Blood Money (Joe Dillard Series No. 6) (12 page)

“Was he crazy?”

“Not that I could tell. Seemed like a normal person to me. A little rough around the edges sometimes, maybe a little eccentric, but nowhere near crazy.”

“Then why did his son try to have him committed?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Well, here’s my guess. My guess is that Roscoe found the gold and Zane somehow found out about it, or at least Zane
thought
Roscoe found the gold. Zane wanted it and Roscoe wouldn’t give it to him. Everybody who knows anything about Zane and Roscoe knows they couldn’t stand each other. I think Zane filed suit to have Roscoe declared mentally incompetent so Zane could take over his property and eventually wind up with the gold. Roscoe was so enraged that he splattered himself all over the courthouse steps right in front of Zane. On the surface, it appeared that Roscoe may have cut off his nose to spite his face because he didn’t have any heirs besides Zane, which would mean that Zane would wind up with the property anyway. But then I got a phone call from a clerk in the probate office who said a will had been filed. I got my hands on a copy of the will, and it leaves everything Roscoe owned to a neighbor of his, a young girl named Charleston Story, who also happens to be a brand new lawyer working under your supervision and who was also representing Roscoe in the commitment proceeding. Interesting, don’t you think?”

“Interesting? Maybe. Also a little far-fetched for a news story.”

“It isn’t really a news story. More of a feature. It’s got a little history, some violence, gangsters, gold, intrigue—

“Speculation.”

“Nothing wrong with that in a feature story. Were you aware that Roscoe willed everything to Miss Story?”

I nodded. I didn’t see anything improper or unethical about telling him the truth.

“The lawyer who filed the will had a courier bring it to Charlie at my office a few hours after Roscoe died,” I said. “Roscoe had apparently planned things very carefully.”

“I know,” Pete said. “I talked to the lawyer, Gerald Benton. Nice guy. He said there was a sealed envelope in the packet with the will, but he said he didn’t know what was in it. Do you?”

“No. Charlie is the only person who knows what was in that envelope. She didn’t offer to tell me, and I didn’t ask.”

“I guess I need to talk to her. Would you mind giving me her cell number?”

“I don’t think I should do that without asking her first.”

“I’ll figure out a way to talk to her, you know. Even if I have to show up at her place unannounced.”

“When are you planning on running this story, Pete?”

“We publish every Thursday. I should have it ready by then.”

“Have you considered what might happen if you run a story that says there might be gold somewhere on Roscoe Barnes’s property? That’s what you’re planning to imply, isn’t it? Crackpots and criminals will come crawling out of the wood work. Or what about this? What if Carmine Russo has living relatives who think they have some kind of claim to it?”

“I guess they’ll file their own lawsuit.”

“What if they’re mobsters? Mobsters don’t file lawsuits. You could get someone hurt, Pete. Maybe even killed. How much gold is supposed to be up there on the mountain?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve heard it was worth a million dollars back when Russo brought it down here.”

“Which would make it worth what today? Twenty million?”

“You don’t follow the price of gold, do you, counselor? If it was worth a million back in the thirties, it’s worth about fifty million today.”

I shook my head and breathed deeply. Fifty million dollars? I’d seen people do terrible things to each other over fifty dollars, let alone fifty million. The chances of Pete’s conjectures actually being fact were slim, but the entire situation with Roscoe had been bizarre from the beginning.

“Do me a favor,” I said. “Hold off until I can talk to Charlie about this. She’s just a kid, a sweet, naïve kid. I’d hate to see this blow up in her face and get out of hand, especially if there’s nothing to it.”

Pete picked up the last piece of his muffin and stuck it in his mouth.

“How long have you been practicing law, Joe?” he said.

“Let’s see… more than twenty-five years, I guess.”

“Well sir, I’ve been sticking my nose in other people’s business for more than forty years,” he said, “and I’m here to tell you there’s something to this one. This is the best story I’ve ever run across, and I’m going to write it. I’ll give you until next week.”

