Deadly Fall (29 page)

Other than the fact that Drew was dead, no. “No, I wanted to ask you a few questions about it.”

Augusta could feel the brief pause on the other end. “I’ll answer to the best of my abilities,” the lawyer replied carefully.

“When did Drew approach your law firm?”

“A little over a month ago. He called me up and said he needed me to personally handle something for him.”

“Did he say why?”

“I thought it was strange that he wasn’t using his regular attorneys, but he didn’t explain when I asked him about it.”

“What did he say when you met with him?”

“I didn’t meet with him. He called me at my home one night and asked that I arrange this for him. He was very casual about the request. Said he was probably overreacting, but he still wanted me to handle this personally. That was the extent of our conversation.”

“You didn’t think his request was strange?”

The attorney let out a short bark of laughter. “You wouldn’t believe how many similar requests we get. This is rather normal compared to some of the other things people want. A lot of people have a flair for the dramatic.”

A smile softened Augusta’s face. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“Sorry, no,” he said, traces of laughter still in his voice. “Drew was very hush-hush.”

She sighed. She knew the law firm would be a long shot. “Thank you.”

“If you need anything else, please give me a call.”

She disconnected, wondering if she should call Nick. Her gut was telling her the safety deposit box held the answers they were all banging their heads to find. Nick would definitely insist upon viewing the contents of the safety deposit box with her. There was, however, still a measure of uncertainty. What if what she would find in the box had nothing to do with the case? Then she would’ve wasted Nick’s time for nothing. And with his patience with her questionable at the moment, she would be better off going it alone. She would inform Nick if and when it became necessary.

* * * * *

Augusta pushed through the glass rotating doors of her bank. The lunch crowd would not be in for another thirty minutes, but it was still fairly busy in the branch. She unbuttoned all three buttons on her tan trench coat with one hand and unwrapped the long, crimson silk scarf from around her neck with the other. She draped the scarf over her arm as her boot heels clicked rapidly on the marble floor. The girl at the reception desk was perfectly groomed, as all bank employees seemed to be. The smile that stretched her perfectly lined and colored lips was bright and perky. Augusta tried to not hold it against her.

“Hello. How may I help you?” She sounded like the Burford, Burford & Stevens receptionist, making Augusta wonder if the tone and perkiness were requirements for professional receptionists everywhere.

Augusta slipped her small purse off her right shoulder, placed it on the counter, unzipped it, pulled out her key ring and held out the safety deposit key. “I would like to know if this key is for a safety deposit box at this branch.”

The receptionist took the key from Augusta and glanced down at the numbers engraved on it. “I believe so.” She returned the key to Augusta. “If you’ll just take a seat in the waiting area, I’ll get someone to help you.”

Augusta sat down on the edge of one of the armchairs in the waiting area, purse in her lap, and studied the pointed toe of her boot and the frayed hem of her jeans. Her hunch was right, she thought, excitement heating through her body. It only made sense that the tiny key would be to a safety deposit box. Where else would Drew have put the contents of the safe for safekeeping? And where else would the safety deposit box be but at her bank? He wouldn’t have wanted her to have to go through every bank in the city to find the box.

“Mrs. Langan?”

“Yes?” Augusta tilted her head back. The deep, well-modulated voice matched the robust, middle-aged man. He was dressed in a charcoal suit with a subtle pinstripe, coordinated with a checkered dress shirt and a plain silk tie. His thinning hair was cleverly disguised by an expensive haircut.

“I’m Joseph Lawrence, the manager at this branch.”

She rose and shook his hand. “I wasn’t expecting the bank manager to help with this matter.”

“I saw you come in and wanted to come over and offer you my condolences.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t want to ask how he knew what she looked like. She laid the blame on the media. “Did the receptionist tell you why I’m here?”

“Yes, and I’d be happy to personally assist you. Please come with me.”

Augusta followed Lawrence through the bank’s reception and teller area and up a set of stairs. She was shown to a room that only had space for a small wooden table and chair and was asked to wait there.

Augusta lifted a hand, hesitated, then asked, “Before you go, Mr. Lawrence, can you tell me when my husband got the safety deposit box?”

“About five weeks ago. His only instructions for us were that only you be allowed to open it. When I heard about his death, I wasn’t sure whether or not I should’ve called and informed you about this. Had you not shown up by Friday, I would’ve contacted you.”

“Thank you.”

Lawrence nodded. “Take a seat and I’ll return shortly.”

Less than five minutes later, he opened the door of the private room after a discreet knock. He placed a long, stainless steel box on the table.

“Take as long as you need. If you require anything at all, please ask,” he said before he left, closing the door firmly behind him.

Augusta stared at the box for long moments, her heart doing double time. Had she been of a more whimsical nature, she would’ve drawn a comparison to Pandora and her box.

After a fortifying breath, she unlocked and opened the box. There were envelopes—a small white one and two large ones that bulged in the middles. Bricks of money were underneath the envelopes. Ben Franklins looked up at her.

Throat tightening, she picked up the small envelope addressed to her in Drew’s bold writing. Had she not been sitting, she would have fallen down when, beneath the letter, she found a compact semi-automatic pistol and a magazine.

Augusta leaned back in the wooden chair, ripped opened the envelope and, along with a letter, found the wedding bands and engagement rings. Tears formed in her eyes as she read the letter, the rings clutched tightly in her fist.

Augusta,

It’s hard not to be dramatic in this letter because if you’re reading this, then I’m dead. I hope everything ends with my death, but I doubt it. The Beretta 85 is the gun I made you use for practice. I know you don’t believe in firearms but consider this my second last request. The gun is registered under a false name and it can’t be traced back to you.

