A Thousand Tombs (3 page)

“The old guy would have been frantic to find it if the stakes were that high,” Mack said.

“He would have been combing the streets,” Gen added, “retracing his steps. He’d have remembered tipping Luca if he stopped there every day.”

“Maybe he did remember, and that’s the scenario he mapped out for the goons,” Mack countered.

“You guys sound like Kojak,” Luca said.

“Kojak?” Gen laughed. “You must watch a lot of reruns.”

He slid his eyes to her. “You a cop, too?”

“Genny’s a private investigator,” Mack replied. “So what do you want to do, Luca? You should go to the police. That would be my suggestion, tell your story and make it official.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“As far as we know,” Gen added, “there hasn’t been a crime committed. They’d just take his statement, have him look at mug books. Take the coin for safekeeping until they got the old man’s story, maybe.”

“True enough,” Mack said.

“No.” Luca’s words were clipped and overly loud, and his face was pale and strained. “I can’t go to the cops. I won’t.”

Stella sat up on her bed in the corner and whined, worried about Luca’s tone. The conversation was getting too intense. He was holding out on them, Gen guessed.

“You’ve left something out.”

Luca blinked and clenched his jaw again. That was the boy’s tell; she thought maybe he was trying to decide if he could trust them with the truth.

“They’ll send me back,” he said.

“Where?” Gen asked.

“To my father.”

“So he doesn’t know you’re here,” Mack said.

Luca shook his head. Gen could see his hands, curled into fists in his lap. “I ran away. I hitched out here. My Mom’s parents are in the city somewhere.”

“Seems like you do a lot of running,” Mack said. “It’s not a good life skill, trust me.”

“How about your mother?” Gen’s voice was gentle. “Does she know where you are?”

He shook his head again, and his chin trembled. Not a good subject. “I hate him,” Luca hissed. “He as good as killed her.”

When the tears began to trickle down his cheeks, Luca pushed out of the chair and repeated, “I won’t go back.” He stood and strode away down the hall. Three minutes later, they heard the shower running.

Mack sighed and reached for Gen’s hand. “Poor kid,” he said. “Tough place to be in.”

“Makes my teenage years look like gravy.”

“Genny. I know this will sound strange, but I want to hire you. To check out his story. Obviously something’s going on, and I can’t dig around in it.”

“Hire me? I won’t take your money.”

“I mean it. If I got formally involved, I’d have to make him come forward and tell his story. That means as a minor, he goes into the system. And like the kid said, he doesn’t want to go back home. So I’ll pay you for your time. I want to keep this at arm’s length.”

“Arm’s length?” Gen chuckled. “Is that what you call that?” She hitched a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. “I’d say you were in it up to your eyeballs.”

“You know what I mean.” Mack smiled, then reached for her hand and kissed her palm. “For now, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear anything he said tonight. I thought maybe you could try to track down this old man and get his story, then we’ll go from there.”

“I’ll do it,” she replied. “But as a favor. No money changes hands. If you can find out where this mysterious old man lives, I’ll go see him tomorrow. The truth is, if it gets the boy out of your guest room faster, I’ll be happy to help.”

“It won’t be long.” Mack angled his head and gave her a look filled with remorse that did a lot to make her feel better about their changed plans. “You need to be careful. Stay out in the open and have the stun gun ready. I hope I don’t regret getting you tangled up in this.”

“Ha. Whatever went down tonight will be long over by tomorrow morning.”

Mack grinned. “Even so, I’m going to pray for you.”

Gen snorted. “I think I better pray for you. You’re the one who just acquired a teenager.”

Saints Peter and Paul Catholic Church was on Filbert Street next to Washington Square Park. Gen lucked into a spot at the curb on Stockton and locked up the car, then shouldered her purse and walked north along the green. Last night Luca had described the house and gave them the street name. It was located on a cul-de-sac not far away.

She found it easily. What happened after that, however, was trouble enough for the rest of the year.

The place was a two-decker set back from the sidewalk. It was well tended, painted dark brown and sage with some neatly stacked rock work across the front. A line of shrubs were trimmed square and lined up beneath the windows like sentries.

On the right a driveway cut from the sidewalk to the detached garage in back, bisected by a stone path that ran to the front door. The path continued beyond the entry and connected the drive with a closed wooden gate on the left side of the yard.

Gen walked to the door. It had a small square of glass in it, covered by a sheer curtain. She peered in as she knocked. She could barely see the foyer on the other side, but the sound echoed clearly through the room. No response. She stopped and waited five beats, then rang the bell. No echo of footsteps approaching. She rang the bell again and waited.

Nothing.

Next she opted for the garage.

She tried to get a peek in the side windows as she strolled toward the back. No luck, the shades were drawn. Just as Luca had said, the line of shrubs continued here and one looked disheveled, probably where he took his spill.

