V is for Vengeance

6

Dante had taken up swimming for the second time in his life when he bought the estate in Montebello eighteen years before. He was actually Lorenzo Dante Junior, commonly referred to as Dante to distinguish him from his father, Lorenzo Dante Senior. For security reasons, he avoided exercising in the open, which meant jogging, golf, and tennis were out. He’d set up a home gym, where he lifted weights three times a week. For cardio, he swam laps.

The thirty-two-acre property was surrounded by a stone wall, with entrance effected through electric gates, one set at the front and a second set at the rear, each with its own small stone guardhouse complete with a uniformed armed guard. There were six men altogether, working eight-hour shifts. A seventh oversaw the security cameras, which were monitored in situ by day and remotely by night. There were five buildings on the compound. The two-story main house had a detached five-car garage, with two apartments above. Tomasso, Dante’s chauffeur, lived in one, and the other was occupied by his personal chef, Sophie.

There were also a two-bedroom guesthouse and a pool house, which included Dante’s home gym and a twelve-seat theater. Dante’s home office was in a sprawling bungalow, referred to as “the Cottage,” which had its own living room, bedroom, one and a half baths, and a modest kitchen. He also had a suite of offices in downtown Santa Teresa, where he spent the better part of his workday. The Cottage and the pool house appeared to be separate from the main house but were actually connected by tunnels that branched off in two directions under the tennis court.

Dante had added the indoor lap pool across the back of the main house: two lanes wide and twenty-five yards long with a retractable roof; the bottom and sides were lined with iridescent glass tiles, and when the sun shone overhead, it was like moving through a shimmering rainbow of light. His mother had taught him to swim when he was four years old. She’d been fearful of the water as a child, and she made certain her own children were skilled swimmers from an early age. Dante did twenty-five laps a day, starting at 5:30 in the morning, counting backward from twenty-five to zero. He kept the water temperature seventy degrees, the surrounding air at eighty-four. He loved the way sound was muffled by the water, loved the simplicity of the crawl stroke, loved how clean and empty he felt when he was done.

He and Lola, his girlfriend of eight years, had returned the night before from a ski trip to Lake Louise, where a fluke in temperatures made the runs almost too sloppy to ski. He hated cold weather anyway, and if it had been up to him, he’d have cut the trip short, but Lola was adamant and wouldn’t even entertain the idea. He found vacations stressful. He didn’t like to be idle and he didn’t like being separated from his business dealings. He was looking forward to getting back in the swing of things.

At 7:00 that Monday morning, he showered and dressed. He could smell coffee, bacon, and something sugar-scented. He looked forward to eating in solitude, catching up on the news while he lingered over his meal. Before he went down to breakfast, he stopped by his father’s quarters on the second floor. The door was open and the nurse was in the process of changing his sheets. She told him his father had had a rough night and had finally abandoned any hope of sleep. He’d put on his suit and had Tomasso take him into the office in Santa Teresa. Most days, the old man sat at his desk for hours, drinking coffee, reading biographies of long-dead political greats, and working the New York Times crossword puzzle until it was time to go home.

Dante went down to the basement level and took the tunnel from the main house to the Cottage. Coming up from below, he crossed a short stretch of lawn to the guesthouse to pay his morning visit to his Uncle Alfredo, who’d been living there since he was discharged from the hospital after cancer surgery the year before. Originally, the guesthouse had been set up to accommodate a series of nannies who worked for the previous owner. Now one of the two bedrooms was outfitted with a hospital bed and the second bedroom was available for the night nurses. A nurse’s aide came in days to help with his care.

Alfredo was his father’s sole surviving brother and virtually penniless. Two younger brothers, Donatello and Amo, at ages nineteen and twenty-two, had died the same day, February 7, 1943, two days before the Battle of Guadalcanal came to an end.

Dante couldn’t figure out what had happened to Pop and his Uncle Alfredo. How could you reach the end of your life and have nothing to show for it? Pop claimed it was bad financial advice from an accountant who was “no longer with the firm,” meaning six feet under. Dante suspected what his father referred to as bad financial advice was really the function of his living perpetually beyond his means.

