The Immortal Game (3 page)

“I want to get out of here.”

*

He was nervous. Self-conscious. He wanted to impress her. Hadn’t felt that way in a long time. He didn’t say much when they got to his place, as she explored his Spartan apartment. He watched her drag her finger along his leather couch, inspect the few pictures on the walls, mostly black and whites of his family. She asked who they were and he told her the truth. She nodded.

“Nice,” she finally said. “Simple.”

“I bought it for the view,” he said and opened the curtains to reveal Boston Harbor.

“That’s worth the price of admission.”

Watching her, framed by the scene and reflected in it, his breath caught, he would always look back at that as the moment he fell for her.

“Come here,” she said.

She tasted like the good red wine they had with dinner; he nibbled her earlobes and was rewarded with groans. She pushed him against the glass door and pressed into him, her breath rushing against his face, his neck, her hands feeling down his chest, his stomach, tugging his belt.

They started on the couch, their pale reflections danced and writhed among the boat lights in the glass.

Her body was like a gift he was unworthy of but still greedily devoured; she was wiry and supple and demanding. Eventually they made it to the bedroom and got down to serious business. She kept asking for more. He provided it
.

To break into an apartment with a good security system is not rocket science. All one requires is money and an inside man to pay off.

In Whitey’s apartment building, that man was Hassan, known as
Hoss
by most of the tenants. Whitey knew the secret to breaking and entering, and he knew
Hoss
would be approached some day by hard men offering hard cash.
Hoss
had strict instructions of what to do. Hold out for as much money as possible, then provide them access. All
Hoss
had to do was give Whitey the signal. Let his home phone ring three times, wait thirty seconds, then let it ring once more. The rest was up to Whitey.

His home phone had never rung before that night. Whitey paused.

“If you answer that phone….”

It was the signal. Whitey shifted her toward the nightstand, where he kept his .38 with the silencer.

Two of them. The two that had been tailing him all day. They used the key
Hoss
had provided. Guns drawn, they slunk into Whitey’s apartment. He was still with the woman. Excellent. She was not quiet. Silently, the two men shared lascivious grins. One pointed toward the noise. The other man nodded and they tiptoed single file down the hall.

The bedroom door was shut. Damn.

But Whitey clearly had his hands full. The first man held up three fingers. Then two. One.

Whitey’s hands were full. He caught the first man between the eyes, the second in the chest, like target practice.

Kat’s head hung off the bed upside down, her hair brushing the floor. She looked back up at Whitey, who made to separate from her. She squeezed her legs around him.

“Don’t go without finishing.”

Whitey let his pistol fall to the floor. He knew at that moment, that this girl was trouble. He couldn’t have cared less.

7

Lonny arranged for his Uncle Tom to set up a meeting with the Chief of Police of Ludlow, Vermont, Herb Eddie.

Ludlow, at the base of Mount
Okemo
, had prospered from the ski boom, and this time of year out-of-state plates outnumbered local ones. Lonny’s grandmother had been born and raised there with his uncles, Tom and Jack.

Chief Eddie had a house on Lake Rescue, right next to his Uncle’s spread. Lonny had known Herb since he was about two years old.

“Christ, Dylan Lonagan, nice as hell to see you.”

They shook hands. Herb’s office was small and messy but charming, just like the chief.

“Tom said you might stop by. What’s up?”

Lonny couldn’t help but smile. “Well, Chief—”

“Son, you call me Herb, dammit.”

“Well, Herb, it’s about that mess you had a few days ago.”

Herb nodded. “Uh-huh. I kinda figured. Mind shutting the door, partner?”

Lonny pulled it shut.

Herb rubbed a hand down his face. “Biggest thing to happen in this little town since who knows when.”

“How goes the investigation?”

Herb gave a weak laugh. “What investigation?”

Lonny raised his eyebrows.

“Fucking men in black took it over.”

“The Feds?”

“Fucking A. Got a visit from some dude. You know the drill. Clean cut kid, polite, black suit, black tie. Says, Chief, we’re taking it from here.”

“No shit?”

