Tomorrow's Vengeance (22 page)

‘Yes!' I said, doing an arm pump. ‘Naddie, you are brilliant!'

‘Hardly.' She inclined her head toward my ear. ‘And here comes someone else whose absence during mealtime would certainly not have gone unremarked.'

I followed her gaze. Filomena was chugging our way like a determined steam engine. ‘Do you mind if I interrupt your card game for a moment, ladies?'

‘Of course not.' Naddie waved at the empty chair. ‘Please.'

‘I need your help, Mrs Gray,' Filomena said, pulling out the chair and sitting down in it.

‘Me? And how can
I
help you, my dear?'

Filomena folded her hands on the table in front of her and leaned toward Naddie. ‘You write the detective stories, right? You know about the police and things.'

Naddie cocked her head. ‘A little, dear, but remember, what I wrote is fiction not fact. Sometimes I simply made it up. It's one of the reasons I gave up writing police procedurals, to tell the truth. Too much forensics in crime novels these days. I'm much more interested in the characters, in their relationships. I let the cops do what they do somewhere off the page.'

Filomena waved Naddie's objections away. ‘I am worried. I think they are going to put my brother in jail.'

‘According to what I've heard, they've simply taken Raniero in for questioning, Filomena. That doesn't mean he's going to be arrested. If he has nothing to hide …'

The deer-in-the-headlights look on Filomena's face said it all.

Naddie and I exchanged worried glances. Naddie leaned forward and cocked her head. ‘Are you telling us that Raniero
does
have something he doesn't want people to find out about?'

Filomena lowered her gaze, confirming my suspicions. ‘Mr Abaza, somehow he found out what Raniero was doing.'

‘What was Raniero doing?' I asked, bracing myself for an avalanche of sordid details about a love affair with Safa.

‘I know nothing about it, of course. It is the chef's job to plan the menus and order the supplies. I just pay the bills.'

Filomena needed prodding. ‘Tell us. What was Raniero doing?' I repeated.

She took a deep breath then puffed it out. ‘Raniero, he is taking what you call backkicks.'

‘Kickbacks,' I corrected.

‘Yes, kickbacks. He is giving me invoices for meats that are kosher and that are halal when they are not. They are cheaper. And Raniero and the meat man, they are splitting the difference and putting the money in their pockets.'

That was a shocker. ‘How much money are we talking about, Filomena?'

She studied the chandelier, as if the answer were written on one of the cut-glass crystal pendants. ‘Since Calvert Colony opened? Many thousands, maybe. Special meat is very expensive.'

Although Masud was quite the busybody, it seemed unlikely to me that he'd be involved behind the scenes in the kitchen. While Safa … I flashed back again to the day I'd run into Safa scooting out the kitchen door. She'd
said
she'd been discussing the menu, and specifically mentioned a meat delivery. Could she have been aware of Raniero's scam with the meat and told her husband, rather than been indulging in an affair?

‘But, wouldn't
you
be the most likely person to stumble over what Raniero was doing, Filomena? How on earth did Mr Abaza get involved?'

She straighted her spine and rotated her shoulders. ‘Ah, Mr Abaza, he parks his golf cart over by the kitchen, where there is good shade so the seat is not so hot when you sit on it, you know? One day, Raniero tells me, he is late. Mr Abaza is climbing into his golf cart when the delivery truck comes, so he starts talking to the meat man.' She tucked a wayward strand of golden hair behind her ear. ‘I don't know exactly how, but Raniero tells me afterwards that he's in trouble and we can't afford to lose this job.'

‘We?'

‘If Raniero goes, I go. How do you Americans say? That's how we roll.'

I wondered why Filomena was telling us this. You'd think she'd want to protect her brother, not point one of her well-manicured fingers at him. ‘So, are you saying that your brother murdered Mr Abaza to shut him up about the kickbacks to the meat man?'

‘I do not know, Mrs Gray. I only know about the meat.'

‘Do the police know … about the meat, I mean?' I asked.

Filomena screwed her pretty face into a frown. ‘Raniero, I think he is confessing. That is why I am telling you.'

‘You don't know that, Filomena,' Naddie said gently.

Her face suddenly went pale.