Chapter 20

WHEN
Charlie emerged from the cave, she looked up to see another bank of black thunderheads boiling out of the west like flying tidal waves. The wind was howling across the mountain. A storm was almost on top of her. Sadie was wide-eyed, and Charlie was grateful she hadn’t pulled away from the laurel bush and bolted. One bar of gold was all Charlie had managed to get out, and even that had been a struggle. The bar was heavy, and only seemed to get heavier the closer she’d gotten to the mouth of the cave. She tucked it quickly into one of the saddlebags. Heavy drops of rain began to pelt her face. The storm was upon her. Charlie jumped into the saddle and Sadie took off at a gallop.

The first crack of lightning exploded so close behind them that Charlie felt the shock wave. The wind was roaring like a wild animal and the day had turned to near-darkness. The rain began to pour about a mile from the barn, and by the time they reached it, Charlie was drenched again. She removed the bar from the saddlebags and put it in the bottom of a trunk in which she kept her grooming tools and some tack. She covered it with a couple of old saddle blankets and closed the lid. She took off her backpack and set it aside, unsaddled Sadie, replaced Sadie’s bridle with a halter, and groomed her while the lightning flashed and the thunder crashed outside. Biscuit was cowered in Sadie’s stall, whining and shivering. The dog was normally fearless. He slept in the barn with Sadie – Jasper had never let him in the house – but thunder terrified him.
 

When she was finished, Charlie covered herself with a saddle blanket and trotted through the rain down the path to the house. Jasper was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a cookie.
 

“How was your ride, Peanut?”

“It was great. Really great.”

“Great? You look like a drowned rat.”

Charlie walked past the table and down the hall to her bedroom. She peeled her wet clothing, dried off, and pulled on a bath robe. She picked her laptop up off the dresser, went to the Google search engine, and typed in “price of gold.”
 

Fourteen hundred dollars an ounce.
 

She typed in “gold bars” and read for a little while. She discovered that the bars she’d found weighed four hundred troy ounces each, around twenty-seven pounds. She’d opened another crate before she left the cave – there were two bars in it. Fifty crates. Ninety-nine bars. She pulled up the calculator on the computer screen. Thirty-nine thousand, six hundred ounces of gold. She punched more numbers into the calculator.

“Oh… my… god.”

The number was staggering. She did the math again. If the gold was real, each bar was worth five hundred and sixty thousand dollars at the current market price, which meant there was more than fifty-five million dollars worth of gold in the cave.
 

Fifty-five million dollars!

She started to jump around the room like a little girl, her hands in tight fists against her sides. She sat on the bed and bounced. She put a hand over her mouth and giggled. Should she tell Jasper?
 

No. Don’t tell anyone. Not yet. Not until…

She’d found it! She’d found gold!
 

The first thing she’d do would be to buy a car. She’d been driving her little Ford pick-up for six years. It had almost two hundred thousand miles on it. What kind of car? What color? She could fix up the place, add on and give Jasper all the space he needed for his junk. She could buy a new place if she wanted. A place for her dad. And she’d travel. She’d never been more than a hundred miles from home; had never ridden on an airplane. Europe was a must, and Hawaii, and the Caribbean, and New York City. She’d stay at five star hotels and see everything there was to see. She’d shop in the best shops, eat in the best restaurants, visit the most interesting places on earth. She’d do all the things she’d only been able to dream about. She’d learn to snow ski and water ski, scuba dive, maybe even to sail. She’d buy another horse, maybe two, maybe ten. She could buy a ranch if she wanted.

Fifty-five million dollars!
 

Charlie suddenly stopped bouncing as the enormity of the situation hit her. Who could she tell? Who could she trust? Who could help her? How would she get the gold out of the cave? There was so much of it. It was so heavy. The cave was deep and huge and in a rugged, remote location.
 

She couldn’t allow anyone to find out. If the news got out, every thief and beggar and con man within five hundred miles would descend upon her. How would she turn it into money once she got it out? Was it really hers?
Legally
hers?
 

She got off the bed and walked into her bathroom. Closed the door. Stepped in front of the mirror and looked at herself.

“Okay, you’ve found it,” she said. “Now all you have to do is figure out a way to keep it.”

