Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) (24 page)

It took weeks of meetings with Salvatore and Sophia to work everything out. It was at once simple and complicated.

The simple part was that Sophia would confess to Lou to everything she had done since she had partnered with Hall to become a major heroin distributor.

What was unexpected was that Salvatore, too, would work with federal, state and local authorities to confess to, and resolve, every crime he had committed over his lengthy criminal career.

Both were prepared to go to jail. Both knew they would die there.

The complicated part of the deal?

All of the money that Hall made illegally and laundered through Preston’s firm would be turned over to the authorities. Sophia helped them locate those funds — which included the money that Hall sent to a myriad of shell companies Hall set up. In addition to the $140 million Hall pocketed, the feds would confiscate another $9 million in cash, seized properties and other assets.

As far as the feds knew, that was the only money Sophia had helped Hall earn from the illegal operation. They knew nothing about the $200 million Sophia had stashed in her bank in the Caymans — and I saw no reason to tell them.

Sophia told Vinny and me where and how she hid the money. The complexity was hard for me to follow, but Vinny marveled at its genius. She gave us the authority to manage those funds to make sure every penny would be transferred to her charities. We arranged a plan to move those funds over a period of years to avoid scrutiny and make sure they ended up doing the most possible good. I left all the heavy lifting to Vinny on that one.

But the real shocker was that Salvatore had Vinny and me do likewise with the $25 million fortune he had amassed over his lifetime — only $4 million of which was made through legitimate sources. Aside from modest trust funds he set up to care for his grandchildren until the age of 25, he wanted the money to go to Sophia’s charities. He tasked me and Vinny with managing those efforts, as well.

The confessions of Salvatore and Sophia made national headlines for weeks. They would go down as two of the most notorious criminals in Pittsburgh’s history.

Neither made any effort to improve their public perception. Their only joy in the final days of their lives would be news reports announcing anonymous donations to foster care charities — which I collected for them every time Vinny successfully completed another donation. We arranged for one of their donations to support a local foster family that took over the care of Sophia’s adopted children when she and Salvatore went to jail.

Salvatore would be dead within the year. Sophia would die about 8 months later. But Vinny and I would honor their wishes.

I’d made my share of deals with bad guys over the years.

This one was the best.

I sat in my favorite booth in the back of the pub across from the hearth. The pub’s front and rear doors were propped wide open, allowing a sweet June breeze to pass through the room. The sportscaster on both TV monitors above the bar predicted a Pirates victory over the New York Mets that evening.

It was a fine day to be caretaker of McClanahan’s Irish Pub.

With my health back to 100 percent, I'd enjoyed a brisk run along the bike trail to Homestead and back early that morning. I’d showered and shaved and marveled at how loosely my blue jeans fit after losing 10 pounds from eating right and working out hard at the gym.

I figured I’d earned my sweet reward. I walked behind the bar and placed a pint glass beneath the Guinness tap. I tilted it, filling it three quarters full, then waited a few minutes for it to settle. I completed the pour, admiring its thick, frothy head, then returned to my booth.

I raised the glass to the gods — sláinte. — and enjoyed a glorious sip. No wonder Brendan Behan, man of Irish letters, said he only drank the stuff on two occasions: when he was thirsty and when he was not.

The cellar door burst open and in walked Maureen, muscling a fresh keg of Iron City with both hands as though it were a quarter full.

“You’re lucky it’s cool today because the air conditioner is on the blitz, but all you can do is sit in that damn booth drinking up our profits?”

A woman walked through the front door. She was trim and attractive and moved with a nervous energy. She wore faded jeans, stylish black shoes and a white silk top that tastefully outlined her petite frame.

Her features came into focus as she walked toward me. She appeared to be in her early 30s, but I knew that she was 42.

“I’m here to meet a Mr. Sean McClanahan for dinner,” said Erin Miller.

“Dinner shall be served shortly on our private patio on the side of the pub,” I said, standing.

I gave her a hug then held her hand and led her to the patio.

“A glass of wine while I whip up a gastronomic delight?” I said.

“A crisp Chardonnay would be lovely,” she said.

I brought her some wine, then went into the kitchen and got to work.

I’d bought some fresh salmon in the Market District before I went for a run. I grabbed a skillet and threw in some olive oil, then sliced up some onions, mushrooms and peppers. As they sautéed, I rubbed the salmon down with olive oil, then coated it with pepper, a touch of salt and some paprika. I tossed it onto the grill skin down and fired the burners to sear it a touch, then turned the flames down low.

It only took 10 minutes before the white fat began easing through the top of the filet. I ran a spatula under it and separated it from its charred skin. I set it on a plate, then grabbed the skillet and dumped the grilled vegetables next to it.

Man, it smelled good.

I made two delicious salads, mixed up my special balsamic dressing, then toasted some French garlic bread. I set the plates of food on a silver platter, covered the dishes with silver covers, than carried our dinner outside to Erin.

***

“That was delicious,” said Erin. “That was the best meal anyone has ever made for me.”

“And you’re the best company I’ve ever had the honor of sharing a meal with,” I said, clanging my wine glass with hers, then sipping some wine.

Erin and I had been spending more time together, as both of us signed up to volunteer at a local foster children charity. Erin loved working with the kids and I loved having a reason to spend time with her. Over that time, our friendship blossomed and we began spending time together outside of the charity. But this was the first time I’d made dinner for her.

“You never did tell me how you and Vinny cracked the code on Hall’s ledger,” she said.

“It was surprisingly easy,” I said. “Vinny said such codes are often based on a keyword or phrase.”

“Well, then, what was the keyword or phrase Victoria Hall used?” said Erin.

I laughed out loud.

“You ready?” I said.

“Go on,” said Erin.

“Victoria Hall was a lot of things but most of all, she was very full of herself. She thought nobody was smarter than she — in her own mind anyhow.”

“Right, Victoria the great,” said Erin, laughing.

“That’s exactly correct,” I said. “Hall’s keyword was ‘Victoria is great!”

Erin laughed out loud and I joined her.

We laughed so hard, I nearly fell out of my chair.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” said Erin, looking into my eyes. “When I lost my daughter, I thought my life was over. Shortly after, I lost my mom and wanted to die. Then I lost John and the pain was unbearable. I miss them all tremendously, but I know now that my life is just beginning. The best is yet ahead.”

I looked deeply into her hazel eyes — looked straight through to her soul.

“I thought the same when my wife was killed by an arsonist,” I said. “I’d been numb ever since, but I am no longer. After the experiences I just went through, I feel more alive than I’ve ever felt. There’s something about getting so close to death but making it out OK — something about encountering a human being as lovely as you — that I know, too, that my life is just beginning.”

Erin smiled, then leaned across the table and kissed me — sending an electric jolt through every corpuscle in my being.

She walked around the table and sat on my lap with her arms around my neck and kissed me again.

As my Irish grandfather liked to say, I was in for some wondrous whiskey that summer.