The Reunion (19 page)

33

The chanting grew louder. “Manny, Manny, Manny!”

Vinny looked out into the crowd of young faces, their hands stretched high, all waving Vocatura signs. The college kids had become a selfless army under Vinny's command. When he needed a crowd at a rally, they were there. Volunteers to work the phones, canvass neighborhoods, or pass out bumper stickers were never a problem. Most passed up lucrative summer jobs to work on the campaign. Manny appealed to their sense of values. Yes, he was an heir to a family fortune, yet one who opted for a state school, on a basketball scholarship no less. He was one of them.

Vinny looked at his watch as he raked the cool paper cup across his forehead. His shirt was soaked, his face flushed. The haze hid the sunshine, but the heat would not be quelled as easily. He leafed through his briefcase for a cell phone just as Manny's Jeep came into view. Fifteen minutes late, early by his brother's clock. When the college kids saw him, their collective voice intensified. The stragglers by the parking lot circled.

A smiling Manny jumped out and clasped hands with the well-wishers, but, instead of moving toward the stage, the candidate went directly to the rear of the Jeep.

Vinny held up his hand to shield the sunlight. He watched as his brother popped open the vehicle's hatch and pulled out a wheelchair. The younger Vocatura could only shake his head.
That's why Manny's so late.
Vinny had gone to great pains to keep her away from events like these.

He sprinted to the Jeep and grabbed the passenger-side door handle. He knew full well who he would find behind the tinted window. “Nana!” he exclaimed, trying to sound enthused.

“Hello Vinny,” she said curtly. “Surprised to see me?” She glared at her grandson with an odd mixture of anger and glee on her deeply lined face.

Beverly emerged from the back seat and took hold of the old woman's elbow. Vinny took a step back so Beverly could ease the old woman out of the Jeep and into the wheelchair that Manny had unfolded. She rolled her eyes in Vinny's direction and shrugged. “Hello, Vincent.” Even the tone of her voice was apologetic.

He nodded and smiled. “Beverly.”

Vinny immediately spotted the horrid walking stick that was clenched in his grandmother's bony hand. In the past two years he had purchased dozens of expensive canes, everything from therapeutic metal to hand-carved teak. The gnarled piece of driftwood was a sign she had no plans to stay put. He gave a wistful smile in her direction, knowing full well that the sharp old woman had brought it along to tweak him. As they all headed toward the stage he caught Beverly's attention with a simple raise of an eyebrow. He directed her glance to the piece of driftwood in his grandmother's lap and gave an exaggerated shake of the head.

Beverly nodded. The message had been relayed. The nurse firmly grasped the handles of the wheelchair, wheeled it up the ramp, and parked the old woman at the edge of the VIP seating area. Vinny's warning wasn't necessary. She knew to keep Mary quiet and out of the way.

Vinny moved toward the microphone. He flapped his arms for silence. Still, the cheers didn't waver. He leaned into the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce my friend, my brother, and your next United States senator, Manny Vocatura!” The audience let loose with a rousing chorus of applause.

Manny bounded toward the podium and hugged his baby brother as they chanted his name. “Manny, Manny, Manny!”

Their exuberance almost made him blush. He turned, casting his gaze fondly toward his grandmother. He wanted her to enjoy this moment too.

“Thank you, Vinny! And thank you, everyone, for showing up on this steamy afternoon.” The people on the stage seemed to wilt in the heat, but Manny drew energy from it. It was as if he moved in a different clime than everyone else.

“When my brother told me this rally would be here in Wilcox Park, behind the library, the first thing that came to mind was all the time I spent in that building cramming for exams over the years.” He turned, gesturing toward the Westerly library. The young crowd chuckled, all too familiar with that ritual.

“But it wasn't always studying,” he said softly. “I can remember times holding my grandmother's hand, walking the hallways, admiring the paintings by local artists that hung on the walls. There were the poetry readings in the main library, even rehearsals for the local theater group in the basement. This library is our cultural haven. Am I right?” he asked.

“Yes!” yelled the crowd.

“But let me ask you this. You think everyone in the state has access to a facility like this?” The resonance in his voice was building.

