Legally Dead (23 page)

They'd even wondered aloud why he worked at all. They compared him to a lottery winner who reports to work as usual the day after his big win. At least they did until Ruth Ann coldly pointed out that what happened to him “wasn't like winning the lottery, it was like losing it.”

“After my wife and baby were killed,” Venturi candidly told Archbold and the two agents, “I received a substantial financial settlement.” He paused. “But I could never bring myself to touch it. It felt too much like blood money. But after I turned in my badge, I took time off to decide how to spend the rest of my life. That's when it finally seemed right to use those assets to make the transition easier.”

Archbold listened, the agents took notes. Their questions made it clear he was suspected of passing confidential information to the victims' enemies. Or that he killed them himself.

Unanswered questions about the armored-car robbery and Salvi's arrest had created enormous hostility among his embarrassed superiors who were now under fire. The Salvi case created a storm in the press, public outrage, and, worst of all, the high-profile scrutiny of a Congressional oversight committee whose members were scheduling hearings, asking questions, and compiling reports.

Losing the Schoenberg case was unforgivable.

No one could prove what role, if any, Venturi had played in the entire debacle. But speculation flourished, private conclusions were reached. Certain people, powerful people, would never forgive him. They
wanted
him to be guilty.

Pinning everything, including murder, on him would be justifiable payback in their eyes.

He saw their side, and it dismayed him.

They could build a case based on his state of mind after his wife's death. He had taken little time off, received no counseling, started drinking. Their lost infant was a girl.

Prosecutors could forge a believable argument that when the little girls disappeared, Venturi focused on Salvi and lost it. That he was a disgruntled former employee bent on undermining the program.

He'd sound like a madman.

His lawyer, he thought, could build a defense based on temporary insanity or diminished capacity. How outlandish to be thinking about a defense. How ludicrous to think he'd need one. The killers were out there somewhere. The three men carefully scrutinizing his demeanor and noting every word should get off their fat federal asses and go find them.

Pressed for his whereabouts at the time of each murder, he was deliberately vague. “All I know,” he said, frowning, “is that I was in the South Florida area. I'm not sure of precise dates, but this trip is the farthest north I've been since I left the Marshals Service.”

They asked what he thought had happened to the three murdered witnesses.

“Hard to say. It's been a long time. Conte's wife was always a concern because of her family ties. Their sons were relocated with them, but her parents insisted on staying in New Jersey. She cried a lot, and I knew she'd be tempted to contact them. You know how family members gossip and leak secrets to friends.

“The other two seemed to be doing fine. I don't know what they got into.” He shook his head. “We all know that one in four, that we know of, reverts to old criminal behavior, or picks up new, nasty habits. Like Sammy the Bull.

“Wouldn't it be ironic,” he speculated, thinking aloud, “if their deaths had nothing to do with their pasts?”

They didn't buy that; he saw it in their eyes.

He cocked his head, as though thinking it through. “Of course, the time frame tells us they must be related. They took place in such quick succession.” He frowned. “That can't be coincidence.

“What's your theory?” He looked from one to the other. “Have you got ballistics, or forensics linking them? Witnesses? Descriptions? Tag numbers?”

No one responded. “You know we can't discuss an open investigation,” Archbold finally said.

Then what the hell am I doing here?
he thought.

The dumb fucks were too stupid to trust the one person who might help them. They intended to pick his brain without revealing anything in return. It was what he expected, what Danny had predicted, but it still pissed him off.

“Are you willing to undergo a polygraph test?” Archbold asked casually.

“Absolutely not! No way,” he said, properly indignant. “Why should I?” He raised his voice. “I've done nothing wrong. Not a damn thing. I've spent my whole adult life in service to my country. And you'd accuse me?” He rose to his feet as though to leave in a huff.

“Calm down,” Harrington said soothingly. He gestured toward Venturi's chair. “Take a seat. Don't fly off the handle. We're not accusing you. But if anyone raised the question, it would be convenient to say you've been eliminated. It would save us all time and trouble.”

Reluctantly, still scowling, Venturi sat down.

“I resent the implication,” he said, his voice tight. “I thought I might assist in your investigation. That's why I'm here, because I know them.
Knew
them.”

“That's the hell of it,” Snow said. “You knew them and their locations. Obviously people will look at you.”