Lorenzo Senior was a local boy who’d risen to prominence during Prohibition, smart enough to cash in on the boom. The market was wide open with a premium placed on rotgut liquor. Gambling and prostitution seemed to flourish in the same spirit of excess. He’d never regarded the major syndicate mobsters as his allies. New York, Detroit, Chicago, Kansas City, and Las Vegas seemed remote. He was distantly related to many of the players, but his ambitions were strictly provincial, and Santa Teresa was the perfect small community for promoting the sin trades. His organization became a feeder to San Francisco and Los Angeles. Beyond those two cities, he had little interest. He didn’t interfere with the big boys and they didn’t interfere with him. He had an open-door policy, offering safe haven for any made man who needed to lay low for a while. He also entertained his Midwest and East Coast cronies with a generous hand. The West Coast was already a magnet to rich and restless citizens who came from every part of the country, looking for sunshine, relaxation, and sheltered surroundings in which to indulge their low appetites.

For six decades, Lorenzo Senior had enjoyed his status. Now he was treated with all the deference due a man who’d once wielded power but wielded it no more. Times had changed. The same money could be made from the same sordid activities but with a firewall of paid protection. The legal profession and big business now provided all the cover that was needed, and life went on as before. Control had passed to his oldest son, Dante, who’d worked for years papering over the cracks with a veneer of respectability.

Lorenzo had taken for granted he’d die young and therefore had no need to provide for himself in his old age. Alfredo was the same way, so maybe it was something they’d learned in their youth. Whatever the source of their poor decisions, they now lived on Dante’s dime. He also supported his brother, Cappi, who was supposedly “getting on his feet” after an early release on a five-year bid at Soledad. Three of Dante’s four sisters were spread out across the country, married to men who did well (thank god) with twelve children among them, democratically distributed at three apiece. Elena lived in Sparta, New Jersey; Gina in Chicago; and Mia in Denver. His favorite sister, Talia, widowed two years before, had moved back to Santa Teresa. Her two sons, now twenty-two and twenty-five, were college graduates with good jobs. Her youngest, a daughter, was attending Santa Teresa City College and living at home. Talia was the only one of his sisters he talked to with any regularity. Her husband had left her megabucks and she didn’t look to Dante for financial support, which was a blessing. As it was, he had twelve full-time and five part-time employees at the house.

Dante tapped on Uncle Alfredo’s door and the nurse admitted him. Cara had worked the morning shift, making sure the old man was clean, freshly dressed, and had taken his daily regimen of medications. Alfredo was in pain much of the time, but there were moments when he was able to sit out on the patio surrounded by the roses Dante had planted for him when he first arrived. That’s where Dante found him now, his white hair still damp from his sponge bath. He had a shawl pulled over his shoulders and he had his eyes closed, enjoying the early morning sunshine.

Dante pulled up a chair and Alfredo acknowledged him without bothering to look.

“How was Canada?”

Dante said, “Boring. Too warm to ski and too cold to do anything else. Two days in, my knees were killing me. Lola claimed it was psychosomatic so I got no sympathy. She said I was just looking for an excuse to go home. How are you?”

His uncle managed a half smile. “Not wonderful.”

“Mornings are tough. It’ll get better as the day goes on.”

“With enough pills,” he said. “Yesterday, Father Ignatius came to the house and heard my confession. First time in forty-five years, so it took a while.”

“Must have been a relief.”

“Not as much as I’d hoped.”

“Any regrets?”

“Everybody has regrets. Things you did, you shouldn’t have. Things you didn’t do, you should have. Hard to know which is worse.”

Dante said, “Maybe in the end, it doesn’t matter.”

“Believe me, it matters. Tell yourself it doesn’t, but it does. I repented my sins, but that don’t repair the damage.”

“At least you had a chance to come clean.”

Alfredo shrugged. “I wasn’t entirely candid. Close as I am to leaving this earth, there are some secrets I’m reluctant to give up. It’s a burden on my soul.”

“You still have time.”

“Don’t I wish,” he said mildly. “How’s Cappi doing?”

“That fuck’s got more ambition than brains.”

Alfredo smiled and closed his eyes. “So use that to your advantage. You know Sun-Tzu, The Art of War?”

