With Good Behavior (32 page)

“Shit, I’m outta here!” Mario said, slowly backing away.

“You’re not going anywhere, Meat!” Carlo yelled angrily, halting the big man’s progress. Carlo then turned to Tank, who shook his head disapprovingly.

“You went too far, Carlo,” Tank said, also taking a step backward to distance himself from the crazy man facing him.

“You’ve got to help me!” Carlo cried.

“Only if you don’t tell Angelo I was part of this,” Tank ordered in a strange role-reversal of boss and employee.

“Just don’t leave,” Carlo pleaded, stealing a glance at Logan. “Help me do something with the body, man.”

Tank frowned and whispered to Mario, now standing about twenty feet away from the cousins.

Dark spots entered Logan’s field of vision as he clutched his upper abdomen, his breathing labored and his sudden physical weakness maddening. Carlo stood right above him, paralyzed by what he’d just done and presenting the perfect opportunity for Logan to beat the living hell out of him. He wanted to rip his fucking heart out! But Logan could not find the strength to move.

“I—I—I didn’t mean it, Lo,” Carlo offered in a quivering voice, reduced to a sniveling boy by the life-or-death circumstances. “You’re my cousin … I—I love you, man. Do you, um, do you love me?”

Logan looked at Carlo with disbelief. Then, sensing a sticky wetness pouring over his hands, he peered down at his wounded torso. An abject sadness flooded him. He knew he was dying. “Grant,” he gasped.

“Grant?” Carlo knelt down curiously, prompting his victim to say more despite himself.

“Stay … away.” Although losing his thin grasp on consciousness, Logan willed himself to keep talking, “Stay away … from Grant.”

Carlo watched his cousin’s hands redden with blood. His tone was frantic. “But Lo—you love me, right? You know I didn’t mean it?”

Logan stared at his cousin incredulously, feeling a stab of sympathy for the pathetic man kneeling next to him. Carlo had been irrevocably damaged from the moment he witnessed Tony Fanocelli dying at his Uncle Enzo’s hand—at the hand of Logan’s father. Feeling himself slipping away, Logan murmured, “I know. You’ve taken my dad … and me. Just … don’t take Grant too.”

Hearing the weakness in the once-formidable man’s voice, Carlo gulped. As he stood, a flash of anger coursed through him. Who the fuck cared about Grant? He just wanted to know if Logan forgave him. Surmising that his cousin would not be conscious much longer, Carlo took one last look at Logan, whose deep-blue eyes bore into him with a surprising intensity.

Turning on his heel, Carlo joined his two bodyguards and started hissing commands. After a plan was hatched, all three waited for Logan to die and get it over with.

Helplessly Logan fell backward. The back of his head hit the concrete floor with a thud, and his arms flopped to his sides. He no longer had the strength to apply pressure to his bleeding wound. It was just a matter of time now, and he found himself welcoming the cool release of death. He was never much good at life, only bringing pain to those around him.

He’d heard the old adage about your life flashing before your eyes when you were dying, but Logan only had one scene replaying in his mind. He saw only pleading aquamarine eyes, the smell of scotch, the feel of a small hand curling in his. He was eleven years old again.

“Leave me! Go to your room!” his mother begged, her voice muffled by the bulk of the man pinning her to the floor, flat on her back. All Logan could see was his father’s hunched back crouching over her, straddling her waist as he held down her wrists. The gleaming knife lay on the linoleum kitchen floor, inches from Karita’s balled-up hand.

Logan was frozen in fear, as his father exploded in violence against his mother once again. Karita, Logan, and Grant had experienced such a fun afternoon, but the second they walked in the door, Logan knew immediately it was all turning to shit. Their father was waiting for them, his face beet red with rage and alcohol. Grant had cowered behind his big brother, flinching at their father’s screamed accusations, but once they saw Enzo extract a knife from the wood block, the six year old had sidled up to his brother and grasped his hand.

“You little bitch!” Enzo seethed. “How dare you go to see him when I expressly forbade it? How dare you take my boys to that place?”

“He’s my brother!” Karita softly cried. “The boys need to see their uncle.”

“I’ll determine what my sons need!” Enzo slapped her across the face, and the sharp noise snapped Logan to action.

