Cold Shot to the Heart (19 page)

“What happened?”

“Everything was under control, we were almost out. Stimmer panicked or something. Let one go.”

“You knew this Stimmer from before? Worked with him?”

“Yes. Always steady, solid. I don't know what happened this time.”

He shook his head slowly, looked out at the beach.

“You know more than you're telling,” she said.

“When this thing happened, how did it play?”

She looked back into the activity room. A janitor was pushing a mop across the floor.

“I was out in the hallway,” she said. “We were three seconds from being gone when I heard the shot.”

“You had all the money already? No one got brave?”

“Right.”

“So maybe he didn't panic.”

“You're losing me, Jimmy.”

“Like I said, I still hear things. And knowing Tino, I wouldn't be surprised.”

“By what?”

“Tino and his son-in-law never got along. Everybody knew it. Lou was a big mouth. Always butting heads with Tino, with Nicky, too, the son. But Tino's hands were tied, because of the daughter. So he gave him a piece of some things he had going on in Florida, sent him down there to get rid of him.”

“Okay.”

“Tino's in the middle of a big case right now. RICO. Maybe twenty-five people altogether. Extortion, intent to distribute, laundering, the whole deal. If he goes down on even half of those, he's done. Now he's got health problems. Not as bad as me, but still, you don't want to be a sixty-five-year-old man going back to prison.”

“I guess not.”

“When you're young, it's different. It's part of the deal. You make up for it when you get out, you get new respect. But at our age, no. There's no getting out. It's where you die.”

“Was Letteri part of the case?”

“Should have been, deep as he was in with Tino. But from what I hear, he wasn't indicted.”

“How do you know that?”

“None of this is news. It was all in the papers. I read them every day. Guy Sterling, used to write for the
Star-Ledger,
he usually had it right, or close enough. Capeci, too, in the
Daily News
. They always had their sources.”

“Guys like you?”

“Me? Never. I used to read them, though.”

“So Letteri cut a deal?”

“Who knows? Tino probably thought so, paranoid as he is. Maybe he knew for sure, maybe he didn't.”

“If Letteri was working with the Feds on that case, why would they leave him out there hanging? Why not stash him somewhere safe?”

“Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was just thinking about it, or they were trying to turn him. Maybe it was all bullshit. But knowing Tino, he wouldn't want to take the chance. It's like they say, ‘When in doubt, have no doubt.' ”

She looked out at the beach, the waves crashing in, playing it out in her mind.

“He couldn't do it outright,” she said.

“It's his son-in-law. This way, the daughter might suspect—she'd have to, with half a brain—but she doesn't know for sure. Plus it gets Tino off the hook for taking out a made guy without approval. It's all that old Sicilian bullshit. Never changes. Smile in your face, stab you in the back.”

“Stimmer's dead. Someone left him in the trunk of his car.”

“Up here in Jersey?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“Why?”

“Someone kills your son-in-law, you gotta respond, right? Would look bad if he didn't. Besides, if this Stimmer pulled the trigger on Tino's say-so, he's a liability. There's only one way to make sure he keeps his mouth shut. That's the way Tino works. He's a snake. Always has been.”

“That's what has me concerned.”

“What?”

“What are the chances whoever took out Stimmer might be after me as well?”

“For what reason?”

“As an example. Or he's looking for the money we took from the game.”

He thought about that for a moment, shook his head. “Tino would want to limit his exposure on this. The son-in-law goes, then the man who pulled the trigger goes, too. Case closed. But having someone chase around after the cash, bringing more attention? Doesn't make sense. Tino's already solved all his problems. Why complicate things?”

“Maybe he thinks Stimmer told the rest of us what his deal was.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don't know.”

He shook his head again. “Like I said, makes no sense. If the man who did Stimmer is looking for you, he's got his own agenda. I don't think Tino would be happy with that.”

“I see what you mean.”

“If you want, I can ask around a little, on the quiet. Make a couple calls.”