“I do not. He says what?”

“‘To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.’ You understand what I’m saying?”

Dante studied his uncle’s face. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“You better do more than that.” Uncle Alfredo fell silent.

Dante watched the rise and fall of his chest, shoulders now spindly, arms as white as bone. His knuckles were red and swollen, and Dante imagined they’d be hot to the touch. A gentle snoring began, which at least signaled that the old man was alive if not attentive. He admired Alfredo’s stoicism. The fight was wearing him down, the pain grinding away at him, but he didn’t complain. Dante had no use for people who whined and bellyached, an attitude he’d learned from Pop, who wouldn’t tolerate complaints from him or from anyone else. Dante had lived his life listening to his father’s admonitions about people whom he considered weak and stupid and conniving.

Dante was the eldest of six. Cappi was the youngest with the four girls between them. After his mother had walked out, Lorenzo had taken to beating Dante with a savagery that was unrelenting. Dante took the punches, thinking to protect his little brother. He knew Lorenzo would never lay a hand on the girls. Between the ages of twelve and fourteen, Cappi was subject to the same abuse, but then something changed. Cappi began to fight back, refusing to take the old man’s crap. For a brief period, the violence escalated and then, suddenly, Lorenzo backed off. Whatever the strange dynamic between them, Cappi had ended up just like Pop, careless, mean, and impulsive.

The dining room was empty when Dante sat down. Sophie had laid out the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Los Angeles Times, and the local paper that Dante occasionally scanned for gossip. Lola wouldn’t be joining him. She’d use jet lag as today’s excuse for sleeping in. Lola was a night owl, staying up until all hours watching TV, old black-and-white movies shown nightly on an off channel. Most days she wouldn’t emerge from the master suite until early afternoon. One day a week she went into the office and made a show of being useful. He’d put her on the payroll and he insisted she do something to earn her keep.

She was the first woman who’d been in his life longer than a year. He’d always been wary of women. He made a point of keeping his distance, which most women found intriguing at first, then infuriating, and finally intolerable. Women wanted a relationship that was concrete and clearly defined. The commitment talk would begin after the first few months and accelerate until he shut it down and the women moved on. He never had to break up with them. They broke up with him, which suited him just fine. It had been pointed out to him more than once that he was attracted to the same type over and over: young, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and thin; in effect, his mother at thirty-three when she’d left without a word.

Lola was different, or so it seemed. They’d met in a bar on her twenty-eighth birthday. He’d stopped in for a drink, bringing his usual contingent: chauffeur, bodyguard, and a couple of pals. He’d noticed her the minute he walked in. She was there celebrating with friends, in the midst of a Champagne toast when he sat down at the next table. Dark mane of hair, dark eyes, a voluptuous mouth. She was long-limbed and rail thin in tight jeans and a T-shirt through which he could see the shape of her small breasts. She’d spotted him about the same time, and the two had played eye-tag for an hour before she walked over and introduced herself. He’d taken her back to his place, thinking to impress her. Instead, she’d been amused. He learned later that her tablemates had warned her about him… for all the good it did. Lola was attracted to bad boys. Until she met Dante, she’d spent years bailing guys out of jail, believing their promises, waiting for them to change. Lola stuck with them through their prison sentences and stints in rehab. Her faith in them rendered her only more gullible in the face of the next unlucky loser.

Dante was “clean” by comparison. He made big money and he was generous. He offered her the same whiff of danger, but he was smarter and better insulated. Lola teased him about his armor-plated limousine and his bodyguards. He liked her sassiness, the fact that she’d sooner flip him off than do his bidding.

After the first six years, talk of marriage began to filter into her conversation. She was impatient with the status quo. Dante had sidestepped the issue, holding her off for another two years, but he could feel himself weakening. What difference would it make? They’d been living as husband and wife since the beginning of their relationship. To date, his argument had been that a marriage license was superfluous. Why insist on a piece of paper when she already enjoyed all the perks and benefits? Lately, she’d been turning it around on him, pointing out that if marriage meant so little, why was he making such a big deal of it?

At 9:00 he pushed the newspapers aside and finished his coffee. Before walking out of the kitchen, he buzzed Tomasso on the intercom. “Would you bring the car around?”

