by Wendy Tyson
Allison’s mind hop-skipped to Gina’s diary.
Asylum.
Gina said she’d wished they’d sent Francesca to the asylum. Who was they? And why an asylum? And what had Francesca done that she needed to be sent anywhere?
Allison considered Simone Benini’s call soon after Francesca disappeared. Francesca’s sister-in-law had theorized that Francesca bolted, maybe even killed herself. Had Simone had good reason to think that? Had Francesca been mentally ill, sent to America to live with her caretaker brother, an unstable woman with no prospects of her own?
What about Maria’s call? And the word Gina written on that bathroom wall? How in the name of all that was holy did Gina’s death—or life—fit into this equation?
And then there was Tammy “Swallow” Edwards.
Coincidence?
Coincidence. The last line of Gina’s diary. Allison was caught up in a mystery, slugging through possibly unrelated clues to find the nugget of truth that tied everything together. Is it possible that Gina had been looking into a mystery of her own?
Reluctantly, Allison crawled from beneath the warm comfort of the blankets and flipped on the bedside light. The clock read 11:06. Her body felt tired, but her mind was suddenly alert to new possibilities.
What if Gina had stumbled across something? Something that led to a depression so severe that she took her own life? Or, more implausible perhaps, what if someone had been responsible for her death? The idea made Allison shudder. She reached for a throw from the closet and opened her laptop. While she waited for her computer to boot, she poured herself a glass of spring water from the complimentary bottle on the desk. She wished it were wine.
The glow from the computer cast shadows in the darkened room. Allison turned on every light, welcoming the sudden brightness. Even thinking about the Benini household was depressing. She pulled up a search engine. She did yet another search on Francesca Benini. Nothing new. No luck with Gina, either. She tried typing in Gina’s brothers’ names, John and Enzo Pittaluga. Then their business, Fireside Bakery. She found a reference to a fire that had happened not long before Gina died. It was a comment in a food blog dedicated to Ithaca’s dining options:
Too bad Fireside’s not still around. Best bakery between New York City and San Francisco. Never did catch the bastard who started that inferno. Guess there’s irony in a name, after all.
So the Pittaluga’s bakery had burned down? Allison made a note on the inn’s letterhead to check into the fire when she visited the microfiche room at the library. This family seemed to have a cloud hanging over it, and Allison suspected that cloud was somehow related to her client’s disappearance.
It was now almost midnight. Allison still didn’t feel sleepy, so she decided to do another search. She plugged in Tammy Edwards’ name and turned up nothing new. She logged into Facebook. Tammy’s Facebook page hadn’t changed. Same profile picture Allison remembered seeing the first time. And the girl’s security setting still blocked Allison from further access. Allison navigated to Tammy’s boyfriend, Kai’s, page. As before, his page was open to the public. Today’s status read: Insanity runs in the family. Thirty-six friends had commented; none of the friends was Tammy.
Kai had posted what looked like two or three new albums-worth of party pictures since Allison had last visited Facebook. Photo after photo of drunk teenagers. Some pictures had been taken in a wooded setting, some were in what she recognized as Kai’s father’s apartment, some were in a house Allison didn’t recognize at all. Always, Kai had a half-grin on his face and a cup in his hand. The life of the party. Not a worried boyfriend, that was for sure. Assuming these had been taken recently.
After sifting through what felt like a million uploads, one of the pictures caught Allison’s attention. A girl, laying on the couch, barely noticeable behind five teenagers hanging on each other in front of the camera. The other teens were grinning, arms entwined, drunken glazes on youthful faces. One was giving the cameraperson the finger. But behind them, the girl on the couch was looking down, her face shadowed by a blue baseball cap. Allison thought about Tammy that day at First Impressions, when she had escaped to the parking lot and sat folded up on herself, long arms wrapped around gangly legs. The girl on the couch was Tammy, Allison was certain. Same lanky body, same hair hanging from beneath that hat, and even the strong line of the jaw matched the Tammy of Allison’s memory.
