Don of the Dead (16 page)

"He's still my son."

"He collects art glass."

Gus looked back at the display and his top lip curled. "In my day—"

Before he could get started with a reminiscence, I raised my hand and rapped on the door, and when I was met with a gruff, "Come," I squared my shoulders and headed inside.

There were no windows in that room and after being outside, then in the flood of soft evening light that filled the entryway, it took a couple seconds for me to get my bearings. I don't suppose I made a good impression standing there staring like a lunatic but I couldn't help myself. When my eyes finally got used to the light of the single lamp that was lit on the huge mahogany desk in the corner, the first person I saw was Gus.

But of course, it wasn't.

The man seated behind the desk was the spitting image of his father. I should have expected it, but it caught me off guard, anyway. Rudy was just about the age then that Gus had been when he was murdered. They had the same pit bull body, the same bullet head. Even Rudy's nose was a duplicate of Gus's and the thought crossed my mind that somewhere along the way, he'd probably had it broken on purpose. Just so nobody could miss the resemblance and forget whose son he was.

Instead of an Italian silk suit like his father wore, though, Rudy was dressed country club casual, in khakis and a red sweater every bit as expensive as the furnishings in his office. He jumped out of his leather chair and headed over to me, his hand extended, his voice simmering with admiration.

"Hey, sweetheart. You told me you were writing a book. You didn't tell me you were gorgeous and writing a book."

"Can you believe the nerve of the boy?" Gus clicked his tongue. "Talking that way to a respectable woman. I never would have—"

I ignored him. So I'm shallow. It was nice to know that someone appreciated the just-above-the-knee black skirt and the hot-pink shirt I'd paired it with. Even if the someone in question was the local godfather.

I managed a smile and the oh-so-professional tone of voice that had gotten me my job at Garden View.

"That's because the only thing that matters about this visit is that book I'm writing," I told Rudy. I let him hand me into a chair and when I sat down, he went back to his spot behind the desk. "I think I explained all that on the phone."

Rudy made himself comfortable. "I see you metZia Marie."

I didn't ask how he knew. If Rudy didn't know everything that happened around there, I'd have been surprised. "She's a little… "

"Confused?"

Understatement of the year. I thought about Marie and Nurse Godzilla. "Your aunt doesn't like her caretaker," I told Rudy.

Hesteepled his fingers and looked at me over them. "And you know this how?"

"Marie is afraid of the woman. And the nurse… well, I've watched the Discovery Channel. I've seen more caring instincts in a jellyfish."

"I'll take care of her."

It was as simple as that. And it scared me to death. Not to mention what I thought it might do to the nurse. I know I went as white as a sheet because my face got cold. "I didn't mean for you to—"

Rudy's laugh cut me short. "What? You think I'm going to take a hit out on the woman? Honestly, Miss Martin. I'm not talking murder, I'm talking a severance package. A pretty hefty one, if I do say so myself." Still laughing, he took a cigar from a wooden case on the desk, trimmed it, and fired it up. It stank. In an expensive sort of way.

Rudy took a puff and blew out a ring of white smoke. "You're confusing me with my father."

"And you're not like him."

Another puff and I held my breath when the smoke headed my way. "This isn't the old days," he told me.

"I'm a legitimate businessman. You must know that if you've started your research." He swept an arm toward the shelves of books behind him. "I have the annual reports here to prove it. I'll have my executive assistant put a packet of them together for you, if you like. You'll see. Things are different now.

Don't let thoseHollywood movies make you think any different. We aren't pieces of shit—you should excuse the expression—in three-thousand-dollar suits."

"And your father was."

It wasn't a question, but Rudy tipped his head back and thought about it. I didn't bother to look to see what Gus was doing. I didn't have to. The next thing I knew, he was standing right behind Rudy. It was a little disconcerting to see them together, one like the mirror image of the other. Rather than think about it, I kept my eyes on Rudy and my notepad clasped in my hands.

"Back in my father's day, we conducted business in a different manner," Rudy said. "The way my father died, well, that's pretty much all the proof you need to know that."

"The way he died… " I cleared my throat. It was the only way I could get the words out. "That's exactly what I came to talk to you about."

Rudy eyed me through the gloom. "Are you asking me if I had anything to do with it?"

"No. That is… I… Oh, what the hell!" I tapped my pen against the red leather cover of my portfolio.

"Actually, that's exactly what I'd like to know. Not if you had anything to do with it!" I added, just so he didn't get the wrong idea and think that I was too nosey. Or that I was accusing him of anything. "Just what you know about it all. For the book, of course."

"Looks and nerve." Rudy shook his head in a way that said he admired both qualities. "I hate to disappoint you but at the time of my old man's untimely demise, I had a pretty ironclad alibi. I was a guest of the feds."

"Witness protection?"

"Prison."

