To Hell in a Handbasket (13 page)

Owen signaled Claire to come out into the hallway with him.
After she had made sure Angela was comfortably ensconced in
Roger's arms as the two sat on the bed, she and the detective stepped
out.

“The coroner and forensic technician are on the way,” he said. “After they do their work and formally rule it a suicide, we'll be able to remove Mr. Contino's body. I didn't want Mrs. Contino in the middle of all that.”

With a nod, Claire said, “I know you're thinking of her welfare. I'm sorry about my outburst earlier.”

Owen briefly laid his hand on her shoulder. “No offense taken. How are you doing?”

“I really don't know.”

“If you're up to it, I need to get a statement from you and your husband. But first, I want you to check out Mr. Contino's shoes, see if you recognize any from the trailer park. The master bedroom's here.” He led the way through the doorway at the end of the hall.

For a moment, Claire wondered how he knew where the bedroom was, then remembered he had been there that morning looking at the men's ski gear and clothing. She followed him into the walk-in closet. After he flipped on the light switch, she bent down to examine the men's shoes lined in a neat row on one side of the closet. Just like Roger's shoes, with all the toes equidistant from the wall.
Figures. They're both basically accountants.

She studied the row, but the only dress shoes were black loafers. Could she have been mistaken? No, the loafers she saw at the trailer park were definitely brown. “The loafers I saw aren't here. What's Anthony wearing now?”

“Brown lace-ups.”

Owen led her to Nick's room, but no dress shoes at all appeared in Nick's closet. She tried to remember what he wore at the reception. Black leather sneakers. She straightened and shook her head. “Nick's not wearing brown loafers, either.”

“Where is he?”

“Good God, Nick doesn't know his father's dead yet. He's in the garage with my daughter.”
How could they not have heard all of this?

“I'll take care of telling him.” Owen reached his hand into his jeans pocket to rub his beaver fetish. “I was hoping to tie up the loose end of the shoes. I don't like loose ends. Maybe the man at the trailer was someone unrelated to the case, like the landlord.”

“Why would a landlord be searching the place?”

“Looking for drugs? Who knows?” He glanced at Claire. “I suppose you saw the suicide note.”

“Yes.”

He led her out into the hallway. “It supports the theory that something's wrong in this family. The father could've killed his own daughter, then Naylor because he witnessed it. Then he saved us the trouble of bringing him in by killing himself.”

Claire wasn't so sure all three deaths could be wrapped up in such a neat, tidy package. “There's still the Russian mob aspect to the case. You need to check out Mr. Contino's computer. Hopefully he didn't delete Ivanov's files before he shot himself.”

At Owen's puzzled expression, Claire described the argument she overheard between Anthony and Gregori Ivanov and Ivanov's offer to “handle it.”

Frowning, Owen rubbed his fetish. “So you think there's a link between the mob money-laundering and the deaths.”

“I don't know what to think. Maybe Stephanie found out her father was laundering money and threatened to go to the police. I still find it hard to believe abuse or incest was involved.”

Owen nodded. “I'll have to question the son and the wife about both the mob connection and any abnormal relationship between Mr. Contino and his daughter.”

At the mention of the word “son,” Claire wondered again what could be keeping Judy and Nick. His mother needed him.

“Angela's very fragile right now. I'd hate to think what questions about her husband and daughter would do to her. You will be gentle with her, won't you?”

“I'll start with the son. If I can get anything out of him, I may not need to question her at all. In the meantime, we'll follow-up on this money-laundering angle. Even if Mr. Contino's work isn't related to the deaths, the information on his computer is important.”

He blew out a breath. “This means bringing in yet another law enforcement office. Denver's been having problems with Russian organized crime. Since that's where the Continos and Ivanov reside, Denver PD will want to take a look at the computer.”

The door to the garage opened and shut. “What's going on?” Nick yelled. “Why are an ambulance and police cars in the driveway?”

He came into view with Judy at the bottom of the stairs, their hair mussed, Judy's lipstick smeared, some of it on Nick's face. They stared up at Claire and Silverstone, eyes wide with horror and confusion.

