Head Shot (23 page)

The Scot grunted. 'I hope not, for her sake. If she could, I have a hel of a feeling we're going to find her dead. Come on, take your pill and let's get moving.'

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When she saw the woman standing in the hal , holding a blue leather overnight bag, Maggie could not keep a flash of surprise from crossing her face; but it was suppressed almost at once, to be replaced by a welcoming smile.

Mario stood behind his cousin. 'I've invited Paula to stay the night,'

he explained to his wife. 'She's stil a bit shaken up. Nana's got a ful house with Mum and Auntie Sophia, and Viola's is ful of weans, so she's best here.'

'Of course,' she agreed at once, standing aside to allow them to pass into the living room. 'Come on in. Mario, put Paula's bag in the spare room, and stick a sheet on the bed while you're there. The duvet's okay, I think.'

'Yes, boss. We got enough grub for three, or wil I get a takeaway?'

'No, we've got plenty. I raided Marks and Spencer's food hal this afternoon, big time. I decided we should invite the whole family for lunch tomorrow; I've spoken to Nana and Stanley, and it's al set up. Just as well you're here, Paula; it'll save you a drive tomorrow.' She looked at her husband. 'That's okay with you, isn't it?'

'Sure it is. Man U are on telly tomorrow afternoon; that'll keep the kids quiet.'

Paula laughed softly. '. .. And their father, and their uncle. Maggie,'

she asked, 'can I use your bathroom?'

'Of course. Down the hal , first on the left; your room's the one beyond.'

'Fine. I'l drop my bag off myself while I'm there.'

Maggie waited until she heard the bathroom door close, then gave Mario a long appraising look. 'You're being very solicitous towards your cousin, aren't you? I thought you didn't even like her.'

'No, that's not true. I don't trust her,' he said, 'and I don't like some of the things she's done, but we were kids together, she's family and she's scared.'

'Scared? Paula?'

He nodded. 'Even tough girls . . . other than you, my dear . . . can get their knickers in a twist sometimes. Some nutter phoned the papers saying that Beppe's murder was a Mafia hit. Paula's afraid that might be true, and that she might be next.'

'And might she?'

'I doubt it. But the shooting was premeditated, that's for sure. It was efficient and there was nothing random about it.'

'And might you have something to worry about?' she asked, quietly.

Mario put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. 'I'm a police detective superintendent, love, and on top of that I'm quite a formidable bastard. Who's going to come after me?

'Honestly, I think Paula's worrying unnecessarily; once she's had a day or two to get over the shock of seeing her father like that, she'll come to realise it. Somewhere there's a reason for Uncle Beppe's murder, but I can't see it having anything to do with the business.'

'Have you spoken to your mother?'

'Not about that; anyhow I don't have to. She'd never have tolerated any nonsense within the trust, and she's too good a businesswoman for Beppe ever to have been able to hide anything from her.'

Maggie dropped into an armchair. 'This thing seems to have exposed a big gap in my knowledge,' she mused aloud. 'There's a lot of stuff you've never really told me, isn't there, Mario?'

He looked at her, from beneath raised eyebrows. 'Such as?'

'Your papa's wil for a start, and your place on the trust in succession to Christina.'

He shrugged, as if it was no matter. 'I didn't want to think about it myself, I suppose. And you've kept a couple of things from me, remember.'

She flinched for a second, but ignored his comment. 'Okay, but there's more than that. I have a rough idea of the family's interests but no more than that. Exactly what does this trust control?'

It was Paula who answered her, as she came back into the room. 'We own a classic mix of Scots-Italian businesses,' she said. 'They're up and down east central Scotland, in strong retail centres. There are ten cafes doing tea and coffee catering, each selling our own-brand ice-cream, which we also supply to co-operative food stores. Then we have five takeaways, two in Edinburgh, one in Dundee, one in St Andrews and one in Falkirk. Originally, they were big chippies, with sitting-in areas, but when fish prices started to rise, we started doing pizzas and roast chickens as wel , and took the seats out. My dad wanted to do kebabs as well, but 158

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my mum said no, because they'd stink the shops out.

'There are eight delicatessens in the chain, in Edinburgh, Dundee, St Andrews, Dunfermline, Dalkeith and North Berwick. We specialise in imported Italian food and wines, from suppliers that Papa Viareggio set up years ago.