Allison opened a new window and pulled up the YouTube video of Tammy’s television try-out. She paused, zoning in on Tammy’s face. Yep, she was sure the kid on the couch was Tammy.
But so what, Allison thought. This picture could have been taken months ago and posted only recently. Again, Allison went through the pictures in this set. Stained beige carpeting, light-colored furniture. The pictures on the wall hung askew, which told Allison it probably wasn’t Kai’s mother’s house. She remembered Joanne Berger as being an exceptionally tidy woman with compulsive tendencies. Stained carpeting and tilted pictures didn’t seem her thing.
Allison went through each picture in the album several times, looking for nonexistent clues. Frustrated, she was about to close the window when another picture caught her eye. The cameraperson had taken a shot of a laughing, half-dressed girl standing in the threshold of the room. Behind her, Allison could just make out the edge of the white couch to the right. But what interested her was the small desk wedged up against the wall, on the left side of the picture. The girl had her hand on the desk, next to one of those Far Side daily calendars.
Allison saved the picture to her laptop. She opened it anew, using her own software, and enlarged the calendar page.
August 9 of this year.
After Tammy’s disappearance.
So Tammy Edwards was alive. And Kai Berger knew where she was.
The man sitting beside Mia had coffee-colored skin and a mop of unruly black hair. He looked at her through drooping brown eyes, taking her in with the impartial candor of a camera. Mia guessed him to be in his late thirties, although he had an ageless quality that made his years hard to pinpoint. The intelligence in his expression said he was no fool; the slumped shoulders said he had a lot on his mind.
Mia said, “Thank you. For coming with me.”
Jiff nodded.
Mia merged onto the Cross Valley Expressway and headed north, following the directions of the man on the phone. He’d hung up hastily, telling her which way to drive and promising to call back in a few minutes. Mia was surprised at how calm she felt given the situation. She thought of her daughter Bridget’s death, the phone call that shattered Mia’s world. She supposed that loss had marked her. She didn’t fear death. She didn’t fear much of anything these days. Other than harm to more loved ones. Including Vaughn.
And Allison.
But her concern for her own safety was limited. So she waited through the silence of the stranger next to her and waited for the call of another stranger, careful to drive the speed limit, watching for the deer that inhabited these roads late at night.
Mia felt oddly happy. In some ways, she hadn’t felt this alive in years.
“Svengetti told me you’d be in contact. So your voicemail wasn’t a surprise.” Jiff’s voice interrupted her reverie.
“But you ignored it anyway?”
Jiff grunted.
“You know Svengetti well?”
“Well enough.”
“The woman at your house, is she your mother?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Mia shrugged. She switched on her high beams and squinted at the road. “I’ll cut to the chase. What can you tell me about the Gretchkos and their connection to the Russian Mafia?”
Jiff looked at her with jaded eyes. “Who wants to know?”
“Me.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t Svengetti tell you that, too?”
“Svengetti told me a wel
l-coifed woman of a certain age would come asking questions about the Russians. He told me I could avoid her or talk, but he wanted me to be forewarned.” Jiff raised neatly groomed eyebrows. “And to know that she was harmless.”
Hmm. A harmless woman of a certain age, Mia thought. The description made her cringe. And then she wondered why she cared what Svengetti thought.
The phone buzzed. Mia answered with surprisingly steady hands.
Svengetti said, “Get off at the next exit. Go straight through the first stop light, whether or not it’s green, and make the first right after that. Then the first left, and the first right. Sixth house on the right. Pull around to the back and park behind the garage. You’ll see what I mean. Stay in your car. Tell the reporter to do the same.”
Mia glanced at Jiff. He was staring straight ahead, lips pursed. He knows, Mia thought. He knows what’s going on.
Before Mia could respond to the voice, the phone clicked off.
