Killing The Rat (An Organized Crime Thriller) (22 page)
Read Killing The Rat (An Organized Crime Thriller) Online
Authors: Dani Amore
“The tapes,” Rierdon said.
From her suitcase, Wanda Bernstein produced the cassettes she had been given by Loreli, who in turn, had been given them by a man she only knew as “Jack.”
Loreli watched as Rierdon and her boss seemed to be utterly transfixed by the sight of the tapes made by Tommy Abrocci. She knew she was forgotten but not gone. She got to her feet.
Rierdon looked up from the tapes. “I don’t know how you survived this, or how you got these,” she said. “You must be blessed.”
“I had a little help,” she said, and ruffled Liam’s head.
“We know about that. We don’t know who he was, but we know someone else was involved. A mystery man. Why don’t you—”
“We’re done here,” Wanda interrupted. “According to the deal, you’ve got the tapes, Loreli’s got her freedom. There’s nothing else for us to discuss.”
Rierdon smiled at the both of them.
“Oops, you’re right,” she said. “Nonetheless, I intend to find out who that person was.”
“Without Loreli’s help.”
“That’s right,” Rierdon said. “Right after my vacation.”
68.
Rierdon’s flight left at six o’clock in the evening. She’d had a drink at the airport bar, a dry martini, and had boarded the plane with just minutes to spare. But she didn’t hurry. The flight wasn’t crowded and she was on vacation. As the plane left the ground, she felt the pressure of the last few months drop from her shoulders.
The flight landed in Atlanta, refueled, then took off again for Jamaica. It was nearly four in the morning, Jamaica time, when they landed. As they descended into Kingston, Amanda could see the turquoise blue water glowing in the pre-dawn darkness. Her stomach felt light, her heart threatening to leap from her body. On the ground, she slipped a ten spot to a airport busboy and he brought her back a plastic bag filled with bottles of Red Stripe. On the way to the resort, on the bus, she gave two bottles to a couple who obviously were honeymooning. The two of them and Amanda were the only ones, besides the driver, on the bus.
They roared along the coastline, the driver taking sharp turns with no need for safety, save a quick toot of the horn just in case another bus was rounding the curve going the other way. Rierdon slid the window down and breathed the air in deeply. It was warm, heavy and moist.
Amanda looked at the couple. They were starting a new life together, obviously full of love and hopes and dreams. She wondered how they’d be in a few years, if the mundane aspects of life; bills, budgets, the rigors of survival would wear them down. She hoped not. Today, she was a romantic.
The bus pulled up in front of the resort two hours later. The entrance was covered with thick foliage, a gap in the wall of green. The bus wound its way down a heavily landscaped drive before pulling up in front of the main office. A porter got her suitcase out and she followed him to one of the oceanside cabanas.
He used his key to unlock the door. Amanda saw the suitcase on the bed, its flap open revealing a small cache of clothes. The porter put Amanda’s suitcase next to the bed and she tipped him five dollars. When the door closed behind him, Amanda turned and locked the door. She heard footsteps behind her, then a pair of hands on her shoulders. The hands slid forward and cupped her breasts.
Amanda turned.
Gloria Romano smiled at her. To Amanda, the smile, the eyes, the lips, they were all the most beautiful things in the world. Amanda’s knees were weak. She brought her arms up and they collided, mouths pressed together in a deep passionate kiss.
It was all worth it, she thought, setting up Tommy Abrocci with the sting operation. It had been Gloria’s idea, really. She’d overheard the pig talking about his fling on the Internet with a young girl. Gloria had told her and the trap was sprung.
The goal, to put away Vincenzo Romano, was the best of both worlds. Amanda got her crowning achievement, Gloria got rid of him for good. And they had each other.
Oh yes, Amanda, thought, we’ll have each other. We’ll have each other again and again. She couldn’t wait to taste the saltwater on Gloria’s skin.
She would taste Gloria everywhere.
69.
The last box barely fit into the Camry’s trunk. When Loreli pushed it shut, she had to lean on it until she heard the click telling her the trunk was latched. She watched Liam play in the front yard with his soccer ball. He kicked it, ran and chased it, then kicked it back. The house was shrouded in plastic and sealed off with crime tape. Part of the deal was that she was allowed to come back and get some of her stuff. There wasn’t much.
“Come on, Liam, time to go.”
Liam picked up his ball. Loreli got her mail, the last batch. They were moving to Wisconsin and she had already filed their change-of-address form.
Loreli put the mail in her purse, then checked her watch. “Come on Liam, it’s time to go if we want to beat Chicago rush hour traffic.”
Liam scrambled into the back seat of the Camry, surrounded by boxes and a plant, and buckled himself in.
Loreli got behind the wheel and put her purse on the passenger seat. The tank was full of gas.
She was looking forward to a new future.
Not what the future would be. Just that there was one to look forward to.
70.