"Oh. Federal prison. My father—" I stopped short of getting into it, then decided that it might actually help build some kind of rapport. "My father's in federal prison," I told Rudy. "Medicare fraud."

"Really." Another nod of admiration. "That takes brains. And guts. And how are you getting along on your own?"

"I never said I was alone." My smile was as sleek as the smoke that rose from the tip of Rudy's cigar.

"And you never said if you know who had your father killed."

Rudy shrugged. "Could'abeen anybody."

"Anybody but you."

"Damned straight." He stabbed his cigar into theWaterford ashtray on his desk. "He was my father."

"And that deal he was working on with VictorLaGanza ? The one that would have gotten them a share of the lottery pie?"

At this, Rudy sat up straight. "How the hell do you know—"

"I told you. I've done plenty of research already. I know there were millions of dollars at stake. My theory is that when your father was killed, those millions of dollars went to someone else."

For a long time, Rudy didn't say a word. He stared. Just stared. And I didn't dare look to see how Gus was reacting to all this. Something told me if I took my eyes off Rudy, it was the equivalent of holding up a white flag. Right now, I couldn't afford a show of weakness.

Just when I thought I couldn't stand the tension any longer, Rudy backed down. In an I'm-still-the-boss-and-don't-get-any-idea-I'm-not sort of way. "Yeah, well… if there was a deal, and we're talking in purely hypothetical terms here, if there was a deal and there were millions at stake, we would have lost the money when Pop got iced."

That was news and apparently, my blank expression said it all.

"It looks like you haven't done your homework very good, honey. You see,
if
there was such a deal, then when Pop was killed, the deal would have fallen through. Back in the day, that's how these things used to be structured. TheScarpetti Family wouldn't make the money. TheLaGanza Family wouldn't make the money. So you see, if it was true—and believe me, I'm not saying it is—but if it was, thanks to my father's murder, me and VictorLaGanza , wewould'a lost millions. Just about takes care of both our motives, don't you think?"

It did.

"Then who—"

"Look… " Rudy got up, went to the door, and opened it. Not one to ignore messages when they're sent by mob bosses, I stood and followed him across the room.

"I agreed to see you," he said, "because I think it's about time theScarpetti family got a little good press.

I'm an honest businessman. I support a dozen different charities. I give to my church. Hell, I even sit on the board. I back a number of worthy causes. I even take care of the people who were once my father's business associates. You know, at a retirement home sort of place. That's the kind of thing you should be writing about, not who killed my old man. Because that's ancient history and it don't serve no useful purpose. If you decide to write my side of the story, give me a call sometime." When I got close enough, he looked down my cleavage. "Or maybe if you want to have dinner and a few laughs. But this other stuff, thismafioso bullshit… "

Rudy put a hand on my back. He nudged me into the hallway at the same time he leaned in close and whispered, "If you're smart, you'll forget all about that."

I
was
smart
.

Smart enough to notice that when I snaked down the drive, pulled through the iron gate that whisked open in front of me like magic, and headed out of theScarpetti compound, a car that was parked a hundred feet up the road turned on its lights and swung onto the street behind me.

But smart doesn't automatically mean suspicious and at that point, I had more important things to worry about than who besides me was out for a Thursday night drive.

Rudy the Cootie's last words still rang in my ears. Was it friendly advice? Or a threat?

I would have asked Gus for his take on the situation, but the last I'd seen of him was back in Rudy's office.

I wondered, too, what he'd have to say in regard to Rudy's explanation about the lottery scheme gone bad. If the Cootie was telling the truth and Gus's death canceled out the deal… well, that pretty much eliminated both Rudy and VictorLaGanza from my very short list of suspects.

Then again, if Rudy was lying…

With a single, grumbled, "Shit," I set the thought aside.

If Rudy was lying, I didn't know how to prove it. Or not prove it. So there I was. Nowhere. Again.

After a full day of work at the cemetery, not to mention the stress of meeting with Rudy, I was tired, and rather than waste any more brain cells trying to work through motives and clues and who was who in the world of bad guys, I deserved a break. I snapped on the radio and tapped my fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of atechnodance tune that had been out a year earlier and already sounded dated. At the next intersection, I took a right.

For a couple seconds, my rearview mirror was dark. Then headlights glared in it.

The car behind me had turned, too.

Was I worried? Why should I be? I was doing the speed limit (almost) so even if it was a cop, I didn't care.

I negotiated a curve and a picturesque stone bridge that spanned theChagrinRiver . The foothills of the Appalachian Mountains begin east ofCleveland and there, the countryside is scenic in a way that assures the folks lucky enough to own property in those parts of both privacy andpriceyness . In the daylight, I knew I'd see steep hills, rocky outcroppings, and once in a while, a break in the trees that indicated a long driveway and a house set in pristine splendor and far from prying eyes.