Mia took a deep breath. She got off at the exit. The roads were dark. Outside, it was starting to drizzle. Mia’s headlights cut through a foggy haze. A traffic light loomed about three hundred yards from the exit. A car pulled onto the road behind her, from the same exit she had taken, and Mia accelerated, heading toward the intersection. As Mia approached the traffic light, it turned yellow, then red.
She gave a cursory glance each way and plowed through the light. Beside her, Jiff was still.
“Shit,” Mia said under her breath. As she made it through the light, she saw another vehicle speed through, coming from the crossroad. It had the green light. The driver stopped in the middle of the intersection, though, rolled down the window and seemed to be yelling at her from inside his car, effectively blocking the car that had followed her off the Cross Valley Expressway. That driver slammed on the horn.
Mia didn’t wait to see what would happen next. She focused on remembering the caller’s instructions. First right, first left, and then first right. Sixth house on the right.
The increasing drizzle made visibility poor. Mia slowed before the last turn, half expecting a car to follow her through the haze. But she and Jiff were alone. She wondered for a moment what she’d gotten herself into. But only for a moment. Because as soon as she found the sixth house on the right, it was déjà vu.
Vaughn crept quietly through the apartment, more out of habit than necessity. Jamie kept odd hours and Mrs. T would be up, waiting for him. He stopped in the living room and listened to the sounds of his home. From here, he could hear the whir of Jamie’s respirator and the hum of the dishwasher. Mrs. T must have started it before getting ready to leave. He and Jamie occupied the top floor of the building, but below them, someone was watching a movie. If he really concentrated, he could hear the sound of simulated explosions coming from his neighbors’ surround sound.
But he couldn’t hear anybody in the hallway outside his apartment, and that’s what he was really listening for.
Vaughn walked to the window and peeked through the blinds. The living room was dark, so anyone watching from outside couldn’t see him. His eyes flitted across the parking lot as he watched for movement, light, anything that would give away a tail. He hadn’t seen a white Honda while driving home from Ithaca, but it paid to be careful.
After a moment, he was satisfied that even if someone was out there, he wasn’t going to see him. As he let the blinds fall back into place, a voice behind him said, “Christopher, what in the good lord’s name are you doing?”
Vaughn smiled. “Thanks for staying, Mrs. T.”
Mrs. T flicked on a lamp. In its soft glow, she looked younger than her fifty-some years. Today her hair was held back in a bun. Around her neck, she wore a gold cross adorned with diamond chips that sparkled against her dark skin. A floor-length black skirt and apricot-colored blouse skimmed a curvy body. She pointed a manicured nail in his direction.
“That boy is sleeping. Let him rest, Christopher. He was up all night researching God knows what on that dang computer. Had the look of the devil in his eyes. I don’t know what he’s up to for those police officers, but he’s driven to solve something.” Mrs. T shook her head. “I’m sorry I had to make you come home. Cousin Frida and her brood are in and they’re leaving in the morning. I couldn’t very well not be there after they drove all the way up from Atlanta.” She smiled. “You know how that is.” Another head shake. “I hope Angela is feeling better. A stomach virus is no fun at all. But we can’t have Jamie getting it.”
Vaughn gave Mrs. T a tight smile, his mind focused on what she’d just said. Jamie on the computer all night, researching something. Only Vaughn knew it wasn’t for the police. And if Jamie had the look of the devil in his eyes, that meant he wasn’t happy about what he was finding.
Damn. Vaughn hoped to hell Allison was okay up there in New York alone.
Vaughn took a deep breath. He had three people in his life he loved. Jamie. Allison. And Mia.
He’d die to protect all three.
Thirty-Two
Allison shut down her computer. She debated what to do with this new information. If Tammy was, indeed, alive and fine, Vaughn should be told. He was busy beating himself up over her disappearance, and this would give him at least some relief. But something kept her from making that phone call just yet.