The crowd started to mumble. Vinny looked wary, not knowing where the speech was going.

“And if children are only exposed to wonderful libraries like this one on rare occasions, do you think they might be intimidated to walk in?” he asked. “Should a child enter this grand building fearing that they don't belong?” he yelled to his constituency.

“NO!” they shouted back.

“Let's open our children's eyes to math, science, and the arts! Children deserve more options, and not just the children of the privileged…all children! The inner cities don't need more youth centers with broken basketball hoops and broken promises. It's a mind-set that's both racist and insulting!” The crowd could feel his passion. “What we need is federal money for more urban libraries! Libraries with Internet access for everyone!”

More thunderous applause. Mary Vocatura beamed. Standing behind her, still holding the wheelchair, Beverly couldn't help but share her pride.

“And when you send me to Washington in November, there is one issue on which I will never waver!” he promised. “I will do everything in my power to deliver the best public education this country has to offer to every boy and girl of every nationality in every neighborhood in Rhode Island!”

The crowd erupted in the now familiar chant, “Manny, Manny, Manny.”

Vinny chuckled to himself, wondering whether the Westerly library even received any federal money. He marveled at his brother's uncanny ability to push people's buttons.

With considerable exuberance in his voice, the candidate gave the crowd a final push. “From Federal Hill to the federal projects, every kid deserves the same shot at success! Are we gonna let Washington widen the gap between the next generation of haves and have-nots?”

“NO!”

Dunlevy studied him from under the shade of a large maple tree. Carolyn stood next to him, her hands gripping the handles of Kenny's collapsible stroller. All three were hot, exhausted, and in need of a change of clothes, but they hadn't even checked into a hotel yet.

Dunlevy had to smile; Vocatura certainly knew how to work a crowd. He was all politician. The agent stooped to whisper into Carolyn's ear. “Wait right here. I'll be back in five minutes.”

Dunlevy made his way to the back of the stage. As the candidate exited the platform, he planted himself at the base of the stairs, his hand extended, just like all the other constituents.

Vocatura gripped his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

The agent didn't let go. “Sir, I'm Martin Dunlevy with the FBI. Can I have just a moment of your time?”

The candidate smiled, but his eyes were wary as they darted back to the stage. Running interference was his brother's job.

“Walk with me,” said Vocatura.

“Sir, we've been looking for a young man that used to be in your mother's employ.”

He thought about this a moment. “Vinny briefed me on this. DeMichael, right?”

“You know him?”

“Since he was a kid. I'd see him at the stores or the house.” Manny caught himself. “But I haven't seen him in a long time.”

The candidate felt a familiar squeeze at his elbow and turned. “Agent Dunlevy, have you met my brother, Vinny?” Vinny was out of breath from running to catch up.

“I don't think we've met. Martin Dunlevy.”

The two shook hands.

Manny looked at his brother. “The agent has some questions about DeMichael again. Can you help him out?”

Vinny nodded. “Sure.”

The elder Vocatura excused himself. “A pleasure to meet you, Agent Dunlevy. I've got another rally in Cranston and I'm thirty minutes behind.”

The agent offered a wary smile.
This guy would fit in just fine in Washington,
he thought to himself.

“A pleasure. I'm sure we'll meet again.”

Vinny sized him up quickly. “Now, what can I do for you, Agent…Dunlevy, is it?”

Dunlevy nodded. “As you apparently know,” he said brusquely, “I spoke with your grandmother about Anthony DeMichael. It's possible he may have returned to Rhode Island. It's unlikely, but possible. I wanted to personally make you aware of that.”

Vinny suddenly appeared alarmed. “Are you suggesting my grandmother might be in danger?”

He shook his head. “No, that's not what I'm suggesting at all. As dumb as it sounds, it's not uncommon for a criminal to hide in the place where he's most familiar. And if he attempts to contact anyone in your family I'd appreciate a call right away,” he said, extending a business card.

Vocatura listened intently, his face showing more apprehension. “Agent, you've got me a little worried now.”

“How's that?”

“My grandmother lives alone. Well, actually, Beverly lives there too. She watches her during the day and we use a service that sends over a nurse at night. But there are no men there. You think I should hire security?”