He sprang forward and leapt onto his father’s back. “Stop it!”

Enzo quickly shrugged the boy off his shoulders, pushing himself up and off his wife’s prone frame and standing. Angrily he backhanded Logan, who hit the floor with the force of his father’s strike.

“No,” Karita moaned, sitting up. “Go to your room, boys! I’ll be okay—just leave!”

“Shut up,” Enzo commanded, quickly pushing his wife back to the floor as he straddled her again. Logan watched with horror as his father scooped up the knife in his trembling grasp. The distinct odor of scotch wafted through the air.

“I’ll show you who’s in charge in this family,” Enzo growled, holding the edge of the blade to Karita’s throat. She shuddered in fear below him, trying not to whimper.

Glancing at Grant, wide-eyed and shaking uselessly by the wall, Logan pushed himself up off the floor and lunged at his father once again. “Get off her!” he wailed.

“Goddamn it,” his father muttered, and the knife clattered to the floor. Enzo groped behind him, trapping the boy’s wrist in his strong hold and yanking his body around so he was staring into his father’s unfocused eyes. “You are such an idiot, Logan. You’re just dying for me to beat you too, huh?”

Logan met his mother’s worried crystal-blue eyes before his father violently shook him to draw his attention back. Enzo shoved Logan, and he stumbled toward Grant near the kitchen doorway.

“I’m going to give you boys five seconds to get the hell out of here,” Enzo warned, reaching to unbuckle his belt. Logan watched his mother quietly stand up, unbeknownst to his father, and mouth “Go!” as she crept out the other entrance to the kitchen.

Once Logan saw her escape, he grabbed Grant’s hand and yanked him toward the hallway, just as Karita had predicted. She’d known Logan wouldn’t leave her alone with Enzo.

“Let’s go, Grantey!” Logan ordered, and they ran for the stairs, grateful their father wasn’t following them with his belt looped in his hand.

Enzo had turned to find his wife gone, and they heard him holler, “Get your ass back in here, Karita! I’m not done with you yet!”

As the boys scampered up the stairs they heard their father pounding on the locked door of the first-floor bathroom, assuring Logan that his mother was safe for now.

“C’mon,” he instructed, panting as they entered their bedroom, “Let’s play Battleship.”

Also out of breath from their hasty exit, Grant nodded his head, “’Kay.”

They laid out the board game on the yellow shag carpet, and Grant picked up one of the ships, absentmindedly twirling it in his hands.

“Is Dad gonna kill Mom?”

“C’mon, Grant.” Logan gestured to the game. “You gotta set up your battleships so I won’t find them.”

Grant blinked rapidly, undeterred. In a quieter voice he asked, “Is he gonna whip us?”

Logan bit his lip. These were questions he didn’t know the answer to, questions he couldn’t think about just now. Ignoring the stinging red blotch on his cheek, he feigned cheerfulness. “What’s this ship?” he quizzed, holding up a small gray boat. “What did Uncle Joe tell us about this one?”

Eyeing his brother suspiciously, six-year-old Grant dutifully answered, “It’s a frigate.”

“Yeah,” Logan confirmed. “The one we saw today at Great Lakes. A Perry-class, an FFG-7.”

“Uh-huh,” Grant responded. “A fig-seven.”

“A fig what?” Logan inquired.

“A fig-seven!” Grant insisted, his eyes beginning to recapture their twinkle. “’At’s what Uncle Joe told me when you were in the bathroom. ‘At’s what they call an FFG-7.”

Logan stared admirably at his intelligent younger brother. They began the game, somehow able to drown out the disturbing noises from the floor below, somehow not hearing their mother’s cries.

Whispered conversation between the three men behind him brought Logan back to the present. He’d never had the chance to tell Sophie that story in therapy. What would she have said if he had? 
You bravely tried to save your mother. You tried to save your brother. You tried to be a good man.

But I failed
, he’d respond, if he could. He knew he’d never see Sophie again. Grant was better for her anyway, much better.

He stared at the grimy warehouse ceiling, unsure if the encroaching dimness was due to fading daylight or his eyelids drooping. He was tired, so tired.