A small gate blocked her passage into the yard. She unlatched it and let herself in, then turned into an alcove that shaded the rear entry from view. The door was closed.

Something about the silence made the hair stand up on her arms, like it was just a little
too
quiet. Everything was holding its breath this morning, including the birds.

Her heartbeat ramped up, anticipating trouble. She may have been wrong to brush off Mack’s warning. If Luca’s story was true, something unfortunate might have come of the argument. A smart investigator wouldn’t assume things were copacetic.

Maybe she should act like she was that savvy.

Gen shoved her right hand into her bag and pulled the stun gun from its holster, then activated the switch and held the weapon clear of her side. Then she peeled the purse strap off her shoulder and stuffed it under the bushes where it couldn’t be seen. If something was going down, she didn’t need baggage in the way.

She tried the knob; the door was unlocked. When she opened it, the hinges creaked like a horror movie soundtrack.

“Hello?” she called. “Sir, are you here?”

No answer. She stuck her head inside and scanned the space. It was a small mudroom that opened directly into the kitchen. Both rooms were empty. Two doors led out, one on either side.

She took a deep breath and stepped in, thinking it might be better to retrieve her bag and pull out her cell and call 911. But what would she tell the dispatcher, that she was breaking into someone’s house and the spooky hinges on the door made the hair on the back of her neck stand up?

Yeah, right.

“Anybody home?” she called again, with the same result. Perhaps the good man was at the local stationhouse right now, telling his story. If so, she’d give a lot to be a fly on the wall to hear what he had to say.

She was lowering the gun when the sound came.

Not a moan, not a sigh. Somewhere in between.

It came from the room on the left.

She adjusted her grip on the stun gun and tiptoed across the tiles, then pushed through a double-hinged door into a dining room. The old man was there, with duct tape across his mouth.

He was bound to a heavy antique chair, the kind with a tall, carved back that weighs a ton. He looked like he was well past his seventy-fifth birthday and had the crow’s feet to prove it. Perspiration dampened his short, salt-and-pepper hair, and his wire-rimmed glasses were steamed up from the deep exhales blasting out his nose. His face was pasty, probably from the stress.

They’d trussed him up still wearing an old-fashioned black suit with a thin string tie. When he saw her, his eyes went wide and he began to shake his head back and forth, like the swinging door she’d just walked through.

Gen switched off the gun, then stuck it in her pocket and hurried over. She figured he was happy to be found and trying to express his eagerness to get loose. But when she heard a creak behind her, she cursed her naiveté.

Too late.

Before she could react or run or even scream, a pair of arms came around her and one huge, hammy hand covered her mouth. Even as she thrashed and tore at her assailant’s fingers, she knew it was as useless as a fly irritating a rhino.

She managed to scratch a trail of bloody scratches on the back of one wrist, and the guy muttered something in Italian. Apparently he’d had enough. He released her waist and rammed his fist into her left eye. The angle was awkward, but the impact still stunned her enough she saw stars. The blow would have knocked her flat if she hadn’t been clenched so tightly in his grasp.

Gen went limp. Awareness fluttered away. The only thought she could muster was an image of a scorpion tattoo, the one that was inked on the inside of the wrist that had struck her. Its stinger was raised, ready to strike.

Then the guy let her go, and she slid to the floor.

After that, it was lights out.

* * *

The ceiling swam into focus first. Gen was on her back, and she stared at the dark oak paneling above for about five beats before she remembered.

A twist of her head told her the man was still there, too, bound to the chair with his face canted forward onto his chest. For a brief, horrible second she thought he was dead. Then she saw his chest expand on an inhale. His breathing was quiet but regular.

He was dozing.

She sat up and retrieved the stun gun from beneath the heavy buffet; it must have flipped out of her pocket when she hit the floor. She felt lucky her head hadn’t struck a corner of the monstrosity on the way down, or she’d probably be dealing with a concussion right now.

But the minute she lurched to her feet, she was sorry. A bomb went off in her skull. She’d moved too fast. Maybe the concussion idea had been dismissed a tad too quickly.

Gen bent over until the throbbing lessened and the stars were gone, then went into the kitchen and took a package of peas from the freezer and pressed it to her eye socket. She was about to have a shiner the size of Rhode Island.

With the bag against her face, she activated the gun and walked through the first floor of the house, moving as quietly as possible. Since she wasn’t tied up, she figured whoever had socked her was gone. But she didn’t want to get caught with her pants down again.

Once a day was enough.

She passed through the living room, study, downstairs bedroom, and guest bath, and looked in assorted closets and behind draperies on the way. Upstairs, she checked two more bedrooms and a bath. It was the second room that interested her most; the door was sticky and she had to shove to get it open. Once inside, she could see it was being used for storage, the kind of typical household overflow everybody dealt with.