Dunlevy shrugged. “I can't make any recommendations. Do what you think you need to do to protect your family.”

“I think I may hire someone.”

“Did you know DeMichael too?” the agent asked.

“Too?”

“Your brother said he knew him.”

“Knew of him, might be more appropriate,” he said, shooting the agent a stern look. “After a while, you recognize the kids working the floor or stocking the shelves. But I'm sure my brother didn't really
know
DeMichael. If you'll excuse me, I'm also running behind.”

“A few more questions, if you don't mind.”

Vocatura continued walking toward his Jeep

“Can you think of any reason why this stock boy would want to kill the surviving members of a U-boat crew?”

The candidate's face mirrored his disdain although his breathing quickened as he climbed into the jeep and turned the ignition. “I haven't given it much thought. Why should I?”

Dunlevy positioned himself by the door and smiled coldly. “I took you for a history buff.”

“How so?”

Well, since you make mention in your brother's TV spots that your grandfather worked at the submarine plant during the war, I thought there might be at least some idle curiosity.”

Vocatura turned crimson. “Listen, don't play coy with me. If you have some crazy allegation to make, go on and make it.”

Dunlevy shrugged. “I'm not alleging anything. But I'm somewhat of a history buff myself.” He went on, “And come to find out, logs from the U-boat place it right off the coast of Rhode Island a week before it was sunk.”

Vocatura slammed the door and threw the vehicle in reverse without saying a word.

Dunlevy stood sweating on the hot pavement as he watched Vocatura's Jeep pull away. He detected a faint yet familiar sound behind him.
Whirl and click.
He heard it again. He turned and saw a photographer less than ten feet away. A second man, tall and lanky with thinning hair, held a notepad.

Dunlevy looked around the park to find Carolyn and the baby. When they made eye contact, he stalked away in the opposite direction. He would meet up with her later and explain. Her picture in the paper would only help DeMichael find her.

He could hear the reporter's footsteps gaining on him. He stopped and turned. “Yes? Something I can do for you?”

“Agent Dunlevy, is it?”

He nodded. “What is it?”

“Bill Phelps with the
Providence Journal.
I cover the Vocatura campaign. I couldn't help but overhear…”

Dunlevy turned again and picked up his pace. “I'm sorry. You'll have to talk to the public information officer in the Providence field office. I'm not authorized to give comments to the press.”

“Is there a connection between the Vocaturas and the suspect in that North Carolina bombing?”

Dunlevy nervously laughed. He couldn't duck this. It was time to change tactics. “Connection might be the wrong word,” he explained, trying to throw the man off track. There's no story here. We faxed Joseph DeMichael's mug shot to all you guys a week ago. He's a suspect wanted for questioning in the Carolina bombing. He's from Providence and he used to work in one of the Vocatura grocery stores. Big deal!” he exclaimed, throwing up his arms. “Grunt work. Trust me, if this was important I wouldn't be doing it. I'm the biggest grunt in the bureau.”

34

When they reached the Watch Hill Motor Court, Carolyn couldn't wait to get Kenny to their room. The child was asleep on her shoulder. His diaper was wet, and she was hungry and in desperate need of a shower.

Dunlevy carried her bags to the door, dropped them, and pushed the key into the lock. “We're home!”

The Watch Hill Motor Court was a series of small stucco efficiencies in clusters of two. Each unit had a living area, two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a tiny galley kitchen. The rooms were Spartan, but Dunlevy had a gut instinct that if DeMichael returned to Rhode Island this oceanside resort would be his first stop.

Carolyn, with the sleeping baby still cradled against her chest, stepped in and surveyed the place. The mildew odor stung her nose. “Top notch accommodations. But I think I like the Biltmore better. At least there was cable TV,” she remarked. She headed toward the bedroom to perform a diaper change.

Dunlevy dropped the bags and circled around the room unlatching and lifting windows.

“Hungry? I was thinking about ordering out for a pizza,” he yelled toward the bedroom.

“Yeah, I could go for some pizza,” she replied. “Pepperoni and sausage.”

