Only an hour or so had passed from the time the first shot was fired at Maddie until the police and emergency crew barreled into Arless’s home. They had wasted a little time at the site of the Jeep after discovering a man on the driver’s side with his head taken off by a nasty hollow point. Then they got Arless’s 911 call.
A bullet from the same gun was found in the man in the field. He’d been shot in the back. I readily confessed to the splattered mess at the bottom of the turbine. All three men were identified as worker bees for the Cantini crime family, two cousins and a brother of the man who had dragged me from the library in Chicago.
When the police asked, I described the anonymous gentleman who had carried me off in his arms like John Wayne as “beige.” Arless just kept his mouth shut.
Hudson interrupted my thoughts, grumpy, pulling the truck to a halt in front of the discreet glass door of the Bank of the Wild West. I wasn’t sure how to deal with this Hudson, overprotective, loaded with guilt for not being there.
“You know, Wade is a closemouthed bastard,” he said. “I don’t trust him. He couldn’t have waited until you were better to hand over the key?” Hudson didn’t seem to be expecting a response from me. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“No, go on to the meeting. You’ve put it off twice because of me. Pick me up in about two hours.” I winced as I reached for the door handle.
“I’m having lunch with the guy at Reata. Two blocks away. I can cut it short if I need to. He just wants a tail on his daughter’s ex-boyfriend.”
And maybe a warning from a guy who could snap his neck. Once upon a time, like a month ago, this would have bothered me. I would have held Hudson’s willingness to cross the line against him, as a reason not to get close.
Not anymore. Snap away.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Stop this. None of this is your fault. I won’t move an inch outside the bank until you come back.” I reached for the door handle again.
“Wait,” Hudson said, leaning over me to open the glove compartment.
“You’re double-parked,” I protested. “I don’t need a gun. It will set off the bank alarm.”
“It’s not a gun.” Whatever it was, it was very small. He turned over his hand and opened his palm like a magician, revealing a lovely band of gold filigree lit by tiny rubies.
“Your grandmother’s ring,” I said, my heart flipping.
“You wore it once. Fourteen years ago. For forty-one days. This time I’m hoping you won’t give it back.”
He slipped the delicate band onto the ring finger of my left hand.
“It’s a promise,” he said.
Hudson waited until I disappeared behind the opaque door before pulling away from the curb. Ms. Billington appeared at my side instantly, invisible antennae wiggling, her face contorting into a series of comical expressions as she took in my appearance. I’m pretty sure the last one said, “Serves you right.”
“Your lawyer has it all set up,” she said briskly, recovering, guiding me back to her spotless desk. I avoided my reflection in the glass. Once was enough for today.
“ID, please. You are not listed as an agent to get into the box in case of emergency. Your lawyer cut through a few layers of protocol with my boss.” Clearly, Sue Billington did not approve of such favors tossed over a cell phone line.
“Can you tell me something, please?” I kept my voice neutral, pushing my driver’s license across the desk. “Did my Daddy know about this second box?”
“Signature here at the X, please,” she said briskly, separating one of the papers from the pile in front of her. “And initial here. And here. Pretty ring, by the way. Unusual.”
“Please help me.”
Sue Billington popped up her head and connected with my eyes, now pooling with tears. As she whipped out a Kleenex from under the desk, her face melted into an expression probably reserved for her beloved cat, and she leaned in conspiratorially.
“No. I do not believe your father ever knew about this box. This is pure speculation based on twenty-five years of loyal bank service and observation of human behavior. The paperwork indicates that your mother opened this box alone. There is no joint renter or appointed agent for emergency access. If I’ve learned anything in this business, it’s that people, especially people who sit all shiny in church every Sunday morning, are quite deceitful to their spouses. It’s one of the reasons that I’ve never married.”
It’s also because no one in his right mind has asked you, you nosy little fruitcake.
We repeated the Bank of the Wild West security rigmarole: keycard, palm scan, spy cameras, a greeting from Rex and his unholstered gun, and I was back in a room I had hoped to never step foot in again. Today, without Sadie, the room seemed even more claustrophobic. I imagined tiny dead bodies stored behind each metal door.
We inserted our keys and Ms. Billington slid Mama’s box out of its place from a lower corner nowhere near the other one. She placed it almost tenderly on the table, reminded me to push the red button when I was finished so she could retrieve me, and left.
I dropped into one of the giant chairs and let it swallow me up like a leather womb.
The box contained two envelopes. One big, one small. It wasn’t too late to let Wade burn them. My heart, for a change, felt perfectly still; my hands, ice cold.
My fingers reached for the larger manila envelope. No markings of any kind. I ran my nail under the flap and pulled out the few sheets inside.
The police report of Tuck’s accident.
I jumped, dropping it from my fingers like it was flaming, my chair swerving backward on its rollers, sending me off balance. The report floated to the floor along with a series of stark black-and-white photographs.
There were photographs.
How cruel was Wade to send me here?
I don’t know if the answers will hurt you or set you free, Tommie.
I reached over and picked up the pictures first, one by one, and examined the smoking black skeleton of Tuck’s car.
A panic attack was banging in my chest, screaming. Let me out, let me out.
The police report was stuck under one of the chair’s rollers. I extracted it, careful not to rip it. The words blurred, until my eyes halted abruptly like the Ouija mouse, settling over two words.
Explosive device.
Not an accident.
Tuck had been blown away.
CHAPTER 33
My brother, murdered.
Everybody covered it up.
My family.
The marshals.
Even the cops, no small feat in our town.
I was queasy and light-headed, reaching for the last thing in the box. A white business-sized envelope, addressed to my mother in bold black print. No return address. An Illinois postmark.
The next few sheets were simple notebook paper, folded and smudged and crammed with bold, stylized print.
I could still feel grit from the crack in the wall or the old pipe where he hid it in his cell.
Dear Gennie, it began.
I let that sink in.
Jack Smith was right.
She was Genoveve first.
When I finished the letter, I believed three things.
Anthony Marchetti was a complicated man.
My mother once loved him.
An eleven-year-old boy, my brother, was at the heart of everything.
He was the witness.
More than thirty years ago while doing his homework in the wine cellar of the Chicago bar where my mother waitressed and played piano, Tuck overheard Azzo Cantini order the hit on Fred Bennett, the undercover agent about to blow the lid off of Cantini’s heroin operation.
Unfortunately, Tuck was seen. Like Fred Bennett, he had to die.