An ironing board. Sealed boxes. Scrapbooks filled with pictures. A wooden crate had been shoved into a corner and heaped with old sheets and a goose down comforter, which was not yet required to ward off the chilly, soon-to-come winter nights.

She went back down to the dining room and grasped the man’s arm. He awoke at the touch and raised his head, and instantly the look in his eyes cycled between anxiety and compassion.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Gen guessed at his concern. “I should have known better.” She dropped the peas on a silver serving platter on the nearby sideboard, then picked at the edge of the tape across his mouth. “This will hurt.”

His old-man’s skin was thin, and probably fragile. She didn’t want to damage it so she took her time, picking slowly at the tape. She kept at it until she’d plucked enough away to get a decent grip, then ever so slowly pulled it free.

“I’m sorry,” Gen said.

“I should be saying that to you.”

His voice was deep and very Italian, like he’d just gotten off a flight from Milan. His entire body was trembling and he was short of breath, and he wore a haunted sort of look on his face. Despair, that’s what it was. Like his best friend had abandoned him.

“Like I said, it was stupid of me to assume no one else was here.” Gen kneeled and worked on the tape binding his left wrist to the carved arm of the chair. “Do you have any scissors?”

“Yes, in the kitchen. In the top drawer of the cabinet closest to that door.” He gestured with his head.

Whatever emotion gripped the man, he wasn’t allowing it to get the better of him. He must have had an awful scare and his face was a miserable reflection of it, but his voice was sturdy. Cops could do that, but she hadn’t seen many civilians pull it off.

She got the scissors and came back, then hacked through the bands and moved to the other side and cut those.

“I will do the rest,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “You better put that bag back on your eye. It does not look good.”

Gen sat down and clutched the ice. Her head screamed. She leaned back and took in some air while her companion worked his way free.

“I have a million questions,” she finally said. “But let’s start with names. I’m Gen Delacourt.”

“Vincenzo Vitelli. Thank you for your help.”

“What happened here?”

“It is a long story.”

“Would you mind giving me the short version, Mr. Vitelli?”

“Someone wants something from me.”

At that, Gen rose and went outside and groped beneath the shrub beside the back door until she located her purse. She thanked whatever whim had told her to stash it there. If she hadn’t it would probably be gone, hanging from the arm of the guy who’d punched her.

“Is this what your visitors were after?” The metal inside was heavy as she held out the velvet bag. “Is it yours?”

“It was in my safe keeping.” Vitelli put the bag on the buffet and traced the coin inside with a finger. Interesting, that he didn’t even turn it out to be sure what it was. He knew. “How did you get it?” he asked.

“Someone saw you drop it and wanted me to bring it back to you.”

“Is he all right?”

Ah, so he knew who she was talking about.

“Yes.” Gen voiced her thoughts. “Did you lose it on purpose?”

His expression clouded, but Vitelli held her gaze. “I am a clumsy and forgetful old man, my daughter.”

She nodded, thinking. She was struck by how much Vitelli reminded her of her own long-missed
grand-père
. His accent was different and he came from another culture, to be sure. Still, the resemblance was there. But would this man, who was so like her grandfather, lie to her? Sure he would. People told her fibs all the time.

And she’d better not forget it.

“I’m going to call the police.” She pulled out her cell and keyed in Mack’s home phone, then walked into the kitchen for privacy. Mack answered on the third ring.

“Time to bring in the big guns,” she said.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m okay. But prepare yourself for a major shiner.”

“Oh shoot, Genny. How?”

“The old-fashioned way, a fist connected with my face. I found Mr. Vincenzo Vitelli strapped to a chair and rushed in without looking around. I have to call this in, but I’m going to keep you and your new friend out of it. Who runs cases in North Beach?”

He told her.

“One more thing, Mack. You should probably check into Vitelli when you go back to work. We should both be curious about him and this whole deal.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing so far. He’s pretty shaken up. But whatever he does say, I’m not sure it’s going to be the whole truth and nothing but.”

She went back to the dining room and made a call to report the home invasion, and they sat down to wait.

Vitelli cleared his throat. “Can we keep the coin out of the conversation we are about to have with the authorities?”

Gen frowned. “That kind of blatant omission might just put my license in jeopardy. Why should I, Mr. Vitelli?”

“As a courtesy to me, nothing more. I worry that the wrong people might hear that I have something valuable in my possession.”

“I think the wrong people already heard that.”

He turned up his palms. “I would like to keep this from reaching any more of them.”

“And you think the police will shout it from the rooftops?”

“They would, of course, be interested.”

She watched him for a moment, gauging her options. “All right, but I don’t know why I’m agreeing. So tell me then, why am I here? I have to provide a semi-believable story, they’re going to ask me for a statement.”