“I got the victim’s family all over my ass, and I don’t blame ’em for a second. Christ, it’s basically a pig fuck.”

“What about this Billy character?”

“The butcher? Between you and me, I doubt it, buddy. They were nuts about each other.”

“Did you know him?”

“Sure. Nice enough, for a flatlander.”

“He wasn’t from Vermont?”

“Nah. Somewhere in Massachusetts, my guess. Had the accent.”

Lonny nodded, tried to process all the information. “So they shut you down?”

“In a nutshell.”

“You find anything out before they showed up?”

Herb made some noises with his lips as he thought. “Footprints.”

“Footprints?”

Herb sighed. “Dylan, what’s your interest here?”

“I don’t know yet. Might be a link to my client.”

“Who’s that?”

Lonny shook his head slowly.

“Don’t want to share info with your ol’ buddy, Herb?”

“You’re better off, Herb. And those are the rules. What about footprints?”

Herb narrowed his eyes at Lonny. “Too small. Looks like a sniper job. Professional hit. Through a window from the woods. It snowed on top of the trail so it’s hard to tell but I haven’t seen feet that small on a killer since the tunnels in ’Nam.

Lonny knew Herb had been in Vietnam. His father and Herb used to stay up late, drinking Canadian beer and comparing war stories.

“Your dad wouldn’t have see them. He did most of his fighting in the air.”

Lonny’s father had been in the First Cavalry. Lonny pictured Herb, tiny but strong, underground.

“In the tunnels, you’d see these little size six footprints. At first I thought they were kid’s feet, maybe a woman’s.”

A woman’s, Lonny thought.

“Can I get a look in that house, Herb?”

Herb gave Lonny a shake of his head as he reached into a drawer. “Official Federal Investigation now, Dylan.” Herb pulled a key out. “That’s a closed crime scene.” Herb threw the key to Lonny. “Remember to lock up.”

The taped silhouette of the girl was still on the floor, next to the dining room table. A lot of dried blood. Lonny saw the broken window where the bullet had come through. A tough shot.

The décor was pretty simple. A few books, Michael Connelly and James Lee Burke. Nothing very distinguishing. Lonny would have bet the pictures came with the place, all local scenes.

In one of the bedrooms, there was a chess set up, mid game. The black queen was missing. Identical to one of the games in Red
Scarlotti’s
office.

A black GMC Yukon flashed its lights behind Lonny when he got back into town. His head was spinning so rapidly, he wasn’t sure how long the car had been in his rearview mirror. He pulled to the shoulder and watched the man in the dark suit and coat hop out and stride to his car. He went to the passenger side, opened the door and hopped in.

He had the usual look. Just as Herb had described him. Short hair, lean face. Lonny figured him for early thirties. Just the start of the sad cynicism in his eyes, which would only grow if he stayed at this much longer.

“Agent Riley,” he said, offering a hand. He had a firm grip
.

“Dylan Lonagan.”

Agent Riley nodded. No doubt, he’d already run Lonny’s plates. “What’s a PI from Boston doing so far from home?”

“I’ve got family up here.”

“What were you up to in that house?”

Lonny shrugged his shoulders.

“You weren’t there long. Find what you were looking for?”

“Just who lived there.”

“I could have told you that. Billy Piccolo.”

“I bet he looks a lot like Whitey Scarlotti.”

“Could be. What’s your interest?”

“Not sure yet.”

“I’ve got enough to bring you in if you don’t give me something. Tampering with a federal crime scene.”

“I think there’s a connection to my client. I’m just not sure what.”

Agent Riley took out a card, handed it to Lonny. “Look, we’ve invested countless hours in this guy, in this case. He can put a lot of bad men away. You still remember what it was like? Putting bad men away?”

Lonny remembered.

“You find him, you call me. You get in over your head, you call me. I’d threaten you if I thought it would do any good, but if you get in my way, it will be unpleasant for you.”

“Why’d he go G?”

“Scarlotti?”

“Did he go to you or you go to him?”

Agent Riley thought. “He came to us.”

“Why?”

“I always figured he was in somebody’s crosshairs.”