My last request is for you to mail the package I addressed to John Archer at the FBI. He’s a good man. I trust him to do whatever needs to be done, and I trust him to protect you because if I’m dead, they’ll come after you to get the USB key I enclosed. It contains a recording of Daniele Castellated attempting to blackmail me into allowing him to use LSI to transport his “goods.” I guess he took exception to my refusal and my recording of our conversation.

There are fifty thousand dollars in cash and fake IDs in the taped up envelope. They are for you to use if you need to hide until Castelletti is neutralized. Remember to use cash for everything. They can trace you if you use your credit or debit cards.

I’m sorry you have to be involved in this. I thought the USB key would make a good insurance policy, but you know and I know I am occasionally wrong. Take care of yourself.

Drew

P.S. When you find a man you trust enough to have kids with, name the first for me.

By the time she reached the bottom of the letter, her tears blurred the last lines. Augusta used her scarf to dry her tears and wondered if Daniele Castelletti was one of the men in the pictures Nick had left for her. What did the mafia have that they thought they could use to blackmail Drew, a man who was known for being ruthless but always above board?

Augusta tore up the letter until it was nothing more than a small pile of quarter inch squares. She then brushed them into her purse so she could dispose of them later. She checked herself in her compact mirror. Her eyes were a little red, but otherwise, she looked normal. Hoping Joseph Lawrence was true to his word, she opened the door and peered outside.

The security guard at the end of the hall came to her when she made eye contact with him. If he thought her request was strange, he didn’t show it.

Half an hour later, Augusta stepped outside and, even though the sun was having a difficult time penetrating the blanket of clouds, wished she had brought along her sunglasses. She squinted up and down the street, looking for the patrol car that had been following her all morning. When she couldn’t spot them, she mentally shrugged. Cops needed food, too, didn’t they?

Clutching her purse tightly, Augusta headed for her car. And she came to an abrupt halt when two well-dressed suits blocked her car from sight. She took two quick steps back and looked up. Both medium height and deceptively slim. Slick, dark suits she knew would carry Italian designer labels on the inside. Slicked back hair that were advertisements for excessive hair gel use. Tanned faces with grave expressions that were more suited to undertakers than nine-to-five junior executives.

Fear gripped her but didn’t paralyze her. Before she could turn and run, however, they both stepped forward and each grabbed an upper arm.

“Miz Langan, our boss would like you to join him for lunch.”

* * * * *

The pictures Nick and Ethan had circulated slid down on Nick’s desk to settle on top of the report he was scanning. He looked up. A red-eyed, rough-looking man in wrinkled street clothes looked down at him. Nick wasn’t sure why, but vice always looked a little shabbier than the rest of the force. Maybe it had something to do with the isolation that was part and parcel of vice. Sergio Ramirez would’ve been pretty without the dark half circles under his eyes and the heavy stubble on his cheeks and chin. Noting that his clothes weren’t stained, Nick decided today was a good day for Ramirez.

Ramirez pulled up a chair, spun it around and straddled it backwards. “Heard you and Murtagh are trying to identify these guys,” he said.

Nick sat up. “You know them?” He caught Ethan’s attention from across the room and waved him over.

“The skinny one’s Stefano Salvo and the big guy’s his cousin, Tommy. Stefano’s the brain’s of the operation and Tommy carries out his orders.”

“We got a match on Tommy Salvo. A rap sheet longer than my arm, ranging from assault to attempted murder. He’s been in and out of correctional facilities since an early age.”

“You can add murder to Tommy’s list of crimes, but we’ve never been able to prove it.”

Nick grunted. “It’ll stick this time. And we can add assault and attempted murder. I’m betting it’s his blood on the victim’s pants.”

“Got an arrest warrant yet?”

“Waiting for a judge to sign it. And we wanted to wait until we got an ID on the second guy so we can hit both residences at once.” Nick paused. “Stefano didn’t pop up in the system.”

“Stefano lets Tommy do most of his dirty work and take the fall. Tommy’s loyal enough—and dumb enough—to do time for Stefano.”

“And the girl? Who’s the girl?”

“Daniela Castelletti. Tommy Salvo’s one of her father’s button men.”

“And Stefano?”

Ramirez shook his head. “Only an associate. His mama was Irish,” he explained. “But Tommy’s his cousin’s personal enforcer. He does whatever Stefano orders.”

“Oh, shit.” Nick’s chair creaked as he sat back. What the hell was Andrew Langan thinking of to get involved with one of the Tri-State area’s most ruthless mafia bosses? Castelletti may have a host of legitimate businesses that would make a Goldman Sachs advisor salivate, but deep down past all the layers, figuratively and literally, the man was as corrupt as his Sicilian roots were deep.

Ethan joined them, eyeing Ramirez warily when he caught the less-than-thrilled expression on Nick’s face. “What?”

Ramirez repeated his information for Ethan.

“Oh, shit.” Ethan sat down heavily on his desk. The Lieutenant had all but rubbed his hands together in glee when Ethan and Nick had briefed him about the surveillance tapes early that morning. “If Castelletti gave the order, we’ll never prove it.”

Ramirez nodded in silent agreement. “There might be enough to nail those two Salvo bastards for murder. That’s life without parole,” he said in his gravelly voice.

Ethan sighed. “That’ll probably satisfy brass and the DA.”

The grim look on Nick’s face didn’t go away. If anything else, it became even grimmer. How would Augusta feel if she knew that the person ultimately responsible for Andrew Langan’s death would not even be questioned? Let alone brought to justice.