Venturi thought for a moment, drummed his fingers on the coffee table, his anger appearing to subside. “If I agreed, it would have to be a highly regarded and experienced private polygraph operator, not someone from your office.”

The three men exchanged glances. “That can be arranged,” Archbold said. “There are good people in Atlanta. I'll get some names.”

“Do that,” Venturi said. “But no fishing expeditions. Only questions relevant to the three cases.”

They agreed.

Snow could not hide his elation.

Archbold made some calls and came up with three names. One was Joe Harper, the man Clay had said was the best in Atlanta.

“I don't know any of them.” Venturi scanned the names. He shrugged. “How about number three, Harper?”

Three hours later he was seated in an office near the courthouse. They agreed to four relevant questions.

There were also two control queries: “Do you believe I'm going to ask you any questions other than the ones we have discussed?” and: “In the past five years, did you lie to someone who trusted you?”

“Yes,” he said to the latter, thinking of Victoria, just the day before.

“Did you kill, or do you know who killed, Dominic DelVecchio, also known as Louis Messineo?”

“No.”

“Did you kill, or do you know who killed, Angelo Conte, also known as William Rubino?”

“No.”

“Did you kill, or do you know who killed, Carmine Cuccinelli, also known as Joseph Mannozzi?”

“No.”

“Did you ever give, sell, or provide to anyone the new identities and/or locations of any protected witnesses?”

“No.”

They told him he'd passed.

I know,
he thought,
because I passed the same test yesterday in Miami.

Archbold and the two FBI agents were crestfallen.

“What do you think?” Archbold asked him candidly, over a drink later. “Where would you start? What's your gut reaction?”

“I'd look where the files are,” Venturi said. “Ask people with access to submit to polygraphs. I'd focus on finding what the three victims had in common—aside from me. They didn't know each other to my recollection, but they must be linked somehow. A mutual friend, enemy, or lover. Check ex-wives and childhood sweethearts. The neighborhoods where they grew up. The schools they attended. Find their juvenile records. See who they ran with back in the day. Maybe they did know each other once. Maybe…” He shrugged.

“Maybe, maybe, maybe.” Archbold sighed. “Unless we get lucky, or a local cop stumbles onto something, it won't be easy.”

“I really wish you good luck, man,” Venturi said. He meant it.

Back in his room he found, as he expected, that the contents of the laptop he'd left had been accessed and copied. He'd filled the hard drive with endless files full of Sudokus. None of the numerical puzzles had been solved. With a playful smirk, he wondered what the super-serious FBI analysts and cryptologists would make of that.

Although he was eager to fly back to Miami, he stayed until the next day, still pretending to conduct business.

He didn't want them to realize that they were the only reason he had come to Atlanta.

Spirits lifted, Venturi relaxed on the flight home the next afternoon. He even began to think about how to help Maheen, the disfigured girl still in peril. He landed in Miami far more at ease than when he'd left, picked up his car at the airport, and drove home.

He used his remote to open the front gate but it stood motionless; the system failed. When he stepped out of the car to punch the code in manually, he saw why. The box containing the motor had been smashed, the gate forced.

He backed across the road and stopped behind some trees, took his gun from under the seat, locked the car, and returned to the house on foot. He vaulted the fence to avoid touching the gate, keeping out of view from the front windows, and ran to the front door. It hung open, kicked in, the wooden frame broken.

He entered cautiously, gun in hand. There had been no finesse used here, just brute force. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Where was Victoria? Scout? What happened to the alarm? The control panel for the security system was dark, dead, dismantled.

He sidestepped down the hallway, light on his feet, back to the wall, stomach churning. Where were they?

He wanted to call their names but didn't dare.

The faucets were on in the guest bath, the one clients used. Water running out from under the door. No one inside. He let the water run and kept moving.

Scout's bed lay on the floor just inside Victoria's room. There were bloodstains and a bullet hole in the hallway wall. No one in her room. The mattress dragged off the bed, bureau drawers upended on the floor. He couldn't tell if the bed had been made. Did the intruder arrive in the dark? The thought chilled him to the core.

In a sudden panic, he headed for the war room. It, too, had been ransacked, savagely ripped apart, papers and files scattered everywhere. The floor safe had been forced open. His laptop was gone.