“I don't want to cause you any trouble.”

“Like I said, I still know a few people. Give me a couple days, let me see what I find out.”

“Thanks, Jimmy. I appreciate it.”

“Well, you know what they say about us.”

“What's that?”

“An Italian outgrows his clothes, but he never outgrows his friends.”

She put a hand on his forearm, squeezed, felt the bone beneath.

“You should go away for a while,” he said. “Let this play out, one way or another.”

“I've thought about that.”

“You should do it. If one of Tino's people is running around off the leash, causing problems, sooner or later it'll come to a head. Go somewhere safe, wait for the smoke to clear.”

She nodded, stood. “Thanks for your counsel.”

“Help me up.”

He rose slowly from the chair. She put a hand under his elbow to guide him, braced the walker as he shifted his weight to it.

“It's almost dinnertime,” he said. “I'd invite you to stay, but I don't think you'd like it much. The salisbury steak here isn't bad, believe it or not. But when they try to do Italian, forget about it. Ragu and Cheez Whiz on macaroni left over from the war.”

They made their way toward the door, the janitor still in there mopping. Jimmy took her arm. “Hold on a second.”

She looked at him.

“Take my advice on this if nothing else,” he said. “Get some money together. Enough to last you for a while. Go somewhere far away, somewhere warm. Wait for this to blow over.”

“I don't know,” she said. “This time I don't think it will.”

*   *   *

On the way back to the city, she tried Hector. The line buzzed six times, then went to voice mail. Fifteen minutes later, she tried again. When the voice mail picked up, she said, “Me. Call back as soon as you can.”

She lowered the phone, thought about what Jimmy Peaches had told her. The whole thing a setup, Tino Conte behind it, and she and Chance had walked right into it, played their parts. It made her angry at Stimmer, at herself. Wayne would have been more careful, done some digging on his own before he committed. Keep an eye out for trouble coming, he used to say, then move around it.

Too late for that, she thought. She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. You're in the middle of it now. And the only way out is through.

TWENTY-TWO

By noon the next day, Hector hadn't called back. She paced the apartment, tried his number again. When it went to voice mail, she ended the call.

The cat watched her from the futon, sensing her agitation. She went into the kitchen, opened a can of food for it, spooned it into the plastic bowl. The sound of the electric can opener usually brought the cat running, but this time it stayed where it was. I know how you feel, Crissa thought. I don't think I could eat either.

She'd stored the .38 and the box of shells above a panel in the kitchen's drop ceiling. Now she stood on a chair and took the gun out, fit the panel back in place. She got a package of thick brown rubber bands from the desk, wrapped four of them around the .38's mother-of-pearl grips. They would steady the gun in her hand, keep it from slipping, prevent fingerprints as well.

She turned the gun over, felt its weight. She had never fired a weapon at anyone in her life, hoped to never have to. Guns were their own craziness, like drugs. Another distraction from the real work, from the calm and careful planning that set things in motion and made them pay off. They were a necessary tool, a threat, but to be caught with one meant even more trouble. She never carried one except when working, and then got rid of it as soon as the work was done.

The .38 was different. It wasn't a tool. It was insurance.

At three in the afternoon, she tried him once more, hung up when it went to voice mail. There was nothing to do now except wait until night.

*   *   *

She cruised by the house twice. No lights inside. Hector's brown Nova, his latest restoration project, was parked halfway up the block. It was crooked, front wheels angled to the curb, as if it had been left in a hurry.

She parked a block away, tried his phone one last time. No answer.

She got out and walked back to the house, her right hand on the gun in her pocket. Spanish television noise blared from the house next door. On the porch, she pressed the doorbell, heard it buzz inside. She rang twice more, then went around back.

The yard was small. As she neared the door, a motion sensor light kicked on bright. She went up the wooden back steps, stood on her toes, reached and loosened the bulb with gloved fingers. The yard went dark again.

