MASS MURDER (39 page)

Giorgio allowed the secret door to close again before emerging from his hiding place.
Quickly, he turned and shined his flashlight above the hallway doorframe where an enameled crucifix hung on the wall.
He counted
to twenty
before reaching
up and
pulling
on the crossed ankles of the Christ figure.
The entire symbol slid silently down as if mounted on a well-oiled runner. The wall behind him opened and Giorgio wasted no time in following the furtive robed figure.

He descended the steps as quietly as possible, conscious that the person he pursued could be waiting around any corner.
He hurried through the tunnel
, crouching around corners and hugging the outer wall.
He made it to the
small
hallway outside of Peters’ office just as Anya Peters flew backwards out of her closet, nearly landing in his arms.
A sharp bark signaled that Grosvner was the reason.
Peters disengaged herself from Giorgio and turned to stare at him in surprise.
The look on her face was a mixture of shock and anger a
s she realized her predicament.

“That dog should be caged,” she bluffed.
“What’s he doing in m
y office?”

“I think the bigger question, Ms. Peters, is what are you doing making secret trips t
hrough an underground passage dressed as a monk?”

“I don’t know what you mean.
That dog nearly attacked me.
I could bring charges
.
”

She stopped talking when she realized Giorgio had noticed a set of monk’s robes hanging on a hook just inside the small enclosure.

“Ah, the costume,” he said, starting towards it.
When his foot kicked something lying in the dirt, he looked down to find a brown paper package lying in the dust.
“Well, well, what’s this?”
Giorgio stooped to pick it up.

The pause Ms. Peters took before answering spoke volumes.
“I have no idea,” she stammered, flinging her head in the air.
“I’m not even sure where we are.”

She made a vain attempt at looking lost, as if she’d fallen through the wall by mistake.
Giorgio prodded her forward with his flashlight.

“Let’s go back inside.”

They squeezed through the closet
door
into the office again and he ordered Grosvner to the other side of the desk.
Giorgio invited Ms. Peters to take a seat
.

“Want to tell me about it?” he
asked, holding out the package.

“I have nothing to tell,” she replied stubbornly.
“I was working late and this dog attacked me in my own office.
I’ll bring charges.”

“You may want to revise that story, Ms. Peters.
I followed you in here a few minutes ago, but w
hen I got here, you were gone.”

She raised an eyebrow.
“I th
ink I’d like to call a lawyer.”

Her eyes flitted to the package and Giorgio smiled as he began to unwrap it.
As he lifted the end flap, several plastic bags filled with white powder slid onto the desk.
A
nya Peters sank into her chair.

“I think you’d better make that phone call right now,” he said, handing her the phone.

With a grim look, she dialed a number while he pulled out his cell phone and called for a squad car.
When she’d finished, he took out a pair of plastic ties, read her the Miranda rights
,
and cuffed her to an old ra
diator at the back of the room.

“Now, don’t you go anywhere,” he chided, pointing at her with his flashlight
.

Giorgio and Grosvner hurried to the kitchen where the catering staff had begun to pack up. Mary Fields was at the sink rinsing out a chafing dish while Nancy placed empty platters into a large plastic storage container.
Mary Fields stopped when she saw him enter.

“Detective?
Ha
s there been another incident?”

“Where’s Colin Jewett?”

Grosvner had followed him into the kitchen and started a wide loop to where one of the assistants scraped leftovers into a large trash bin.
At that moment, the back door slamme
d and Colin Jewett strolled in.

“What’s next?” he asked Mary
, freezing when he saw Giorgio.

Giorgio held up his badge.
“Colin Jewett, you’re under arrest.
You have the right to remain
silent;
you have the right to
…
.”

Jewett turned and bolted for the back door.
He would have made it except for Mary Fields’ foot which clipped him just above the ankles throwing him head first into the wall.
Giorgio pulled his weapon and ordered the man to halt as he struggled to get up.
Giorgio grabbed another set of plastic ties from his pocket and
forced the man’s hands behind his back.