'That's all the retail side; alongside it, there's our property holdings.

We own our own premises, and in several cases the buildings in which they're located, the other shops and the flats above. That's the side of the business that's grown in recent years; Stan's started making investment purchases outside our traditional areas of operations. He's been buying office property around Edinburgh, outside the city bypass, with good solid tenants and the potential for expansion.'

'Stan?' Maggie asked, surprised.

'Yes,' said Mario. 'You know; Stan Coia, Viola's husband. He's a surveyor by profession, and he manages the property side.'

'I thought Uncle Beppe ran everything.'

'He had overal control, sure, but he had help. Aunt Sophia looks after the cafes, Viola supervises the takeaways, Stan, like I said, handles property, and Paula, although she works in the Stockbridge deli, is general manager of them all. They all reported back to the trustees.'

She looked at him, her mouth hanging open slightly. 'I knew hardly any of this; I didn't have a clue that Stan and Viola were in the business too. And now you're the senior trustee?'

'I didn't ask for it, love, honest; nor did I expect that it would happen for a while, possibly not till I was ready to retire from the police force.'

'And how are you going to handle it?'

'Maybe by appointing a proxy; I don't know. That's something Paula and I are going to have to sort out between us.'

'But not tonight, eh?' There was a tired plea in his cousin's voice.

To the immense relief of Skinner and Doherty, Mrs Lucinda Thorpe came to the door of her small suburban Buffalo home, alive and well, if slightly hysterical. She was a tall, sturdily built, middle-aged black woman, with an imposing presence, and so the white Kleenex with which she dabbed at her pufty eyes seemed entirely out of place.

'This is not a good time to be cal ing, gentlemen,' she told them in a strong, deep voice.

'We know, Mrs Thorpe,' said the Scot, 'but it's necessary. I guess you've seen a news bulletin on television.'

Mrs Thorpe shook her head. 'No, but I had a cal from my husband.

He's at his golf club, and he saw something there. It really is true? Oh my, poor Mr Wylie. My friend told me that the police are saying that he lit a barbecue on the deck of his cruiser boat and it blew up.'

'That's all true; but what they still have to prove is that the explosion was actually caused by a spark from the charcoal.'

Her eyes narrowed slightly. 'And let me guess: you don't think it was.'

She paused. 'Who are you guys anyway? You're cops, but you ain't the local police, that's for sure.'

'No, we're not. Mr Doherty here is with the FBI.' As he spoke, the American pulled out a laminated identity card from his jacket and held it up for the woman to see. 'Let's cal me a consultant in his investigation; I'm a detective from Scotland. I'm also Leo Grace's son-in-law.'

'Ah,' said the secretary, flicking through her memory banks, 'the guys Mr Wylie was meeting. So you're Miss Sarah's husband. Yeah, I heard she married an older guy.' Skinner heard Joe Doherty stifle a chuckle. 'But I heard it didn't work out.'

'It's working fine now, I promise you. Look, can we come in? We need to talk to you.'

She held the door open for them and ushered them indoors, through the living room and out into a sunny back garden, complete with a smal blue-tiled swimming pool. She pointed to it. 'That was a personal gift from Mr Grace, when he retired. Nice man; what happened to him and 160

his poor wife was just awful. And now, with Mr Wylie ...' She paused, as they settled into white plastic chairs, set around a table.

'Of course,' she murmured. 'You guys think there's a connection.'

'Let's just say that we're blessed with the cynicism for which the FBI is famous,' Doherty answered.

Mrs Thorpe looked at him, almost for the first time, her eyes drawn to the gauze that had been taped to the side of his head, over the stitches.

'What happened to you?' she asked.

'I got a shade too close to Mr Wylie's boat when it blew up. It was as well I was with this big old guy here; he hauled my ass out of there.'

'You were actual y there when it happened?'

'Yup.'

Her curiosity broke through her shock. 'So what did it look like?'

'Like the biggest bonfire night you've ever seen,' Skinner answered.

'Mrs Thorpe,' he continued, over her puzzlement, 'after Agent Kosinski arranged our meeting with Mr Wylie, who would have known about it?'