Judy's gaze lit on her mother's face. “Mom, who's the ambulance for?”

_____

An hour later, Claire arrived with Roger and Judy at their townhouse, exhausted from dealing with such powerful emotions. Angela had been put to bed with a sedative, and they had left Nick slouched in a chair in the living room cradling a half-empty bottle of scotch. Maybe drinking himself into oblivion was for the best.

As they entered the living room, Judy said, “I still think I should have stayed with Nick. He needs me.”

Claire glanced at Roger, seeking support.

He took Judy by the arm. “Honey, sit down. Your mother and I have to talk to you.”

Judy sat on the sofa and warily watched her parents take seats on either side of her. “What is this?”

“Judy,” Claire began, “There's considerable evidence that Mr. Contino may very well have been a criminal working for the Russian mob.”

Judy jerked back. “What, the slimy incest story didn't work, so you're trying this? Why are you two so against Nick?”

“We're not against him. He seems like a nice young man, but he's from a dangerous family.” Claire told her what Detective Silverstone had said about Ivanov's connection to the Russian mob and what Leon said about Anthony's prior work for the Italian mob.

Judy's jaw dropped. “No way. Nick's father working for the mob? He seemed so quiet and normal, like a regular old boring accountant.” She looked at Roger. “Sorry, Dad.”

“Apparently Anthony's been doing it for years,” Claire said. “Leon said he worked for the Italian mob in the eighties. That's probably where he got his start and made the connections that allowed him to join up with the Russians when the Smaldones were shut down.”

Shifting in her seat, Judy frowned. “So you believe a drug dealer's lies?”

Claire laid a gentle hand on Judy's shoulder. “There's more, honey. I overheard Gregori Ivanov pressuring Anthony to groom Nick to follow in his footsteps.”

Judy moved away from her mother's touch and shook her head in disbelief. “Nick would never work for organized crime.”

“Hear me out.” Claire explained about Ivanov buying six Range Rovers and giving one to the Continos, and Detective Silverstone's statement that many of the Range Rovers were owned by Russian mob figures. She described the chart she had seen on Anthony's computer and Roger gave his interpretation of it.

“But all this is about Nick's dad, not Nick,” Judy said. “Even if his father's working for the Russian mob, which I still find hard to believe, I know Nick isn't.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know Nick. He's honest and truthful to a fault. He's never lied to me. Never.”

“And how would you know if he had?” Roger asked.

Judy crossed her arms. “How do you know Mom's telling you the truth? How come you believed her when she said she didn't sleep with that massage therapist?”

Ouch.
Claire grimaced.

Roger looked steadily at Claire. “Because I love her and trust her.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I love you, too.”

“Well, I love Nick and trust him,” Judy said.

So Judy had taken the step of acknowledging her love for Nick. Claire wondered if the two had said those three little words to each other, maybe in the garage. Breaking up this relationship would seriously wound Judy.
Am I prepared to hurt her so badly?
But if Judy kept her association with the Continos, possibly even marrying Nick, then she could get hurt even worse. She could be charged as an accessory to their crimes and go to jail. Or maybe even be killed if the Russian mob feared she knew too much and might testify against them.

Licking her lips, Claire searched for the right words. “It seems likely that Nick isn't involved yet, from the argument between Anthony and Ivanov, but the Russian mob wants him. And they've got their sights on you, too.”

Judy's eyes went wide. “What?”

“Remember Ivanov and that other man staring at you during the reception? They're already assessing you, wondering what kind of mob wife you would make.”

Judy's hand went to her mouth, and her eyes teared up.

“Nick's family moves in dangerous circles, dear. Circles where people get killed.” Claire gazed at Roger and saw her sorrow echoed
in his face.
Are we breaking her heart?

Roger put an arm around Judy's shoulders. “No matter now much we like Nick and want you to be happy, we can't allow you to put yourself in that danger. For your own safety, Judy, you're going to have to end this relationship.”

Judy burst out crying, and Claire pulled her into her arms.