“Nice work,” he said to Fields.

Giorgio pushed Jewett against the wall and reached into his jacket pocket where he was
rewarded with
an envelope filled with a stack of one hundred dollar bills.
Just then a siren echoed in the distance, giving Grosvner a reason to join in for a good howl.

Chapter Twenty-
Seven

It was after eleven o’clock and the bar was full.
He sat alone in a red leather booth tucked in the far corner facing the door
. T
wo worn pool tables commanded the center of the room.
Neon signs advertising Bud Light and Draft Beer glowed in the window and an old-fashioned jute box played Kenny G, out-of-place here, especially for the group of bikers playing pool.

The Guiness in his hand felt like an old friend and his thumb was already lifting the label, a habit he’d picked up as a child.
Back then, every pop bottle or juice box had to be stripped of its label.
It just did.
It was an obsession.
A nervous habit.
His mother’s harsh voice still echoed in his head, screaming at him to stop making such a mess.
What was she thinking these days, he wondered?
His mother.
She didn’t know the truth.
His uncle felt she couldn’t be trusted
and
so
was led to believe
he was dead.
It was the only guilt he’d felt since this all began
.

He glanced down at the small pile of paper on the
table in front of him.
What surprised him most was how lonely he was.
He was isolated from everything and everyone he knew and he couldn’t be honest about anything.
Every moment, every breath was a lie.
And although he was good at lying
−
no, make that gre
at at lying
−
living a continuous lie was harder than he thought it would be.
There were moments when he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs that he wasn’t who he said he was just to see the look on everyone’s faces.
But of course, he couldn’t.
He was
a ghost and had to stay that way.

His short fingers cradled the cold bottle of beer while he half listened to two young women flirt with a couple of guys at the bar.
His mind drifted back to when he’d held a cold bottle of Guiness the night he and Jacko had nicked Mangano.
He’d been relaxing in his apartment, reliving the swell of pride at fina
lly avenging his father’s death
when a knock temporarily short-circuited his air supply.
A familiar voice had called out from the hallway
.

“Open the door, Cato.”

His uncle.
It
hadn’t been a spontaneous visit
.
Oh, no.
There were people who watched and reported
what went on in the neighborhood.
His uncle had come for a reason.

When h
is uncle entered the apartment
,
Cato had
closed the door and leaned against it in an attempt to appear casual.

“Uncle Nick, what brings you here at this hour?”
The dryness in
his
throat had cried out for the cool ale in his hand, but he
held the bottle at his side
.

His uncle stood looking out the window, most likely at his b
lack Mercedes
waiting at the curb.
The pure elegance of this man had always held Cato in awe.
His rich black suit and blue silk tie seemed to define the very air around him.

“
You been busy tonight,
Cato
.
Am I right
?
I hear things, and som
e thing
s I hear ain’t so good.

Cato had
flicked the beer bottle with his forefinger
just as he was doing now
, filling the
small apartment
with a dull echo.

“I don’t
know what you mean, Uncle Nick.

“You went to Alfonso’s tonight.
You think I wouldn’t find out?

He’d tried to respond, but a
papal gesture
from his uncle had
stopped him, the sparkle of go
ld glinting off the ring finger of his right hand.

“Mangano had to be eliminated.
You had a right, Cato, but not like this.
You’re inexperienced.
You should have waited.
You made mistakes.
Mistakes that will raise questions.
Questions I can’t afford.

Cato’s
thumb nail raked across the bottle label at the memory, shredding the last of it
and
forming a small pile on the bar room table
.

“I’ll lay low for awhile.
I can do that.
You always said I’m lik
e a mole that goes underground.

“Moles leave little piles of dirt around for others to find, Cato.
That’s how they catch moles
.
No, I’m afraid something m
ore permanent must be arranged.