Jack figured that there were three kinds of people in his profession. The first were the amateurs. They usually acted out of madness or brazen ego, no intention of surviving for the long haul. Often they were filled with insane images of what killers-for-hire were all about. They tended to last as long as their first job. They usually ended up getting killed or sent to prison quickly.
The second tier was the lower-level pros. They usually stumbled onto the profession from a background of breaking and entering, burglary or cons. They weren’t as foolish as the amateurs, but they weren’t serious about killing. Among this level, they could be sub-divided into two groups: the creative, and the methodical. The creative lower level guys could think on their feet, but were poor planners and undisciplined. The methodical guys were great at planning and organization, but couldn’t improvise, couldn’t innovate when the situation called for it. Both groups were ultimately failures, doomed to make mistakes, get caught and die. That was why they always stayed on the second tier.
The third tier was where Jack was. The ultimate pros. Not in it for ego. But not in it because he was trapped like the second tier suckers. And he figured the reason he’d made it this far was that he was the best of both worlds: he could be creative, he could innovate, he could fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants. But he could also plan. He could organize. He was a perfectionist.
And that’s why the puzzle didn’t fit together as neatly as he would have liked. In fact, that last piece so troubled him that he spoke to several people after the story disappeared from the front pages of the newspaper.
One of the people he spoke to was Big Paulie Bernocchi.
Big Paulie pointed him in the direction of the last puzzle piece. All Jack had to do was pick it up and snap it into place.
Jack sat at the bar for nearly four hours before they finally made their appearance. He was as close to being drunk as he ever got, certainly on a job. But the hot Caribbean sun had provided the motivation, the sparkle of the blue water, the crystal dagger reflections of the sand provided the atmosphere, and the bartender provided easy access. The beer flowed easily. The breeze coming off the ocean was pure and rich. He could taste the salt in the air. The sun was prickly hot.
It was an upscale resort. The kind for couples only, couples who wanted to frolic in Paradise, drink and swim all day, cavort all night, get up in the morning and start the whole process over again.
For some reason he thought of the secretary, Loreli was her name he was pretty sure. He’d given her the Abrocci tapes because he knew she had a kid, a boy. Hell, maybe he’d look her up one day.
The sound of a speedboat cruising past the beach brought him back to the present. This kind of resort was all about privacy, even though the general public could come to the main restaurant for drinks and dinner. Jack had found the place with a few well-placed calls. He knew the two people, their names, and he had a pretty good idea what was going on, so a quick trace of their credit cards revealed the tickets on one, the hotel on the other. He could have left it at that, naturally, but there was something about wanting to see them together that made him get on the plane and come down.
The bartender was a friendly Jamaican. Jack figured that was redundant. Did Jamaicans ever get grouchy? Probably. One thing Jack had learned. People were the same everywhere. Sure, they dressed differently. Spoke different languages. But when it came right down to it, everybody was just like everyone else. Everyone had bad days, fought with their spouses, wondered about the future, felt the wide range of guilt, joy, envy and pride. Each day for every person was a variation on a theme. The same song with slightly different words. Except maybe the Spook. Jack wondered where he was. The man was a fricking ghost. But Jack figured that in their line of work, they were bound to run into each other again. He was looking forward to it.
The bartender turned as the two approached the bar. Jack, in a straw hat and a fresh sunburn, watched them as they ordered and took their drinks toward the beach. Jack shoved away from the bar and followed them. He sat at a table as he watched them walk down the beach, farther and father from the resort. When they were too far away for them to recognize him, he walked after them.
The waves were lapping onto the beach as the sun slowly began to sink. Evenings in Jamaica were truly beautiful, Jack thought. The sand squished between his pathetically white feet. The beers were numbing him a bit, but he walked quickly and became his old self. He closed the distance on them just as he saw them step from the beach behind a big palm tree.
Jack walked quickly ahead and then, a few feet from the spot on the beach where they stopped, he slowed. As he passed, he saw them out of the corner of his eye.
Amanda Rierdon’s mouth was parted, her eyes closed, her lips tightly clamped on the lips of a dark-haired, slender woman. As Jack passed, they pulled their faces away.
Gloria Romano glanced at Jack. He walked slowly by, the puzzle piece slamming into place. Had Rierdon always wanted to put Romano away? Or only after she’d fallen in love with his wife? It didn’t matter. She had the means to get it done. Gloria had helped by setting up Tommy Abrocci. Gloria couldn’t very well wear a wire. If word got out that Gloria and Amanda were lovers, they’d have no case. But Tommy was an objective third party. So Gloria and Amanda set him up. Stuck him with a fake Internet luring charge. Only Tommy didn’t cooperate. Now, Tommy was dead, and Gloria’s husband was in prison.
And Betty was dead.
His hand moved toward the waistband of his swimming suit. A 9mm was nestled there, bought from a local in a filthy alley in Kingston.
He saw the two women kiss again. He and Betty had kissed like that. Never in Jamaica. Never leaning against a palm tree while the Caribbean sun warmed their skins.
He turned and raised the gun.
Bad things happened everywhere.
Even in Paradise.
THE END
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