bo
urbon,” he snapped to Max. “Strong. Knob Creek.”

  The man hesitated.

  “What?”

  “It’s a funeral parlor, sir. They don’t serve drinks. That’s the reception, after. Water maybe.”

  “The fuck good is water?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Scoffing, Nagle and Max circulated among the mourners.

  The general opinion about the murder was just as Max had heard: The hit had been ordered from out of state. Probably New York, maybe Boston. Nobody yet had a clear idea why. But motives for murder in this business came discount cheap.

  Nagle was not here to learn who the killer was, though, any more than he’d come to offer sympathy to the shaken widow and her goslings. He was present for one reason only: to silently announce to Pete J and representatives from the other crews in town that he was moving on the Panhandle. Pete J would have to start thinking about a deal. Or a war. The man was not as ruthless as Lark and not as clever, which meant that despite the fact that he weighed 250 pounds and walked around with a perpetual glare on his face, he’d probably go for the deal. Nagle had already been thinking about various little-carrot, big-stick strategies. He almost felt sorry for sad-sack Pete J.

  The other gangs in and around town would potentially be more troublesome. They, too, would know Pete J was a rookie in the world of organized crime and they’d have their eyes on the PH as well. As the long minutes ticked by, though, Nagle noted that no other local crews had sent representatives here to declare their intention of stripping away bits of the Panhandle like an eagle beaking dinner from a deer carcass. No one from Martin Williams’s hard-ass black crew on the East Side. From the currently leaderless MS-Seventies. From the half dozen Latino and Caribbean gangs peppering the West Side. From a nameless Vietnamese crew, relatively new to town, quiet, odd, and ruthless. Or from Sebastiano Corelli’s outfit, the sad tatters of the oldest gang in the city.

  No one.

  Nagle supposed he wasn’t surprised by their absence. The membership was vicious and amoral and narcissistic—the job qualifications for this line of work—but they probably lacked the manpower and balls to move on the PH.