In it were the confidential files of the six people he'd relocated since coming to Florida. It would take work to decipher; the clients' original names were not included, but their new ones and their destinations were.

Why hadn't he erased them?

Rage overwhelmed him. Was it the government? No search warrant was posted. Who else knew he was out of town?

His mind raced. Were the recent killings an attempt to flush him out? If so, who was hunting him?

He turned off the faucets in the guest bath, then punched in Victoria's cell number. It went directly to voice mail. He heard something as he hung up. A stealthy footfall outside, or perhaps the wind in the melaleuca trees, or maybe the dog. The quiet house was full of shadows.

He positioned himself next to the front door. He would kill an intruder. He would be within the law but hated to have to explain it to the police.

He sensed rather than heard something. The door burst open an instant later. All he saw was the muzzle of a .45-caliber automatic inches from his face. He dropped, rolled for cover, took aim. His finger tightened on the trigger. Then he saw the face behind the .45 and gasped.

“Goddammit! I almost killed you!” Danny said.

“No you didn't!” Venturi stuck his gun in the back of his belt and punched at the wall. “I almost killed you!”

“Son of a bitch! You nearly bought it!”

“Like hell!”

Danny collapsed in a chair and inhaled a deep breath, his head between his knees, still clutching his gun. “Christ, we almost shot each other!” He glanced up, his eyes roving the shadows. “Is the place clear?”

“I've been through the whole house. Nothing. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Heard you left town, tried to call you, then came by to check things out.” Danny squinted impatiently at the caller ID on the vibrating cell phone clipped to his belt, then ignored it.

“Vicki isn't here. I'll kill anybody who hurts her, I swear it, Danny. They took my computer with the personal info on our clients,” he said wearily, his voice thin, “and I think they killed my dog.”

“Scout? Son of a bitch! My kids loved that dog.”

“He's gone, too. And there's blood and a bullet hole in the hall near his bed.”

“Did you call the cops?”

“Would you?”

“Hell, no. They don't investigate, they complicate. They'd try to justify their existence by writing reports we probably don't want to see on public record.”

“We might have to call them if Vicki doesn't turn up fast. If she's been abducted or…” His voice trailed off.

“Where the hell were you?” Danny asked. “I hate hearing the news by eavesdropping on my wife. Keri was boo-hooing to Luz. Said you took off.”

Venturi told him.

“I figured you'd take a preemptive strike. Shoulda told me, though. Did you forget everything you learned in the Marines? Teamwork, that's how you win.” Danny surveyed the room. “Think they did this?” He checked his vibrating cell again, scowled, and didn't answer.

“Doubt it, but I hope it was the feds.”

“Why?”

“'Cuz if it wasn't them or a random junkie burglar, it's whoever killed those protected witnesses.”

“Shit.” Danny whistled between his teeth. “We're in trouble then. A random junkie burglar would have beat feet with the TV, the microwave, and the whiskey. They're still here. Damn, I hate when things get complicated.”

“The only plus about the cops,” Venturi said thoughtfully, “is their dandy toys, like high-tech forensics, which they would never use in a burglary investigation. Think we can get a crime-scene workup done here?”

“Sure,” Danny said. “I know a guy. Used to run the crime lab at Miami-Dade. Former Navy submariner. Retired now. Lectures, teaches, writes scientific papers. I'll try to get him down here. Meanwhile, don't let anybody touch anything inside or out by the gate. Where the hell's your car?”

“I wanted to surprise anybody inside, so I left the car behind the trees on the other side of the road.”

“That's why I almost killed you.”

“No. I almost killed you.”

Danny hand went again to his cell phone.

“Christ, Danny. Who keeps calling you?”

“My wife.” He looked beleaguered. “I just saw her half an hour ago. We're busy, right?”

“She's pregnant, for God's sake. What if something happened to her or one of the kids? Find out what the hell she wants so she quits calling.”

“Did you answer your cell when I called?”

“I was on a goddamn plane!”

“So I'll tell Luz I was on a goddamn plane!”

Danny rocked back and forth on his heels, edgy and restless. He didn't want to contaminate the crime scene, so he couldn't pace. “Look, I'll get Bill down here. Let's bail now, secure the place, and make sure nobody else walks in.”

“Call your wife!”