Thirteen: Ski Lesson

Claire stood on the
stone plaza in front of the Peak Eight Base ticket windows, shielding her eyes from the sun to scan the parking lot impatiently for Leon. Knowing him, he would pay the steep fee to park up close. Claire couldn't picture Leon and his two constant, muscle-bound companions sharing a shuttle bus or gondola ride from the free lot to the base with commoners.

She glanced at the peak—no clouds, just a wisp of snow blown by a gentle breeze off the top. The sun blazed on two inches of fresh powder that had fallen the night before, making it glitter like diamond dust under the cornflower blue sky. With a relatively warm temperature hovering right below thirty, it was a perfect day for skiing. Too bad Roger had to miss it.

But someone had to stay home to comfort Judy and prevent her from going to the Contino home to visit Nick. Before Claire left, Roger pulled out an old jigsaw puzzle and started laying pieces face-up on the dining room table. Hopefully, he could persuade Judy to put it together with him. Claire also hoped no pieces were missing. Nothing frustrated Roger more than being unable to snap that last piece into place.

She remembered him and the kids working on jigsaw puzzles during the evenings of past ski trips. She had never had the patience for the pesky puzzles. She would try to join in, pick a hole to fill, then look for the right piece, but invariably Roger, Judy, or Michael would find it first. She had to be content with solving the puzzle of putting a gift basket together.

Three large men climbed out of a bright red Cadillac Escalade. Claire caught the gleam of heavy gold rings on the fingers of the late-thirties, paunchy black man in the middle. Leon. He was flanked by his white, bald bodyguard and his tall, black driver. All three wore dark sunglasses and puffed on cigarettes as they walked toward her. She scanned their clothing—ski pants and squall jackets. Good. They had taken her advice and left the fur-lined, long leather coats at home.

She approached them and held out her hand to Leon, determined to start out on a friendly footing, because she wanted to get Leon to agree to a change in plans. “Good to see you, Leon. Any trouble on the drive up?”

Leon gave her a hearty handshake. “I slept most of the way. Woke up for Hoosier Pass, though. That's one hairy ride, but my man here can handle any road.” He clapped his driver on the back, and the other man flashed a satisfied grin.

“Did you trade in your black limo for that Escalade?” Claire nodded toward the red SUV.

“Hell, no. Them's my play wheels, for when I'm going incognito, you know?” He lowered his sunglasses and winked at her over the rims.

Claire couldn't imagine Leon ever being unrecognizable. His commanding presence, gravelly voice, and boisterous laugh would always make him stand out in a crowd. She could almost feel the stares of people clambering off the shuttle bus right now. She took a deep breath. “Things have gotten worse since I called you. I was wondering if I could talk you into a slight change of plans.”

Leon frowned. “What kind of change?”

“I was hoping we could talk first over some coffee, then I could buy you a lesson. I'm even more worried about Judy's association with the Continos now, and I'd like to find out what you know and get back to her right away.”

“Where is she now?”

“With her father at our rented townhouse.”

“As long as she's not with that family, she'll be fine,” Leon replied. “I want a lesson from you, not some sorry-assed stranger. We made a deal, and I ain't changing it. Where to next?”

Claire knew from Leon's stance that he wasn't going to budge. She sighed. “To rent you some skis and boots.” She led them toward the rental shop. “Did you buy a discount lift ticket at a grocery store in Colorado Springs as I recommended?”

Leon patted his jacket pocket. “Yep. Got a couple for the boys, too.”

Claire stopped and stared at him. “They're coming with us?”

“Gotta have my protection.”

“Do they know how to ski?”

“Whitey here says he does.” Leon back-slapped his bodyguard in the chest. “But my driver don't. I figured you could teach two as well as one.”

While they talked, Leon's driver had been eyeing the awkward skiers on the beginner slope, his shoulders stiff and his lips drawn in a thin frown.

Claire assessed the situation. “Two is a lot harder to teach than one. And more dangerous, because I'll have trouble watching out for you both. Let me make a recommendation.” She pointed at the beginner lift. “We'll spend the whole day on that lift and the two short slopes on either side of it.”