She had a visceral, whole body sort of intuition. There was a reason Tammy Edwards was hiding out. The boyfriend’s father and his underhand dealings. Tammy’s mother and her reluctance to call the police. That wacky manager, Denise Carr. Clearly, Tammy didn’t want to be found. Which either meant she simply didn’t want to be a star. Or she felt she was in danger.
Allison sat on the edge of the bed, nursing a headache. She needed to think. But first she needed to sleep.
Only with all the adrenaline coursing through her, with all the unanswered questions and loose ends, and free-floating anxiety, sleep just wouldn’t come.
Mia recognized Svengetti’s truck.
He’d led her to a boxy one-story house with ugly, asymmetrical windows. A paved driveway ran through a weedy front yard, around the side of the building, to a taller, boxier garage in the back. Between the house and the garage was an awning. Svengetti’s truck was parked under the shelter, tucked up against the house, nose facing outward. Mia did a K-turn in the narrow lot and pulled her truck up alongside Svengetti’s. The reporter continued to stare straight ahead, mute.
Mia found his silence unnerving.
A cursory look at Svengetti’s truck said it was empty.
Mia glanced around at her surroundings. She’d tried to pay attention while driving here, in case she needed to get away quickly, but the darkness and her unfamiliarity with the town diluted her senses. They were in an industrial neighborhood. Coming in, she’d noticed plain houses and, interspersed between them, small factory buildings and concrete auto garages. But here, tucked back behind this house, nothing was visible other than the blocky garage.
“So how do you know Svengetti?” she asked Jiff.
“We traveled in the same circles once upon a time.”
“Were you part of the Tarasoff bust?”
Jiff smiled. “Hardly. I just had the misfortune of being assigned the financial section of the paper.”
“So you reported on the family.”
Jiff turned his head slowly, weighing his words. “My name was on the byline.”
“Did they go after you, too?”
“Nothing so blatant.”
“Then what happened?”
“Let’s just say I’m now covering pee wee football and neighborhood yard sales.”
“So they ruined your career?”
“They made sure it never got started. Among other things.”
Mia watched as a car pulled into the driveway. She tensed, the beat of her heart suddenly the loudest sound in the car.
It was the same vehicle
that had pulled into the intersection just a few minutes ago, the car that stopped whatever tail was following her. With relief, she saw Svengetti behind the wheel. He held up a hand for her to wait.
“So why do you stay here? In the Wyoming Valley?” Mia asked Jiff quietly, keeping her eyes on Svengetti. “If they’ve ruined your career, if they’ve made it difficult for you to find a better job, why not move on?”
This time, Jiff’s eyes flashed with the heat of a thousand hells. “That woman you met? That’s my mother. She’s alone now. Because of them.” Jiff spoke mechanically, a man reciting news unrelated to him. “My father was seventy-two, alone and suffering from dementia. Two armed robbers on a December night. My mom, at Bingo. The police said the motive was theft. But Dad wouldn’t have put up a fight. He was wheelchair bound. And my mom said nothing was stolen.”
“A hit?”
“He was a sitting duck.” Jiff’s voice cracked. “Who does that?”
A sitting duck. Like Jamie. Mia swallowed. “So you stay for your mom?”
Mia watched as Svengetti got out of his vehicle, walked around the edge of the house, disappearing from Mia’s sight. He had a gun.
He reappeared just as Jiff said, “No. I stay because they still exist.” His voice cracked again. “Two can play the revenge game, Ms. Campbell.”
It was almost ten minutes and two perimeter walks before Svengetti finally called for Mia and Jiff to follow him. He led them around the back of the garage, through a thicket of overgrown hedges, to a dilapidated shed. After opening the padlock on the shed, he slid the door aside and flicked on a small flashlight. Inside the shed were a lawn mower, several trimmers, and an assortment of shovels and rakes. The smaller tools had been hung neatly on the walls. Svengetti moved aside one of the trimmers and directed the flashlight’s beam to the back of the shed. After a second, he located a small metal ring. This he pulled. The floor of the shed gave way to a trap door, beneath which was a set of stairs.