“I’m waiting at the side door. Hubert’s riding shotgun.”

“Just what I like to hear.”

As Dante passed through the sheltered portico off the library, Tomasso opened the back door of the stretch limousine and watched him slide into the backseat. Drive time to the office would be fifteen minutes even as Tomasso varied the routes. Hubert, Dante’s hulking bodyguard, shifted in the front seat and nodded a greeting. Hubert was Czechoslovakian and spoke very little English. He was good at what he did and his minimal comprehension meant he couldn’t eavesdrop when Dante and Tomasso discussed business. At six foot five, weighing the better part of three hundred pounds, Hubert had a presence that was reassuring to his employers, like owning a Rottweiler with a placid disposition and vicious territorial instincts.

Dante noticed Tomasso eyeing him in the rearview mirror. “What’s up?” he asked.

Tomasso said, “I thought you’d be windburned.”

“Hardly left the hotel. Next time I talk vacations, remind me how much I hate being away.”

“Resort was okay?”

“For two grand a night, it was so-so.”

“How about the guys we hired to look after you?”

“Not as competent as you two, but I’m alive and well.”

Tomasso was quiet for the duration of the drive. He pulled into the underground parking garage that ran beneath the Passages Shopping Plaza on the Macy’s end of the mall. Hubert emerged from the car and did a quick scan, searching the nearly empty space for potential danger before he opened the back door and Dante got out.

Tomasso lowered the window. “Hey, Boss? You might want to check with Mr. Abramson before you do anything else.”

Dante paused, leaning down to peer into the driver’s-side window. “And why is that?”

“All I know is he said you should talk to him soon as you got in. He’s not one to run off at the mouth, but his body language was on the urgent side of tense.”

“You know what it’s about?”

“Better you should hear it from him… killing the messenger being what it is. What time you want to be picked up?”

“I’ll call. You can take Pop back to the house whenever he’s ready to go. Might be a long day for me depending on what went down while I was gone.”

Tomasso seemed on the verge of saying more, but Dante didn’t like to linger in the open, so with Hubert close on his heels he crossed to the elevators and pushed the up button. The two of them took the elevator to the top floor. Once Dante left the elevator, Hubert returned to the car. Passing through the reception area, Dante noticed a slim brunette ensconced in one of the big leather chairs, leafing through a magazine.

He paused at the receptionist’s desk. “Morning, Abbie. Is Saul in?”

“No, sir. Mr. Abramson had a dental appointment. He should be back by ten.”

“Tell him I want him in my office,” he said, and then flicked a look at the visitor. “Who’s she?”

“Mrs. Vogelsang. Mr. Berman referred her.”

“Give me five minutes and then you can show her in.”

On his way down the corridor, he tapped on his father’s office door and stuck his head in. Lorenzo, fully dressed in a three-piece suit and black wingtips, was stretched out on the couch asleep, a biography of Winston Churchill open facedown across his chest. Dante eased the door shut and left him to his rest.

He sat down at his desk and put in a call to Maurice Berman, who owned a small chain of high-end jewelry stores. When Berman picked up, Dante said, “Hey, Maurice. Dante. I got a gorgeous woman waiting in reception. What’s the story?”

“Channing Vogelsang’s wife. You know the name?”

“I don’t.”

“Hotshot Hollywood attorney. They have a house in Malibu and a second home in Montebello. They split time between the two. I bought a couple of pieces from her-nice, high quality, and the price was fair. Then she shows me a ring I have problems with. I’m thinking who am I to bring bad tidings to a beautiful woman? Money she’s asking, it was out of my league anyway. I told her you were the only guy in town with the resources to take it off her hands.”

“What’s she need the money for?”

“Beats me. She’s a cool customer. Not a lot of small talk and no explanation.”

“Drugs?”

“I doubt it. Could be gambling, but she doesn’t look like the type. I handed her a check for seven on jewelry appraised at forty-two.”

“Nobody ever said you weren’t generous,” Dante said. “Tell me about the pieces you bought.”

“A pair of cabochon sapphire-and-diamond earrings, probably worth seventeen grand, and an Art Deco sapphire-and-diamond line bracelet worth twenty-five easy. The ring, I don’t like.”