‘Why did he do it?' I asked. ‘Cheat Calvert Colony on the meat, I mean?'

Filomena looked distinctly unwell, but shrugged. ‘We need the money for the restaurant, maybe?'

I frowned. Skimming money off the top of the meat bill seemed like small potatoes to me, but over time perhaps it added up. Or perhaps the funny business with the meat was just the tip of the iceberg. Perhaps Raniero had found other unorthodox ways to ‘economize.' As if selling works of art that had been in their family for three generations wasn't enough.

Filomena stopped chewing her lower lip. ‘What do I say when the police ask me about Raniero, Mrs Gray?'

Naddie reached out and patted the worried woman's hand. ‘You tell them the truth, my dear.'

‘[They] never cared to report, nor to return: they longed to stay forever, browsing on that native bloom, forgetful of their homeland.'

Homer,
The Odyssey,
Book IX, Lines 99–104.

‘W
hat do you think about that?' Naddie asked me after Filomena had gone.

Charlie Robinson segued from ‘I Got Rhythm' to ‘Nice Work if You Can Get It' while I mulled over the conversation.

‘Something's off. Masud must have been upset to learn that the meat he'd been eating was
haram
rather than
halal
. I can easily imagine him flying into a blind rage and killing Raniero over that, but not the other way around.'

‘But Filomena thinks Raniero may have killed Masud to keep him from spilling the beans about the kickbacks,' Naddie reminded me.

I shook my head. ‘We know the guy is a tattletale. After talking to the meat man Masud would have made a beeline for Tyson Bennett's office and Raniero would have been out on his ear.'

‘But he didn't see Tyson,' Naddie said. ‘Raniero was still working up to the point of being taken in for questioning.'

‘And why didn't he?' I asked, trying to follow Naddie's train of thought.

‘Because he wanted to use the information as leverage. There was something he wanted from Raniero.'

‘Stop messing with my wife, or else?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Yes!' I was practically leaping out of my chair. And then I sobered up. ‘But was that the something?'

‘Hannah, my dear, I don't have the slightest idea.'

I pondered what Naddie had said until I thought my brain would explode. I was only half listening to ‘Someone to Watch Over Me' when Naddie shook my arm gently. ‘Look.' She jerked her head sideways.

Standing at the reception desk, dressed casually in khaki slacks and a bold Hawaiian shirt, was Richard Kent.

I had Angie on speed dial.

‘Hi, Hannah, what's up?' she said without preamble.

‘Dickie's back.'

‘Shit.'

‘I thought he was on some secret mission for the CIA,' I said as I watched Richard sign in on the tablet.

Angie snorted. ‘As if. He now works for a contractor at the amputee clinic in Bethesda.'

‘I presume he's here to see your mother-in-law, but she hasn't shown up yet, Angie. When she does, what do you want me to do?'

‘Remember what you said the last time about following them?'

‘In a rash moment, yes.'

‘Would you? Please? I don't trust him one tiny bit.'

‘I don't know, Angie,' I said. ‘Everybody knows he's taking her out. He signed in, for heaven's sake.'

Suddenly Christie popped through a door into the lobby, all Talbot petites, Ann Klein, a Coach bag and smiles. She took Richard's arm. As they walked out the front door, Richard eased a ball cap out of his back pocket and put it on.

I caught my breath: a gray baseball cap with a blue star. Damn. Richard was a Dallas Cowboys fan. Hadn't Masud told me …?

‘No problem, Angie. I'm on it.'

I pocketed my phone and shot Naddie a look of desperation. She waved me off. ‘Write when you get work!'

The sacrifices I make for my friends.

Richard was driving a generic white Dodge Avenger – probably a rental – so at least Christie wasn't behind the wheel. From the partial cover of a hedge, I observed him opening the passenger-side door then waiting until she slipped in and fastened her seatbelt before closing the door with a solid
thud
behind her.

I hustled over to my car and followed the Dodge out of the parking lot and down Bay Ridge Avenue. I nearly lost it at the light at Hillsmere Drive, but caught up with the rental car again a few lights later.

When they got to the intersection of West Street and Forest Drive I knew they were headed for the Annapolis Mall.