Lonny was having trouble imagining Whitey Scarlotti running from any man. Hard to picture him scared.

“Did you know him?”

“A bit.”

Agent Riley nodded. “For a cold-blooded killer, he was all right. Seemed like he was genuinely trying to leave it behind him.”

“And now they found him?”

“The bigger question is: will he find them?” Agent Riley opened his door, pulled his coat tighter around his neck. “You get something, call me.”

Lonny stayed there, his car on the shoulder of the road until after the agent left, trying to do the math. Too many unknowns. One thing he did know. Based on that chess game, Red Scarlotti had known where his brother was, or at least that he wasn’t dead. That deserved a conversation.

8

It had made national news, when Whitey Scarlotti had been gunned down while eating at Ida’s Restaurant in the North End of Boston.

He had been having a plate of their famous veal and eggplant
parmigiana
(now dubbed the Scarlotti
parmigiana
) when three men had breezed in and opened fire. The triggermen were never identified, though everyone assumed they worked for the Denatale crime family.

Except that the execution had been staged by the Feds.

One good thing came out of it. The lines outside of Ida’s, always long, doubled. People waited even longer to sit at the table where Whitey Scarlotti ate his last meal.

Now Lonny was back in Red
Scarlotti’s
office.

“When’s the last time you heard from your brother, Mr. Scarlotti?”

“William? He’s dead. I’m sure you heard about it.”

“I sent flowers to the funeral home. But apparently he’s turned into Lazarus.”

Red let out a breath. “He’s still alive?”

“Mr. Scarlotti, do you want him dead?”

Red grinned. Then laughed. “I can assure you, Mr. Lonagan, I’m one of the few people who doesn’t want him dead.”

“Well somebody does.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“All I care about is finding your son. Why are you sending me to Vermont after wild geese?”

“What if he thinks I sent someone up there?”

“You think your brother has your son?”

“I don’t know. That’s why you’re here.”

“When you hold information back, it wastes time. I know trust is not how you got where you are, but if you want your son back, you are going to have to trust me.”

High-heeled footsteps in the hallway echoed outside the door.

“Your wife is back?”

Red nodded.

“How’s she taking it?”

Red shook his head. The office door opened.

Mrs. Scarlotti was not what Lonny was expecting. Tall and slender, with strawberry blonde hair, pale, freckled skin still red from her trip to Florida, and eyes as green as the emerald isle. Her sweater was green cashmere and her khaki slacks billowed around her skinny legs as she marched into the office in brown leather boots. A stunner, that’s what Lonny’s father would have called her.

He’d been expecting big, dark hair, flashy jewelry, loud clothes. Not Newbury Street boutique.

Her jaw was stiff, her eyes flashed, first at Red, then at Lonny.

“Any good news to report?” Her voice was quiet. A slight Mass accent just hinted at the second “r” in report. “Has my gangster husband heard from the gangsters who’ve taken our son?”

She was trying to be tough, cruel, but the tears that ran down her face told another story.

Red and Lonny watched.

She hugged herself. “Where’s my boy?” she said to nobody in particular.

“I wish I knew, Mrs. Scarlotti.” And Lonny did, very badly. He would have liked to see this beautiful woman happy. These Scarlotti men, Lonny thought, certainly can pick their women. “What makes you say, gangsters?”

“What?” she said.

“You said gangsters who’ve taken your son. What gangsters?”

She seemed to regard Lonny closer now. “I guess I just assumed that it was . . . family business.”

Family business.

“What do you think?” she asked him.

“I don’t know yet.” Lonny did not see a reason to educate the Scarlottis about the monsters who prowl the world for young boys.

“If it were gangsters,” Lonny asked, “who would it be?”

Red said nothing.

“The Denatales,” Mrs. Scarlotti said.

Lonny knew the history, the feud.

Red nodded.

“Anyone else? Anyone new in the area, looking to make a splash? Any old vendettas?”

“The Denatales would have the most hard feelings,” Red said. “Lately, since the old man’s been in the joint, his son has been running things.”

A new player with old grudges. But no word yet. No note. No call. Just letting them stew over it?

Or was it someone else?