She found her seat in Business Class and settled down, stuffing her overnight case under the seat, then opened the Foto-Mat folder. The shots of the Summer-lands she tore up. Then she studied the six or seven shots she had of Beano, Duffy, and Tommy coming up the houseboat gangplank by the limousine. In one, Tommy seemed to be smiling, and Beano had his arm almost around the little mobster. Beano had posed for that one, turning toward the camera and smiling, to give Victoria a better shot. She selected the four photos she liked best and destroyed the others. She could read the slightly out-of-focus Fresno Herald on the dash in the foreground. The blurred headlines, barely discernible, announced: CONGRESSIONAL BUDGET CUTS IN DEFENSE FUNDING. It would be enough to establish the date of the pictures.
The plane took off and she laid her head back on the seat rest. Tomorrow she would lay the trump down. That should be the beginning of the end for the Rina brothers. Finally, she was going to confront the little monster with the wavy hair who had killed Carol Sesnick, along with her friends Tony Corollo and Bobby Manning. She could hardly wait for revenge and retribution. Then she thought of Beano and about all that had happened in the last ten days. It was almost too much to contemplate. Her emotions were rolling, her senses struggling to hold on to her shifting feelings. She could still feel the afternoon sun on her skin.
Beano left the Fresno Airport and headed back to the parking lot. He got into the Winnebago and looked at Roger, who was curled up on the sofa in his white bandages, looking like a molting caterpillar. He stared at Beano with wise eyes.
"I never felt like this before," Beano told the little dog, who wagged his tail in expectation of something more.
"Don't give me that look," Beano said. "I can barely take care of us. How will I be able to take care of her? Would she even want me to take care of her?"
And then he got behind the wheel and, while his mind worked on that problem, he put the motor home in gear and began the three-hour drive to San Francisco.
Chapter Twenty-Seven.
SHE MOVED INTO THE HANCOCK BUILDING, WHICH WAS on the Strand in Atlantic City. The Rinas had built it with Organized Crime proceeds four years back. It was known in the D.A.'s office as the Pasta Palace because every crooked union official and trucking boss had his office there. The building was one-stop shopping for syndicate bag men. A huge bronze statue of John Hancock was on display in the lobby. Victoria took the elevator up to the twenty-third floor.
She expected to be stopped by Security, but she sailed right past watchful cameras, down the hall, and into the executive offices of Rina Enterprises. In another startling lapse of security, there was nobody in the reception area. The check-in desk was empty and Victoria waited with her manila folder under her arm, not sure what to do next. Then a mail boy buzzed the electric lock and came out through the inner office door. Victoria rushed and caught the door before it closed. It was almost noon, and she wondered if Joe Rina was still in the office, or perhaps had left for an early lunch. She moved down the hallway, where several secretaries were typing. They never looked up at her as she moved to the end of the hall, where she could see a magnificent pair of antique doors which, she assumed, fronted Joe Rina's office. She opened the doors without knocking and walked in.
The room was magnificent. It had picture windows that overlooked the Boardwalk on the south, and the Atlantic Ocean on the east. She could see the famous Atlantic City Pier jutting into the raging surf two blocks away. She quickly surveyed the office. The mandatory grip-and-grin photographs dominated the west walclass="underline" shots of Joe Rina with sports celebrities and movie stars; two Presidents were up there, grinning stupidly in the presence of a known Mafia Boss while Joe had his handsome face turned toward the camera, his electric smile lighting every shot. The art in the office was priceless, some of it under glass. A few pre-Columbian Aztec treasures dating back to the thirteenth century were on the antique sideboard next to a golfing trophy. She moved over and looked at the trophy. The plaque said BEST BALL FOURSOME, GREENBOROUGH COUNTRY CLUB, 1996. Victoria moved to the desk and laid her best photo there, front and center. Then she moved over and sat in the high-backed wing chair and waited.
Twenty minutes later he hurried into the office, rolling down his sleeves. He seemed late for something and was moving fast, carrying his suitcoat. He moved to his desk, saw the picture, and picked it up.
"That was taken by an FBI Electronic Surveillance Team yesterday in Fresno, California," she said.
He spun and saw her partially hidden, sitting in the huge wing chair. She got up and faced him.
"What are you doing here?" he said, his voice surprisingly soft, considering the intrusion her presence in his office represented.
"I came here to see if I could wreck something." She moved to the table with the Aztec treasures and picked one up.
Joe moved protectively toward the tiny statue but stopped short of trying to grab it.
"Don't worry. What I want to wreck has more value than this." And she put it carefully back down on the table.
"I asked you how you got in here."
"'The place was empty. I just walked in. You need to get a few more Indians up on the rocks."
"I'll give that some thought."
He was still holding the picture. It was the one where Beano seemed to be smiling at Tommy with his hand on Tommy's shoulder. They were beside the limo at the Mud Flat Marina. "What's this supposed t'be about?" Joe said, indicating the picture. His eyes were hooded. Victoria surmised he recognized Beano as the card cheat Frank Lemay. She knew it bothered him to see Tommy with the man Joe had beaten with a nine-iron, but Joe knew he could not be tried for that crime again. Victoria let these thoughts simmer before moving on.
"I've been let go from the D.A.'s office or I'm quitting… We're still arguing about which it's gonna be."
"Good news from an unexpected place," he grinned.
"Here's the bad news from the same place," she grinned back. "I went by there this morning to clear out my office and I got those photos from the FBI team that's been covering Tommy's activities…"
"Tommy's being followed? I wasn't aware there were any pending prosecutions. He's not wanted for anything."
"Maybe they just got tired of him beating up every hooker he's slept with and dealing drugs outside of all those high schools. I don't know, but the Feds have a three-man Weedwhacker team on him. They took these pictures. They also told me that Tommy financed that card cheat in the picture there. They tell me he's been stealing from you for years. The Feds think that's funny. Supposedly, he's into you for millions but since I'm leaving the office, and since I know firsthand you're a hard guy to get a conviction against, I thought I'd just come over and dump that fact on you and let you deal with it yourself. Might be more fun to watch this way."
Joe smiled at her. "Tommy's stealing money from me? That's the angle?" he said; his gorgeous movie-star smile was widening. "He tells me you're the thief… He tells me you scammed a hundred thousand dollars from our jewelry store here in Atlantic City."
"Think about it, Joe… Does that make any damn sense at all? That sounds exactly like some kinda dumb thing your brother would come up with while he's the one doing the stealing."
"Why would he need to? Half of everything I own is his."
"Why?" she shrugged. "Why do male timber wolves eat their young? Why did Cain murder Abel? Why do pigeons shit on statues? Some things have no answers, Joseph."