by William Cain
Every detail a memory, and a single tear slides down his face. Now he’s really angry, controlled, and focused. He picks up his cell and dials a number. When it’s answered, he tells Gangi through gritted teeth, “We have a big problem.”
Gangi has heard this tone from Jones before, but this is oddly different—deeper, darker.
Suddenly his skin begins to crawl.
Leaving Gangi to stare straight ahead, the phone in his right hand, his mouth slightly open, frozen in time.
Chapter 4 Addie
July 20th
Mostly it is loss which teaches us about the worth of things. Arthur Schopenhauer
Addie awakens early, like she always does, and begins her routine. First, a little coffee, then she heads to the bath where she turns her shower on, hot, waits for the steam to rise, and then enters.
Patting herself dry, she puts on her dark blue terry cloth robe, her hair piled up in a hand towel, and eats her small breakfast alone while reading over the morning paper delivered earlier. Addie takes a moment to listen to the songbirds, busy swarming from one tree to another excitedly. Summer in Asheville is a wonderful time of year, and she forces a small smile. Then, continues to eat.
Finishing, she returns to her bedroom and prepares for the day ahead. After buttoning a neatly pressed white shirt, she reaches for her badge and places it into her left breast pocket, the shield exposed as it folds over the crease. As her almost last part of her routine, before picking up her keys and wallet, she dons her shoulder holster and places her service weapon in it. Then she leaves the bedroom and heads out.
This time, just like before—so many times before—she stops before the front door, turns around, and looks at the framed, hanging photographs. There are her nieces and nephews, her brothers and herself, smiling. There are her parents, and a picture of her dog she had to put to sleep last year.
As she stares at the images on the wall, she comes to a realization, like she does every time. There’s no picture with herself and a man. There’s no lover, no husband. At forty-six years of age, it’s just her, going through her routine every day. No phone calls or texts to talk about dinner, or what to do this weekend, no trip to plan.
A tiny tear begins to form and she catches herself. She purses her lips, exhales sadly, and turns again to the door, finding herself on the other side, locking it.
Walking to her car, Addie focuses and determinedly orders her inner self an edict: “Detective, it’s time to catch bad guys.”
◆◆◆
Yesterday, once she heard the report of a murder, and after meeting briefly with her captain inside the stationhouse, Henson called the forensic team to join her at street level. There, she and her partner Rob Hardin took her squad car separately from the forensic team, having them follow them out to Heritage Hills. She hopped into the driver’s seat, as she always did. She knew Rob was going through his third divorce, and there was no argument as to who was in charge. They drove directly to the crime scene, where club management was waiting outside, as instructed.
She asked a few questions about having secured the alleged crime scene, and the forensic team then roped off the grounds with the usual yellow ribbons. Then they went inside, carefully, through the still open front door. Henson went first, weapon drawn.
When she stepped into the living room, she saw the body of a woman, presumably Elsie Jones. Even seasoned Detective Adelaide Henson was shocked at how savage the beating must have been to do this kind of damage. One member of the forensic team threw up in a personal bag they carried just for this purpose. Everyone pulled out their salts to mask the smell. Henson told the team to remain where they were while she secured the home.
Once she returned, her weapon was holstered and she told them to get started, tape off the body, photos from every angle, dust everything…the usual. First, she wanted the body covered to keep the flies off. Second, she wanted that window covered to keep the vermin out, and the puke in the driveway tested also. And, if found, to kill all the vermin and insects in the house.
They got to work. When they were finished, Henson looked at the clock. It had taken seven hours. It’s a big house, and the crime scene was a mess. Before they covered the body again, Henson looked over Elsie Jones, examined her battered face, and, with her back to the team, a rare tear welled up in her eye and she said out loud, “Jesus.”
She called for the Medical Examiner to retrieve the body, and when they arrived, Addie and her guys left the scene.
◆◆◆
That was yesterday. And, as she pulls up to the clubhouse today, the thoughts of the crime scene give her chills. Out front, she’s met by a Club staffer who gives her the once-over after she steps out of the car.
She takes this in, like she takes everything in, and bluntly asks, “What’s your problem?”
She says this in such a fashion as to be almost threatening, and the guy stiffens like he’s just been slapped. He didn’t expect to hear that after he saw a slender, petite, pretty woman step out of the squad car wearing street clothes. He takes one look at her shouldered weapon and stammers, “Uhhhh, right this way, Detective.” He then opens the door and leads her into the clubhouse.
She walks right by him after shooting her best “you’re a dick” look and sees Ken Jones in front of a huge empty fireplace, seated in a wide living room inside the club with a panoramic view of the Smokies.
He was given one of the Heritage Hills courtesy apartments to stay in until he can return home, which may be a while. As she approaches, she sees him size her up. He’s the most dangerous person she’s ever interviewed, and he knows that she knows who he is. Oddly, she looks familiar to him.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Jones. No one should ever have to pass away like that. Again, please accept my condolences.” She sits down, notices a peculiar look on his face, and wonders if he remembers her.