Restaurant or food court? I wondered as I dogged their tail around the perimeter road of the enormous shopping center. Christie's hands were actively waving, giving directions. Eventually Richard pulled into the parking lot at the Nordstrom end of the mall. Dickey-boy was going to splash out, it seemed. Stony River? California Pizza Kitchen? I parked a few spaces over and waited until the couple was safely inside the Cheesecake Factory. A thought struck me … I strolled casually over to Richard's rental car and tried the trunk.

To my astonishment, Richard had neglected to lock the car. The trunk popped open revealing a carry-on suitcase, two paperback books, a black jacket and, underneath the jacket, a balaclava.

Gotcha, Balaclava Man!

It was a gorgeous day so I sat down outside the Cheesecake Factory at a table for two, snagged a passing server and ordered iced tea and a sandwich. While I waited for my drink I called Detective Powers and left a message about Richard and the balaclava, then swapped texts with Angie.

At mall. CCFactory.

OMFG.

Srsly.

Pix?

I figured there wasn't any way I could take a picture of the happy pair without calling unwanted attention to myself, but I thought I could give it a try, so I texted back
IAM
and headed into the restaurant. If I were going to drink that tall glass of iced tea I desperately needed to find a restroom, anyway.

As I came out of the ladies' room I spotted them, sitting in a booth across from one another, sharing a platter of Thai chicken lettuce wraps and toasting each other with cosmopolitans served in oversized martini glasses. Christie was gazing at Richard with the same look of adoration that the three kings had bestowed upon the Christ child. World War Three could have broken out around her and she wouldn't have noticed. I hauled out my iPhone, aimed and took the shot.

Back at my table I sent the picture to Angie with no comment, dawdled over my chicken parmesan sandwich, ordered a refill on the tea then finally paid the bill and moved back to my car. Fifteen minutes later the couple emerged, arm in arm, laughing. Once again I followed the car around the perimeter road and into the parking lot of the Wells Fargo bank on Jennifer Road, next to Fuddruckers.

While Richard kept the engine running, Christie climbed out of the car, toodled over to the ATM and slotted in her card.

The next stop was the liquor store in the Festival mall at Riva. From a parking spot in front of Petco, I watched Richard enter the store alone, then emerge carrying something wrapped in a brown paper bag. After a discussion inside the car, Christie strolled over to the ATM next to the grocery store and made another withdrawal.

As they proceeded eastward on Forest Drive, stopping at two more ATMs along the way, Richard drove with the exaggerated caution of the professional drinker, sticking to the far right lane, never exceeding twenty-five miles an hour. I loafed along on their tail, wondering who was going to give out first – Christie's money or me.

‘One time I dated this guy named John. He lived in a classy condo in Washington, DC. Early on, he showed me his family tree. I thought this was odd, but so what, he was a fun guy. A few months into the relationship, he said, “I cannot date you anymore. Your name does not fit into the family tree.” WTF? Since when is “Sue” considered strange? The accepted names included Agnes, Agatha, Bertha, Beulah, and Hortense. Oh, and my family had to have come to Virginia prior to 1750. I don't recall being upset when John dumped me, just relieved. I wonder if he's still single considering all of his family rules?'

‘Sue,' Anonymous Facebook posting.

I
t must have been the shortest love affair in history, with the possible exception of Britney Spears and Jason Alexander whose 'til-death-us-do-part lasted all of fifty-five hours.

I'd followed the couple back to Calvert Colony. Richard let Christie out at the front entrance, then went to park his car.

By the time I'd parked and returned to Blackwalnut Hall Christie was standing on the balcony of the old hotel, Juliet to a Romeo who was staggering one painful step at a time up the staircase behind her. ‘But, Christie, I
love
you!'

‘No, you don't! You're only interested in money.'

What a surprise.

Richard grasped the railing, his head bowed as if it were too heavy for him. ‘That's not true,' he whined into his chest. ‘I love, love, love you.'

He dragged himself painfully up another step. ‘We're going to get married! What's mine is yours, baby.'

‘A lousy disability check from the VA?' Christie screamed from her vantage point at the top of the stairs. She disappeared, but I could still hear her. ‘I don't think so!'