He’d been unable to save his mother when he was a child, and he hoped by some grace of God he might be able to join her soon, to apologize for failing her so completely, to make her understand how he’d simply lost his way. He had failed so many people. A pang of sadness pierced his heart when he realized his own son Ben was going to grow up without a father, just like he had. Hopefully his son would fare better than he had. Perhaps it was a blessing for Ben that his fucked-up father was leaving him for good.

Finally succumbing to his fatigue, Logan allowed his eyes to flutter shut. All was quiet in the warehouse.

G
rant sighed heavily and felt hot tears well up in his eyes. Great. He was crying. Again. Some kind of mobster he made—no wonder Lo had called him a wuss when they were kids.

He was supposed to be preparing the ship for the day’s sold-out cruises, but instead he was standing by the controls, staring into space and thinking about Sophie, only Sophie. Her look of fear and mistrust, the betrayal evident in her clipped tone, the finality of her parting words—it all had haunted him for the past twenty-four hours.

Roger brusquely entered the bridge, and Grant quickly swiped at a wayward tear, hoping his boss hadn’t witnessed his little display of weakness. He pretended to clean the steering mechanism, methodically running a wet rag over the gleaming silver wheel.

Disdainfully studying his employee, Roger set a plastic bag on the counter and grumbled, “I see you’re still moping around, Madsen.”

He halted his cleaning charade and looked down, trying to prevent any more tears. “Sorry.”

Roger sighed. “Why don’t you talk to her, try to explain things?”

“I did try!” Grant insisted, lifting his chin and staring at Roger defiantly. “After work last night I took her purse to her apartment, and I freaking begged her roommate to let me talk to her. But Kirsten told me Sophie was at her father’s, which I 
know 
was a total lie.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because Sophie hates her father; she would never go there. I’m sure she was hiding right inside the apartment, refusing to see me.” He sighed. “There’s nothing I can do. It’s over.”

Roger had no idea what to say, and Grant leaned down to extract the window-cleaning solution from the cupboard.

Perking up, Roger offered, “Screw Sophie. Why don’t you just go to your Uncle Angelo’s club and find some hoochie-mama to cuddle up with?”

Grant popped up immediately with a look of incredulous anger.

“Or not,” the older man amended.

“Please do not 
ever
 discuss my uncle, my dad, my brother …” Grant’s indignant voice trailed off, and he found himself fighting tears once again. He was so sick of his family, so sick of them ruining his life.

“When I first hired you, Joe told me you’d be fine if you just stayed away from your family,” Rog said sympathetically. “I didn’t understand that then, but I’m finally getting the picture now.”

“You probably shouldn’t have hired me in the first place.”

“You’re right,” Roger snapped. “I would never have hired you if I knew what a fucking Debbie Downer you’d turn out to be. I’m so sick of this mopey shit—all over a damn chick! Pull it together, Madsen.”

Grant sniffed. “Yes, sir.”

Emphatically pointing his index finger in the air, Roger continued. “That reminds me! I bought a sign announcing a new policy for all employees, effective immediately.” He shot a disappointed glance at Grant. “It was your sulking ass that prompted me to get this.”

Roger scooped his bagged purchase off the counter and turned to the console, taking out a hammer and nail before banging the drawer shut. Grant studied him curiously for a moment, but decided to get back to work.

Roger stuck his tongue out the corner of his mouth as he nailed the plaque to the wall, then stood back to admire his handiwork.

“Let’s see if ROTC boy learned anything in college,” Roger called. “Come over here and read this.”

Dutifully Grant came over to the plaque, which was adorned with a skull and crossbones, and read aloud, “The beatings will continue until morale improves.”

Despite himself, he felt a slight grin coming on.

Roger smiled too. He’d finally succeeded in cheering up the morose boy. “Maybe that bruise on your face, which looks even worse today, by the way, will send a message to those lazy-asses Tommy and Dan.”

Grant absentmindedly drew his hand to his face, and his smile quickly faded. With another sigh, he grabbed the spray bottle and listlessly went back to clean the next window.

Roger turned and descended the stairs to see if Tommy and Dan had arrived yet. If those fucking sloths were late again, they were definitely in for quite a beating. The boss was going to improve morale around here if it killed him.