'Just about anyone in the firm,' she told him. 'Yesterday, we had our monthly lunch for partners and associates, and Mr Wylie mentioned there that the FBI wanted to talk to him about Mr Grace's murder. There were around thirty-five people present, so he might as well have run an ad on television.'

Doherty gave a soft moan. 'Superb,' he muttered.

'Ah, but he didn't say that it had been arranged.'

The deputy director's face brightened. 'Mrs Thorpe, do you know if Mr Wylie had been in touch with Mr Grace recently?'

'Depends what you mean by recently. The deer hunting trip was in January, but I'm not aware of their having spoken since then. Of course that doesn't mean that they hadn't. I don't know absolutely everything that my boss did; as wel as his office engagement book, he kept a private diary on that laptop thing he had.'

'Laptop?' Skinner repeated.

'Yes, sir. An Apple Mac iBook; he's had it since the beginning of the year. It has a plum-coloured casing, and a built-in modem; everywhere he went, he took that damn thing with him.'

'Would he have had it with him on the boat today?'

'For sure.'

The Scot looked at Doherty. 'Wilkins had a laptop, remember. It was stolen.'

'I sure do remember.'

Without another word, the deputy director took out his cellphone and called the FBI lab. 'Alan,' he said, quietly, 'I want you to contact the team we have heading for Buffalo, and ask them to look specifically for the remains of a laptop computer.'

As he replaced the pocket phone he turned back to Skinner. 'Did Leo Grace have a laptop?'

'I wouldn't know.' The DCC paused. 'Sarah used to get e-mails from him; his address is in the book on our computer at home. But there's a desktop in his house, down in his den, so he probably used that. Stil it's possible that he had a laptop as well; it's possible.'

'Mrs Thorpe,' asked the American. 'The names we mentioned, Wilkins and Garrett; Agent Kosinski told us you were going to look through Mr Grace's files for references to them. Have you done that?'

'Yes, sir, I did that yesterday afternoon; and I told Mr Kosinski the result. There is no mention of either of those gentlemen in Mr Grace's papers. There's nothing on the firm's computer files either. I ran a check on them at the same time. I even asked Mr Wylie if he had heard of either of them. He just shrugged his shoulders and gave me a blank look.'

'In that case, that completes our business. Thank you for your time, and our condolences over your loss.' He stood, with a sideways glance at Skinner. 'Bob.'

'Yes. But there's just one thing. You mentioned a hunting trip earlier.'

She smiled, and her pleasant ebony face seemed to light up. 'Sure, the deer hunt. That was back in January, like I said. Mr Grace and Mr Wylie decided to take themselves off down to the Appalachians for a week, blowing the hell out of those poor animals. Didn't your father-in-law mention it to you?'

'I can't say that he did. Never mind. Thanks anyway.'

She showed them out, and down the path to their car. As they stood on the sidewalk, Doherty took out his cellphone, and dialled in a number.

'Zak? Good; something I need to know. Was there a note on the Garrett inventory of a missing computer? A laptop. There was? Excellent.

Thanks.'

He ended the cal and nodded to Skinner. 'The kid confirmed it.

Garrett had one too.'

As he closed the passenger door of the saloon, the Scot turned to his friend. 'Joe, there's something wrong with Mrs Thorpe's story. Leo Grace was a Korean War hero; he saw a lot of action. It affected him so much that after he got back, he never picked up a gun for the rest of his life. He detested the National Rifle Association, and I never met anyone who was more strongly opposed to blood sports.

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'No nicking way did he go shooting deer in the Appalachians or anywhere else.'

'So I wonder what he did in that backwoods week? Maybe Sarah'l know when she gets here Monday.'

'Maybe. Rol on the day.'

Doherty smiled. 'Do I take it from that, that you're not looking forward to a quiet Sunday in Buffalo?'

'You take it right.'

'Well, that's good, because I have another day trip planned for you. We are heading, my friend, for the show that never ends, Our Nation's Capital.

It's time we took a look at the politics of this thing.'

The gathering was sombre; even Ryan and David were subdued, although they were barely old enough to comprehend the meaning of death.

Maggie wondered if they were simply behaving as instructed, or if their mother's near-paralysing grief had scared them into silence.

She asked their father as much, as they stood together in the conservatory, salad plates in hand, looking out on to the McGuires' neat and orderly garden.