“Mmm, my kind of girl. I'll call in the order. I saw a place about two blocks from here.”

Carolyn came back into the room. “I'm gonna grab a quick shower.”

Dunlevy pointed to an oak door. “Okay. We're right next door.”

“We?”

“Me and Franklin. He checked in this morning.” He fished through his pocket for the key, and then fumbled with the lock for a few seconds before the tumbler clicked. Dunlevy was surprised by what he saw.

“Hello,” Dunlevy said. “I didn't know we were expecting company.”

Franklin looked up from his laptop. He was sitting at a small table, wearing dress slacks, a tee shirt, and his holster. “Hi boss. Meet agent Peggy Martin.”

The tall blonde stood to shake his hand. “Nice office you boys have.”

He held her hand a second too long, wondering if she was the right type for this undercover assignment. “Funny, you don't look like a nurse.”

She smirked. “Oh, I don't know. A white dress, some hose. I clean up well,” she teased.

Carolyn followed him into the unit and immediately felt self-conscious about her haggard appearance.

Dunlevy turned to her. “This is Carolyn Baker. Carolyn, Peggy Martin, from our Hartford field office. We needed an agent on the team with a nursing degree and this is what the computer spat out.”

The two women exchanged smiles. “Nice to meet you,” Carolyn said, as she retreated to her own side of the door. “I'll let you three get back to work.”

***

Thirty minutes later, with pizza box in hand, Dunlevy let himself into Carolyn's bungalow. He could hear the shower running. He rapped on the bathroom door. “Carolyn?” There was no answer. He gave the antique glass knob a jiggle. Locked. He knocked louder. “Carolyn, you in there?” The water was still running.

He was about to bust down the door but stopped when he heard the water stop and the slap of wet feet against ceramic tile. Carolyn flung open the door and stood there, a small hotel towel barely covering the front of her. Water dripped down her bare, slender shoulders. A second towel had been wrapped into a turban on her head.

“Shh! You'll wake Kenny!” she scolded as the puddle grew at her feet. “What is it?”

He grinned and lifted the box. “Pizza, remember?”

Her amazing curves were slowly coming into view as the thin towel soaked up the moisture and clung to her skin. Her hard expression gave way to a smile. “I'm sorry. I just assumed with her here now you wouldn't have time for dinner.” She held up a finger. “Give me a minute,” she said, closing the door.

“Don't get dressed on my account,” he mumbled to himself as he withdrew to the kitchen.

“What's that?” she yelled from behind the door.

“I said I'll be in the kitchen.”

Five minutes later she appeared in a fresh tee shirt and baggy athletic shorts. Her hair was still wet and her eyes appeared swollen.

He pulled two cups out of the cupboard and was rinsing them in the sink when he turned and noticed her despondent expression.

“Everything all right?”

“A little tired is all, maybe homesick. What did I get myself into?” she asked as she moved a hand through her damp hair.

“It's going to be okay.”

“I'm a bad mother,” she stated with certainty.

He shook his head. “No you're not. Don't say that.” Dunlevy put down the cups and pulled her close.

Carolyn buried her face in his chest. “I almost got my baby killed this week. I can't go home—if I knew where that is. What has my life come to?”

He pulled her tightly against him and realized how good it felt to hold her again. “Kenny's fine and you're fine. There's no sense playing the what if game.”

Carolyn lifted her face from his chest, which was now wet from her hair. Her hand slowly traced the line of buttons on his shirt before reaching up to caress his unshaven face. She gripped the back of his head and steered him toward her lips.

There was no hesitation. Dunlevy kissed her hard as he slipped a hand under the damp tee shirt to cup her breast. The passion was enough to make him tremble. He thought he heard a slight moan when their lips touched, but after a lingering moment Dunlevy felt hesitation and pulled away.

“This feels so right, but I shouldn't. You're a material witness in a multiple murder case.”

When Carolyn stepped back he could see the hurt on her face. Dunlevy cocked his head and pushed his lips to hers a second time.

“I want this too,” he promised. “Let's try and go slow until I finish this case.”

She looked up at him lovingly and smiled. “I can live with that.”