“What, no black diamonds?”

A quick glance at Leon's grin showed he was joking, thank goodness. “Your bodyguard can stay with us, and your driver can stand near the bottom of the lift. From there, he can see most of the slopes plus watch everyone getting on the lift. Unless he's really aching to learn to ski?”

Leon cocked his head at the driver. “What'cha think?”

Relief flooded the man's face. “Makes sense to me, boss.”

“I doubt any of your rivals are here on the slopes today anyway,” Claire added.

Leon threw back his head and guffawed. “Right you are, little lady. This ain't exactly their home turf.”

With that resolved, Claire led them into the ski rental shop and watched with growing amusement as the attendant fit Leon and his bodyguard into ski boots and beginner skis. Leon wobbled in the heavy, awkward boots and cracked jokes until he had the staff and other customers in stitches. By the time he paid the bill, the staff all knew his name and had coupons for the barbecue restaurant in which he invested the profits of his criminal enterprises.

Outside the shop, Claire showed Leon how to carry his skis and they slowly made their way to the beginner chairlift. When she walked past the entrance, Leon said, “Whoa, ain't we going up this here lift?”

Claire shook her head. “You have to learn how to stop first before you go up the hill.” She walked a few yards up the gentle slope.

Leon's bodyguard and driver followed close behind, but the drug boss stopped and panted. Squinting up at them, he dug in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes.

“Not a good idea, Leon,” Claire said. “You need all the oxygen you can get up here. I suggest you wait until lunchtime to have a cigarette.”

Shaking his head, Leon let the pack fall back in his pocket. “Damn, you are a hard woman.” He trudged the rest of the way up the hill and dropped his skis on the snow.

After he caught his breath, Claire showed him how to snap his boots into his skis and explained the snowplow stance. They practiced sliding downhill a few times, then bending knees in to turn the skis on their edge and plow to a stop. Leon's bodyguard and the driver stood off to the side chatting—probably trading ribald observations on their boss's slow progress.

After half a dozen tries, she felt pretty confident Leon had gotten the concept. “Okay, let's do it once more to make sure.”

“Enough, woman. I need to rest.” Leon plopped down on his hip in the snow.

Claire dug out one of the two water bottles stowed in her pockets and handed it to Leon. “Have a drink of water.” She looked down at Leon, who stared off over the parking lot, obviously discouraged and trying not to show it. He picked up a handful of snow and tossed it in the air.

The man needs a pep talk.
“You caught on really fast, Leon. A lot quicker than my kids did. You're ready to head up the chairlift now. We can work on turns at the top.”

He smiled up at her, showing his even, white teeth. “You don't say? Faster than your kids?” He yelled at his bodyguard, “Hey, Claire said I'm a fast learner.”

The bodyguard flashed him a thumbs-up.

“Okay, Leon,” Claire said. “Here's an opportunity for another lesson. How to stand up again when you've fallen down.”

“Stand up? Don't you just—” Leon struggled to push himself up off the snow, but couldn't get his weight over his skis. “Damn, what's the secret?”

Claire laughed and picked up their poles. “These.” She showed Leon how to use the poles as a lever to push himself onto his feet.

They made their way to the end of the lift line, leaving the driver behind to stand guard. Leon used the wait to repeatedly ask Claire to explain how to get on the lift. Once their turn came, he slid into place easily, angled back to grab the sidebar, and sat on the chair with a sigh.

Claire smiled at him. “Perfect form.”

“I sure didn't want to mess up in front of the guys. They'd spread the word, you know. I'm getting the hang of this, ain't I?”

“Yes, you are. Now, we'll use the ride up to talk about how to get off the lift. That's where most beginners fall.” When Leon's eyes went wide, Claire laughed and patted him on the knee. “Don't worry. We'll preserve your dignity.”

After Leon made a successful dismount, Claire watched the bodyguard carve a few turns down the hill. He executed a hockey stop to stand and watch his boss's progress and scan the hill for potential assassins among the snaking lines of children's ski school classes. She didn't have to worry about him. He wasn't lying when he said he was proficient on skis. She returned her focus to Leon.