* * *

“Come, Lucky!” Lieutenant Jo Ann Jemison hollered, clapping her hands to emphasize the command. With his tongue lolling happily, the black Springer Spaniel-Collie mix came bounding out of the shallow waters of Lake Michigan, a piece of driftwood clutched in his teeth.

“Good boy!” Jo Ann cooed, grasping the end of the wet wood. But Lucky continued to hold on. Jo Ann frowned. “Lucky,” she admonished. “Drop.”

Mischievous black eyes stared back at her as the dog clamped down harder and swiftly wagged his tail.

“Drop!” Jo Ann ordered again, taking a sweeping look around her to make sure that none of her superiors was observing her utter lack of control. Jo Ann and Lucky were only a quarter-mile south of the Naval Station Great Lakes, and it would not be unusual to find a commander or two jogging along the lake before it became too hot later in the day.

His owner gave the stick one more jerk, and Lucky maintained his vice grip, adding a playful growl. Refusing a game of tug-of-war, which the dog seemed to crave, Jo Ann trotted ahead and strolled along the waves lapping the beach, pretending to ignore him. Lucky galloped to catch up and nuzzled her hand with his snout, offering her the wood once again.

Casually looking down, Jo Ann swiftly grabbed the wood from the unsuspecting dog and this time managed to swipe it clean. “Ha!” she cried, victoriously holding it high in the air, while Lucky danced at her feet. Grinning, Jo Ann tossed the driftwood into the lake, where it was followed immediately by the black-and-white dog. He pursued the wood with tenacious glee before locating the floating piece and clamping it into his mouth.

They played this game for fifteen minutes as they headed back north toward the base. Lucky was finally getting the hang of releasing the wood on command, but Jo Ann was pretty sure his progress would be forgotten when they took their walk tomorrow. The dog was incorrigible. Suddenly Lucky veered away from the water toward several canoes roped together at a dock just outside the perimeter of the base.

“Lucky, get outta there!” Jo Ann chastised, hustling to the canoes once the dog poked his head under the canvas tarp. Lucky snatched his head back and barked frantically, puzzling his owner. As she approached the canoes, Jo Ann felt an unexplained creepy sensation quiver up her spine. She slowed her pace and cautiously took the last few steps.

“What is it, boy?”

The dog continued barking, poking his head into the canoe, then backing out. Jo Ann had no idea why she dreaded looking inside the canoe, but she could ignore her insistent pup no longer. Peeling away a section of the tarp, she stopped breathing when she saw the sleeve of a black leather jacket. Following down the length of the sleeve, she stared disbelievingly at a gray human hand.

Jo Ann let out a bloodcurdling scream.

* * *

“Get a hold of yourself, Lieutenant,” Captain Archibald Lockhart commanded, watching his subordinate’s trembling hands clutch the leash of her spunky black dog.

Jo Ann gulped. “Yes, sir.”

Archie’s deep-brown eyes glanced toward the canoes, which were now guarded by two military police officers thanks to the lieutenant’s frantic call to the base from her cell phone. They were all waiting for local police to arrive. Gesturing to the canoe closest to the water, Archie asked, “The body is in that one?”

Lucky barked as if to provide his own answer, and his owner confirmed, “Yes, sir.”

Taking a deep breath, the captain strode to the canoe and, without a moment’s hesitation, peered inside. Once the sunlight hit the corpse’s pallid face, Archie inhaled sharply and took a step away.

“I know this man,” he quietly informed the MPs, thinking immediately of his friend Commander Joe Madsen. Then his mind quickly flashed to an image of Grant Madsen’s frightened face, imploring Archie to let him pass at the foot of that basement stairwell, his arm trembling as he held the gun. Archie felt sick.

“You do, sir?” one MP incredulously inquired.

“I know this man,” Archie repeated, in a stronger voice this time. “His name is Logan Barberi.”

“Well, that will save us some time identifying the body then,” a voice announced behind him.

Archie swiveled around and found a petite woman staring back at him, her neat, reddish-brown bob framing her face and her green eyes flashing intensity and intelligence. She wore a fuchsia blouse underneath a black suit-jacket and pants, giving her a no-nonsense, business-like appearance. “You’re the commanding officer on this base, sir?” she asked.