She looked through the kitchen window into darkness, listened. After a moment, she brought out the penlight and leather lockpick wallet. She thumbed the light on, held it in her teeth, took a pressure wrench and pick from their sleeves.

She worked the dead bolt first. She slid a wrench into the keyhole, twisted it to keep tension, then used the pick to rake the inside of the cylinder. When she felt the pins slip, she turned the wrench farther. The lock clicked open.

The knob was easier. When she was done, she shut the penlight off, opened the door, felt it catch against a chain. She stopped to listen again, hoping Hector wasn't inside with a gun, waiting to see who came through his back door. All she could hear was the tick of a clock in another room.

She put the pick set away, took out a small spool of heavy-gauge wire. Straightening a foot-length of it, she bent the end into a hook. She fed the wire through the gap in the door, feeling for the chain. She caught it on the second try, eased the door toward her to put slack in the links. When she pushed the wire toward the center of the door, the chain unlatched and fell free.

Drawing the .38, she moved inside, edged the door shut behind her. She raised the penlight in a reverse grip, thumbed the button.

The kitchen was small and neat, dishes stacked to dry on a counter, children's artwork on the refrigerator door. Snapshots there as well. Hector with Luisa and the kids. Hector and his brother Pablo in tuxedos, arms around each other, grinning fiercely at the camera. Hector in a wifebeater and sunglasses, arms crossed, leaning against the hood of the Nova.

She went through the dark house, fanning the penlight in front of her. In the living room, a couch, chairs, and a wide-screen TV. To the right, a staircase leading up.

Above her, floorboards squeaked.

She switched the penlight off. Another creak. Footsteps, but faint, someone trying to be quiet. She backed away from the stairs, raised the .38. She could feel her heart thumping, the blood in her ears.

Another noise above. Then someone on the stairs, coming down into darkness.

She steadied the .38 in her right hand, gripped the penlight with her left, wrists crossed, thumb on the button. Her finger tightened on the trigger. No time to cock it. To fire, she'd have to take the long double-action pull, hope she was quick enough.

Steps creaking. Midway now, a darker shape there in the shadows. Facing her.

She was squeezing the penlight button when a beam of light came from the stairs, shining fully into her face, blinding her. Her penlight clicked on, the beam reaching out, illuminating the form there, and she squeezed the trigger on the .38, the hammer coming back, the light showing her the man on the steps, the gun in his hand, and then the man was saying, “Whoah, whoah, hold on, hold on…” and she saw his face, eased the pressure on the trigger.

He lowered his gun, let the light drop away from her face.

“Hey, Red,” Chance said. “Thought it might be you.”

*   *   *

They were upstairs in a bedroom, the room torn apart, clothes on the floor. The mattress had been upended, a bureau turned on its side, drawers pulled out. Chance had drawn all the blinds, put a lamp on the floor, and switched it on. It threw their shadows big against the wall.

“I thought you were in Cleveland,” she said.

“I lied.” He sat on the edge of the box spring, put the gun down beside him. He wore a black army field jacket, a dark sweater, and black gloves. “I guess I'm getting a little paranoid. Can you blame me?”

“How'd you get in?”

“Side window. You?”

“Back door.” She looked around the room. “You do this?”

“Way I found it. I only got here about a half hour ago. Kids' room is the same way. Shit dumped everywhere. Somebody looking for something.”

She put the .38 back in her jacket pocket. “Why are you here?”

“My guy Sladden got a call from our friend Stimmer. Or at least from someone using his cell phone. They asked for me. Thing is, when you do the math, Stimmer was already dead when the call was made.”

“Then whoever killed him got his cell phone.”

“And all the numbers in it. Sladden called me. He wasn't happy. He doesn't like surprises. He tried Hector a few times, yesterday and today. No answer. So I started to get worried, came up here tonight.”

“You couldn't have been far.”

“Wilmington. It's not Cleveland, but hey.”

She knelt by the closet. Floorboards had been pried up. A battered black strongbox lay open and empty in the hole.