They worked on turns and inched their way down the hill. After another lift ride, Claire skied downhill a ways, then stopped to watch Leon work his way slowly toward the bottom of the slope.
Good control. Sweeping turns, just a tad unsteady. Better on the right side than the left. Not bad, Leon, not bad.

He skidded to a stop in front of her, leaned on his poles to pant a couple of times, then straightened to look at her.

She flashed him a thumbs-up. “You're ready for stem christies.”

“What the hell's that?”

“With my kids we called it making french fries and ice cream cones. You put your feet together in a parallel stance—the french fries—between your snowplow turns, which are the ice cream cones. And you have to keep the tips of your skis together in the turns so you don't spill any ice cream out of your cone.”

Leon threw back his head and laughed. “Now food's something I can relate to. When we gonna eat?”

“Let's do one more run so you can try stem christie turns before lunch.”

On the next run, Leon struggled to concentrate on opening and closing the tails of his skis as he shifted between turning and skiing straight. Claire shouted encouragement and cues, but she worried he would bite off the tip of his tongue that he kept sticking out between his clenched teeth.

When they finally reached the bottom, he announced, “I need a smoke, the john, and some chow, in that order.”

Claire checked her watch and was surprised to see it was already twelve-thirty. Now she would finally get some information about Gregori Ivanov. She led Leon and the bodyguard back to his driver and waited while the three had a smoke.

She led the group to the Bergenhof restaurant, pointed out restrooms, and searched for a table. Finding a private spot in the cavernous room was impossible. Chattering people lined rows of long wooden tables covered with cafeteria trays and wet ski gear. Maybe the noise would mask the conversation Claire needed to have with Leon.

A group of skiers stood up a few tables away, and Claire rushed over to lay claim to their vacated chairs. When Leon and his henchmen appeared, she waved them over. They spread out gloves, hats, and jackets to reserve their seats, then got in the cafeteria line. Leon and his two sidekicks went for the buffalo burgers and fries. Claire chose a salad.

In the checkout line, Leon dumped a saucer-sized chocolate chip
cookie on his tray and shook his head at Claire's tray. “Woman, you can't tell me that's all you're gonna eat.”

“I'm watching my figure.” She surveyed the calorie-laden items on his tray. “What happened to your diet?”

He sighed and looked down at his large belly. “Still got my carrots and apples in the car, but I worked hard this morning. Prob'ly sweated off two pounds.” He stilled Claire's hand as she pulled a ten out of her pocket. “This one's on me.”

Claire considered arguing, given that she had invited him up to pick his brain, but knew she would lose the argument. She pocketed the ten and led the men to their table.

After Leon sent his bodyguard to buy three beers at the bar, they ate silently and purposefully for a few minutes. Claire hadn't realized how hungry she was.

When the bodyguard returned with the beers, Leon took a few hefty swallows and swiped foam off his lips with the back of his hand. “Now, this part of skiing I like.”

He dumped ketchup over his fries, popped a few in his mouth, then wiped his red-stained hands on a napkin. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and spread it on the table between himself and Claire. It was a printout of a digital photo of a group of men dressed in hunting gear and standing in the woods over an elk carcass.

“This here's a photo of a hunting party from the Russian mob taken a year and a half ago.” Leon pointed at the large man in the middle of the group. “That your man Ivanov?”

Claire peered at the image. “Yes, that's him.”

“Damn. I was afraid of that.”

“How'd you get this photo?”

“Pulled in a favor.”

Claire gave Leon a worried look. “I hope it wasn't a big one.”

He patted her hand. “Not your concern, lady. You got enough to worry 'bout with this man here.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He's nephew to the most powerful Roo-ski mobster in the good ol' U.S. of A. His uncle led the Brighton Beach gang in New Jersey in the nineties 'til he got thrown in the slammer. Still runs it from there, I hear. Gregori was a
vor
in Odessa before he came to the U.S. ten years ago.”

“What's a
vor
?”