“Captain Archie Lockhart, ma’am,” he confirmed, reaching out to shake her hand.

“Detective Marilyn Fox, Great Lakes Police,” she responded, pumping his hand with a surprising strength. Archie then noticed two men just behind her, who appeared to be equipment-laden crime-scene techs.

Lucky began barking and wagging his tail, anxious to meet the newcomers.

Glancing at him, Marilyn asked, “That’s the dog that found the body?”

“Yes,” Archie replied. “Along with his owner, Lieutenant Jo Ann Jemison.”

“Okay, I’ll need to interview her. Could you please join the lieutenant over there, Captain, while we get to work on the scene? I’d like to look things over before talking to you further.”

“Of course, Detective,” Archie replied. “The lieutenant could use a little support right now anyway. She’s rather freaked out.”

Marilyn smirked. “Yeah, it’s not every day you find a dead body while walking your dog.”

As Archie rejoined his subordinate, he heard the detective tell one of her techs, “Smell’s not too bad yet. TOD must be recent.”

About ten minutes later, Marilyn interviewed Lieutenant Jemison while Archie observed the techs hovering over the scene—snapping photos, brushing for fingerprints, and conversing with the coroner who had recently arrived.

“Okay.” Marilyn sidled up to Archie, her voice friendly and engaging, “I’m finally ready to ask you a few questions, sir. How do you know the deceased?”

“How did he die, Detective?” Archie asked quietly.

Marilyn paused, unsure whether to share such information with a potential suspect. Just about everyone was a suspect at the moment. But wanting to see his reaction, she informed Archie, “Looks like he was stabbed in the chest.”

A look of pure sadness washed over him as he cleared his throat. “Very well. To answer your question, I’m good friends with Logan Barberi’s uncle, Commander Joe Madsen.”

She jotted down some notes. “I see, so Joe Madsen is the brother of Mr. Barberi’s mother, then?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You said you know Mr. Barberi’s uncle—that’s what helped you identify Mr. Barberi?”

“Joe brought his nephews and his sister to live with him on the base back in, when was that, 1986? Back when Enzo Barberi was sent to prison for life.”

Marilyn scribbled furiously. “So that’s when you met the deceased?”

“I met Logan once in the O Club back then, but he didn’t stay here long. He ran away to live with his other uncle, Angelo Barberi.” Archie looked wistful. “Joe was crushed when Logan ran away. Anyway, Logan was only about thirteen when he lived here. I recognized him as an adult because his picture was in the paper during Angelo’s trial.”

Archie gave the detective some time to get all this down before he added, “You should also know that Logan and his brother were arrested near this base a little over two years ago.”

“Really?” Marilyn said. “So Mr. Barberi had a brother.”

“Yes, ma’am—Grant Madsen.”

Catching her questioning glance, Archie explained, “Joe adopted Grant after his sister, Karita, died from cancer. Karita was the boys’ mother.”

Nodding her head, Marilyn continued, “Why were the brothers arrested?”

“I caught Grant trying to steal a bag of cash from a bar nearby.” He rubbed his jaw. “Grant pointed a gun at me, but I subdued him, and then he was arrested.”

Arching her eyebrows, Marilyn asked, “And Logan?”

“Logan was arrested in the bar’s parking lot, but somehow he wasn’t tied in to the attempted robbery. Grant wasn’t talking, and Logan had a good attorney, I guess.”

Marilyn’s green eyes narrowed. This certainly did not sound like a slam-dunk homicide case. “And Grant is still in prison, sir?”

“Yes, he was sentenced to three years at Gurnee.”

“Unless he’s out for good behavior,” she speculated, wondering if one brother had exacted revenge on the other.

“I haven’t heard whether Grant got out.” Archie shrugged. “It’s been a while since I spoke to Joe. Things got a little weird between us after Grant’s robbery.” Archie thought again how devastated Joe would be upon learning his nephew had been murdered.

“And Joe Madsen lives in town?”

“No, ma’am. He’s probably out to sea right now, but if not, he’s stationed in Norfolk.” While the detective was writing, Archie asked, “Are you going to call him about this, or should I?”