Danny rolled his eyes, but when his cell vibrated again seconds later, he checked the caller ID, then answered.

“Wuzup, babe?”

He listened, then raised a significant eyebrow at Venturi. “Good, hon. Shoulda called me right away. Oh. I didn't hear it. He's with me. We're on the way.”

“You were right, amigo.” He snapped his phone shut. “Shoulda answered. Good news. Vicki's at my place with Luz. She's upset, but okay. Says somebody broke into your house. Wants to talk to you. Let's go.”

Danny called Bill on the way. More good news. He agreed to meet them at the house in an hour.

“Can he be trusted?” Venturi asked. “Once a cop, always a cop. He must still have ties to the department.”

“Don't worry about him,” Danny said confidently.

Luz met them at the door. “Have you talked to Keri?” she asked Venturi.

“No, I just got back in town.”

“I can't reach her.” She gazed balefully at him, one hand resting on her belly.

“Where's Vicki?” Venturi said anxiously. “Is she all right?”

“In the Florida room, resting. Did somebody really break in?”

He nodded.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured earnestly, her soulful dark eyes brimmed in compassion and something else that he couldn't quite place, as though she knew something he didn't.

He didn't pause to pursue it.

Victoria was already on her feet, using her cane. Her usually impeccable hair was tousled, her clothes disheveled. “I heard your voice,” she said. “Thank God you're all right.”

“Ditto. I was worried as hell about you.”

Danny strode into the room, his face serious. “Hey, bro, something you should see.” He went to the window and rolled up the rattan shade.

Danny's kids were at play in the backyard. Then Venturi saw what they were chasing.

“Damn!” he said with relief.

Danny called the children to come wash their hands before dinner. They resisted, balked, and begged for more time. But Scout flew like a bullet, bolted through the door, and jumped all over Venturi.

“Is he happy to see you, or to escape from my kids?” Danny grinned.

The dog panted and grinned as Venturi scratched his head, rubbed his belly, and checked him for injuries. Other than a bruised nose, he appeared unscathed. “What happened?” he asked, turning to Vicki.

“I'm so sorry, sweetheart, so sorry,” she said contritely. She wrung her hands. “I didn't know where you were, or how to reach you. I wanted to call the police but was afraid it might be a mistake. I tried and tried to call you. I didn't know what to do.”

“Start from the top.”

“I went out for groceries and gas at about eleven this morning. When I came back just before two, the gate was broken, and Scout was loose outside, standing by the side of the road. I'd left him in the house. The front door was open and there was a terrible mess inside. Water running, overflowing, everywhere. The faucets were all on, full blast. I ran from room to room, turning them off, until Scout started barking out by my car. I panicked. I thought he'd come back.” She hiccupped a sob. “I was afraid to face him alone. I think the water was still running in the guest room.

“I couldn't see what Scout was barking at. I think a car had pulled up to the gate. It was gone by the time I got out there. I didn't know what to do, so I took the dog and left. I didn't know when you'd be back, so I came here.

“I'm so sorry he did this to you.” Tears streaked her face.

“Who?” Danny asked.

“Sidney, of course.” She fumbled for a handkerchief. “Who else would do such a thing?”

Danny turned to Venturi. “Your brother-in-law?”

Venturi nodded, sat next to Vicki, and took her hand.

“He's furious at me,” she whispered. “I told him he's wrong, but he blames you for everything. For having me here, for persuading me to prosecute, and refusing to post his bond.”

“Think he'd come here while free on bond in New York? How would he find my place?”

“He's been calling even more than I've said,” she admitted. “He wants me to drop the charges, goes into rants, accuses me of abandoning him.”

“And how would he find my place?” Venturi repeated, fearing the answer.

“He's my son. I am his next of kin.” She averted her eyes. “I know now it was stupid, but he called weeping one night, said it wasn't right that he didn't know where his own mother lived. I gave him the address. I'm so sorry.”

“That was a mistake,” he said. “But I'd be very happy if Sidney is responsible.”

“But why, Michael?”

“Because it would rule out more dangerous people.”

“I wish it wasn't him,” she said. “Then I wouldn't feel it's my fault. But it's his style, his MO. He's done it before.”

Danny checked his watch. “Let's go find out, amigo. Bill will be at your place in twenty.”