After a moment, he replies, “Thank you, Detective. Now, how can I help you? What can I tell you that will help?” Inwardly, he couldn’t care less. He’s going to do his own investigation and mete out his own punishment. It’s already underway, and they’ve got some good ideas and received some useful leads. He’s not the sharing type, so he keeps his mouth shut. He’ll answer her questions, but it won’t go anywhere.
“Our Medical Examiner tells us she died two days ago, on the 18th,” she states. Jones’s mind begins to work quickly. He was with Jennifer. If he had been home, this wouldn’t have happened. But he stayed in Chicago another night after Jennifer “convinced” him. He then puts this salient fact into a mental compartment he’ll share with Gangi later, and he just nods at Henson.
The interview continues until it’s exhausted and there are no more questions to ask. Henson even asks about his connections with organized crime and could that have been a motive. But during the entire discussion, Jones’s reaction is two-dimensional, and Henson can tell this is going down a rabbit hole.
Suddenly, he changes the direction of their discussion, “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” With each passing moment, the memory of their meeting years ago takes frame, beginning to come back to him. Addie tells him they have met before, in Chicago in the late eighties. She was with her dad, and he was investigating a crime Gennarro Battaglia—Biggie—committed; allegedly committed.
Biggie remembers her now, she was in her teens or early twenties. Her dad was a cop, a detective in Chicago. He retired from that. Now he’s a professor of criminology, mainly guest lectures, at various universities. “You’re Jericho Henson’s daughter,” he flatly states.
“Yes,” she answers.
“You came to me, with your dad, about a case he was working on. To question me. Well, I mean, he was the one with all the questions. You tagged along to see what he did, to audit his casework, study him. It was plainly obvious.”
“Yes. You have a good memory, Mr. Jones.” He can see she is also plainly on guard with him.
“When you look like that you remind me of your dad
,” he says. “You might not know this, but I kind of liked him. We thought alike.”
She doesn’t say anything.
Battaglia continues on, “Many of his lectures are about the analytical mind of organized crime, and some of them feature me.”
Nodding her head, and looking at him intently, she says, “My dad would always tell me the gangster and the cop are of like minds—they think the same ways, have the same suspicions, and are both of a benign sociopathic nature. To be good, you have to be. The difference is the order of control. The more you have, the better you’ll be.”
“That’s right, Detective. Your father and I are pretty good, maybe even the best, because of our focus. I attended a few of his lectures, by the way. I remember one particular segment, and I quote, ‘Due to their chosen profession, the criminal and the cop behave differently; one a law breaker, the other a law maker. It could have easily been the other way around, as in nature vs. nurture. They are the ying and yang.’”
Biggie and Addie both remember her dad as the one that almost caught Biggie in that double murder soon after he became overboss of the DiCaprio Family. It sealed his control.
“He saw me in the audience, and we talked afterwards. It happened a few times. We didn’t become friends or anything like that. But, we had a mutual understanding,” he tells her. “He’s the only one that got close enough to putting me away.”
She’s a little surprised with this confession, “And I guess you know how you got off.”
He nods, “The victims, if you can call them that, disappeared from the forensic morgue. They weren’t very nice people. You wouldn’t have liked them.”
“No bodies, no crime,” she affirms, and they look each other over for a long moment. Then she adds, “Nice trick.”
Standing up, she thanks him and leaves his company. He actually looks a little sad to see her go, like she’s walking away and leaving him emptyhanded, something undone.
On her way out, her cell rings, and she sees Juvieux is trying to reach her. She picks up and says, “What you got, David? Give me something I can use. You’re watching this guy’s house all the time. You have to have something.”
Shamefully, he replies, “I have almost nothing. When Jones leaves, we shut everything down and follow him. That’s our mission.”
She stops short and hisses into the receiver, “You have to be fucking kidding me! Jesus H Christ!”
Juvieux winces at this but calmly replies, “What I do have is a visitor list, and it’s got some interesting names on there. These names are highly connected dirtbags, and they all have a reason to want the Joneses dead.”
“It’s better than what I have now. I’ll take it.” She hangs up. Juvieux is used to her behavior by now. He calmly ends his call and turns back to the business before him.
Before Henson leaves, she tells management the station will call soon. They’ll give the go ahead to have Jones’s house cleaned up and repaired. Until then, it’s a crime scene.
She has no interest in telling them who Ken Jones really is. It’s a distraction, and it’s not their business.
Yet.
Chapter 5 Mitch
July
Criminal: a person with predatory instincts who has not sufficient capital to form a corporation. Howard Scott
There’s a small park south of Asheville surrounding Lake Julian. Like a lot of other metropolitan lakes, it’s man-made and purposed, serving the cooling needs of the Duke Power Station on the far side. However, boaters, fishermen, swimmers, all use it, and it’s all here. The park even has a disc golf course. The French broad river that runs past it, west of Asheville, feeds the lake cold freshwater and takes the run-off when needed.
Today, in the park, a woman is waiting, looking out over the water, seated on a bench. She’s feeding the waterfowl, which is a no-no, but she doesn’t much follow the rules anyway. Her back is to the small parking lot as a car pulls in and stops. A man steps out and begins to walk toward her.