Chapter 21

JOHNNY
Russo walked into the row house on South Bancroft that had been home to his parents for thirty years. The first floor had a unique feel – unlived-in Italian was how he would describe it every day but Sunday. His mother was a clean freak; the whole house was spotless. The marble tile in the foyer shined, absent of footprints or dust. The glass teardrops hanging from the small chandelier above sparkled like diamonds in a jewelry store display case. The furniture in the den was covered with plastic.
 

The smell on Sunday, however, was incredible: the aroma of garlic, onions, oregano and basil sautéing in olive oil floated through the air along with the smells of freshly baked bread and oven-roasted chicken. As he moved through the den, Johnny thought back, as he always did, of when he was a kid. The family gathering early in the afternoon after Mass. Silverware clinking against china, Pops at the head of the table, Ma to his right, Johnny next to her, his twin sisters, Isabella and Donata, five years older, sitting across the table. The girls’ voices light and silly. Pops drinking red wine.
 

Johnny’s father, Nico Russo, was a made man, just as his father and his father and his father and his father had been. Johnny worshipped him. Nico’s great-great-grandfather, the legendary Carmine Russo, was the boss of Philly in the twenties and thirties. The wiseguys called the Prohibition era the golden years. Nico told his son that during Carmine Russo’s heyday, he took in millions each year from his various “business” ventures. He also paid out tens of thousands of dollars in bribes to politicians, judges, police officers and railroad workers to insure that his booze made it to Philadelphia unmolested and on time from suppliers in the south. Carmine had the mansion in Bella Vista, the fancy cars, the tailored suits. When Carmine was sent to prison, his sons were too young to take over the business, and a bloody war ensued for control of the rackets. Carmine died in prison within a year, and the Russo family was pushed aside. They’d been fighting unsuccessfully to get back to the top ever since, and Johnny’s father was full of resentment. He made a decent living loan-sharking, brokering truckloads of stolen property, and extorting business owners out of protection money, but he drank too much and often ranted about how he would run things if he were boss.
 

“Money is the key,” he often said to his son. “You’ll hear them talk about respect and
omerta
and
our way
, but when it all gets boiled down, what’s left is the meat, and the meat is money. In this country, in every country, money is what matters. Money is what takes care of you, takes care of your family.”
 

Johnny pushed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. His mother, a short, proud, black-eyed woman named Tessa, was straining pasta over the sink. She looked over her shoulder and smiled. Johnny leaned over and kissed her on the cheek from behind.
 

“You look so tired,” she said.
 

“I was up late. How’s Pops?”

“The same. Go on up and say hello. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

Johnny climbed the steps to the second floor. As he neared the landing, he could hear the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. His father lay in a hospital bed, just as he had for the past eleven years. He was pale and emaciated, the skin on his face drawn so tight that his face looked like a skull with eyes. The eyes were closed right now, but they opened occasionally. When they did, they saw nothing. Pops’ hair had turned gray.
 

“Hey Pops,” Johnny said as he sat down in the chair by the bed. “How’s it going?”

Eleven years earlier, Johnny Russo was one of the best twelve-year-old baseball players in the city. He’d been recruited by a man named Mark Giamatti to play on a South Philly all-star team called the Heat that traveled all over southeastern Pennsylvania and western New Jersey. Johnny was the shortstop, the team’s best pitcher, and he led the Heat in every offensive category. Giamatti called him a “five-tooler” and the “real deal.” He had speed, a great arm, he could hit for power and average, and had incredible hands. Johnny’s best friend, the powerful Carlo Lanzetti, was the first baseman.
 

On a Saturday in August of that year, a team from Collingswood, New Jersey, came across the river to play the Heat at one of the fields at FDR Park. Coach Giamatti said the boys from Jersey were good, they’d have their hands full, and he was right. The first game of the double header started at noon, and it was close. Johnny pitched well, got two hits, and the Heat won, 3-2. In the middle of the second game, beneath a scorching August sun, Johnny heard his father’s distinctive voice coming from the other side of a chain-link fence along the third base line. Johnny was surprised. Nico didn’t often come out to watch him play. Nico was a nocturnal creature; he usually got home about the same time Johnny was getting out of bed. He slept until three or four in the afternoon, ate, and went out to work. He was constantly tired, and Johnny had noticed that he was drinking even more than usual. From the tone and volume of his voice that day, Johnny knew he’d been in the bottle.