Mitch is a little nervous meeting with her. She’s a hitman, and she works for Spadaro, but she’s dangerous and creepy. She’s thin, of average height, with a skinny face and steely eyes on top of a pointed nose and severe chin, with pencil lips. She looks like she’s dead, almost flaunting her pale skin, carrying her lack of expression wherever she goes.
When he arrives, he stops and takes a seat, “Hello, Helen. Nice day, huh?”
“It’s a little too hot for me, Mitch,” she replies.
“How’d you get past security?” Mitch inquires.
“I’m a real estate agent. That’s my real job,” she chuckles, continuing to feed the birds. He knows she doesn’t like him, which is fine, because she makes his skin crawl.
“I see Biggie wasn’t home when you paid your visit. Why did you start the job?” he asks.
“I followed the instructions you gave me. ‘Go to the home of Ken Jones on Wednesday and do the job,’” she answers.
Mitch is perturbed, “Now Battaglia is on guard, and he’ll be protected. He’ll be looking for you. You should have waited until they were together.”
She turns to face him, and her expression is death. “I followed my instructions. Really, how can you and your guys be so bad at what you do that you didn’t know he wouldn’t be home?” She laughs scornfully. “Don’t put this on me. It doesn’t matter anyway, he can’t be that well protected. I’ll find the hole in his security and the job will be done within a month. And now, my fee.”
“Let me see the pictures first,” he says, and Helen hands him the camera, telling Mitch, “I’ll send you a link to an anonymous site.” She flashes a sick smile and adds, “It’s the convenience of technology. You’re welcome.”
As Mitch begins to look through the pictures, his eyes become as big as saucers and he mutters under his breath as he flips through the photographs, “Holy shit, Helen. You did this? Look at her face.” He fights back the urge to become ill.
“You said to make it look like a murder and not a hit,” she calmly replies. She takes the camera from his hands, and then stands up.
“One million now, nine million later after you do the job on Biggie,” he says and finishes with, “you’ll see the money in three days. Good?”
Mitch looks to her to acknowledge her agreement, but she’s already walking away. He shakes his head, watching her and thinking about the photos he just saw, “Holy Shit.”
◆◆◆
As Mitch is driving away, he remembers the golf match in Heritage HIlls, and Ken Jones was his partner, just a few days ago. He sat glaring after Jones as he walked away, Mitch's heavily lidded eyes following Jones, thinking "Spadaro is stepping things up, finally, to assume control, so Mr. Jones there has a big surprise coming his way. Then we can get rid of this pompous pest, along with his wife Elsie, that bitch." Mitch will never get over how she treated him years ago. Elsie was Mitch’s love interest, and she chose Gennarro Battaglia over him. It was very embarrassing for him, how he was dumped. Because of it, he left the DiCaprio Family and headed over to the Spadaro camp. In time, he became Spadaro’s Consigliore, after Spadaro’s brother was taken out by the DiCaprios.
Mitch Conti is a bald-headed, overweight old man, but powerful enough to have risen in the DiCaprio Family and the Spadaro Family. Anthony Spadaro’s brother Victor was in New York to discuss expanding into New York City decades ago when his car caught fire on the Belt Parkway and he was burned alive. It was a strong message from the DiCaprios. Ken has no idea Mitch and Anthony Spadaro nurse this open wound and look forward to satisfaction one day. It was just business, and everything was settled decades ago. The Spadaros were out of line. At the least, that was the decision of the Chicago Family Syndicate.
Snapping back to reality, Mitch's cell rings. It’s Spadaro. He’s not looking forward to this call. His boss will be pissed over the screw-up Elsie dead and Biggie still alive - and dangerous
“Anthony,” Mitch answers. Before he can get any further, Spadaro stops him.
“Anthony, we gave instructions and they were followed. Who knew? I’m pissed too, but we don’t pay people to think on their feet and make their own call. When I spoke to our friend, I was told the case will be solved within a month. We have to be satisfied with that and not overreact. Please, boss, let’s think clearly on it.”
Spadaro thinks about this and, still steaming, says, “It better be. Did you make payment?”
Mitch answers, “One now and nine later. So, the final payment is the bulk of the agreement, and the incentive plan is in place.”
“I’m not laughing, Mitch.” Spadaro hangs up in a huff.
Mitch shuts down the call.
Chapter 6 Helen
July
There are, fortunately, very few people who can say that they have actually attended a murder. Margery Allingham, Death of a Ghost
As Helen enters her car and pushes the ignition, she’s busy thinking. The scene at Battaglia’s house was the most gruesome she’s ever left. She wishes Biggie had been home so the business could have been tidied up in one day. Now she’s going to have to actually work for her payoff. That’s a novel idea.
After leaving Elsie Battaglia to lie there, she had gone through the home, but Biggie wasn’t there. Looking in the garage, she saw only one car. Helen left after that, the same way she got in.
It wasn’t hard getting into Heritage Hills. She’ll do it again, but she wants it to be the last time. The last time for everything. She’s out, and Spadaro won’t realize she’s gone until she’s half a world away. She’s got sunny Australia in mind, and the sooner she arrives there, this whole business will be a memory, if that.