“I’m willing to take a look.”

“I thought you’d see it that way. Let me know what comes of it.”

Dante hung up and buzzed Abbie, asking her to bring in Mrs. Vogelsang. He crossed to the door and watched the two approach. When Abbie showed her into the office, he held out his hand. “Mrs. Vogelsang. A pleasure. I’m Lorenzo Dante. My father’s Lorenzo Senior, so I’m Dante to most. Come in and have a seat.”

“It’s Nora,” she replied, and the two shook hands. Her fingers were cool and slim, her grip strong. Her smile was tentative, and he realized she was ill at ease.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Yes, please. I’d like milk if you have it. No sugar.”

“Make that two,” he said to Abbie.

While she went off to the break room, Dante gestured toward a leather-upholstered chair that was part of a seating arrangement in front of the three big circular windows that looked out onto State. She sat down, placing a large, expensive-looking black leather handbag on the floor next to her. She was trim, petite, in a well-cut black suit that suggested more than it revealed. A delicate scent trailed into the room after her. He settled on the couch, trying not to stare. She was so beautiful he could hardly take his eyes off her. There was an elegance about her, a reserve, he found unsettling. He manufactured small talk while they waited for the coffee, happy to have an excuse to study her at close range. Solemn, dark eyes; sweet mouth. Her gaze traveled across the room, which was awash in tones of gray. The upholstered pieces were covered in Ultrasuede in a deep charcoal shade; the rug a softer gray; the walls paneled in whitewashed walnut.

She turned a curious gaze on him. “May I ask what you do? I assumed you dealt in estate jewelry. This looks like an attorney’s office.”

“I’m a private banker of sorts. I lend money to clients who don’t qualify for loans from traditional institutions. Most prefer to keep their finances out of the public eye. I also own a number of commercial businesses. What about you?”

“My husband’s a lawyer in the industry.”

“The ‘industry’ meaning the film business. So I’ve heard. Channing Vogelsang. You live in Los Angeles?”

“Malibu. We have a second home in Montebello.”

“Nice. You belong to the Montebello Country Club?”

“Nine Palms,” she said, correcting him.

“Maybe you know the Hellers, Robert and his wife?”

“Gretchen. Yes. They’re good friends. As a matter of fact, we’re meeting for dinner at the club next Saturday. How do you know them?”

“Robert and I had business dealings in times past,” Dante said.

“It’s possible I’ll see you there.”

“At the club?”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised. You’re not the only one with friends,” he said. “At any rate, I talked to Maurice Berman this morning. He says you have a ring you’d like to sell. May I see it?”

“Certainly.” She reached into her bag and took out a ring box, which she handed him.

He opened the box and found himself looking at a radiant-cut pink diamond, flanked by two white diamonds. “Five carats?”

“Five point four six. The setting is platinum and eighteen-carat gold. The smaller stones total one point seven carats. My husband bought it from a New York dealer several months ago.”

“You know what he paid?”

“A hundred and twenty-five thousand.”

“You have the bill of sale?”

“I don’t have access to it. My husband keeps financial records at the office.”

Dante let that pass, wondering if Channing Vogelsang knew what she was up to. “You mind if I get an outside opinion? I’ve got a gal in the office who’s a trained gemologist.”

“If you like.”

Abbie returned with a tray that held a coffee carafe, two cups and saucers, spoons, and a creamer and a sugar bowl. She placed the tray on the glass-topped coffee table and passed Nora a saucer and cup. Abbie filled hers, being careful not to get the steaming liquid too close to the rim. Nora helped herself to milk from the pitcher while Abbie poured coffee for Dante. Before she left, Dante held out the ring box. “Give this to Lou Elle and have her take a look.”

“Yes, sir.” Abbie left the office with the ring box and closed the door behind her.

“This shouldn’t take long,” he said. There was silence while she sipped her coffee. He set his cup aside untouched. “You mind if I ask a few questions?”

She tilted her head in a move that he took as assent.

“The ring was a gift from your husband?”

“Yes.”

“I’m guessing an anniversary. Tenth?”

“Fourteenth. Why do you ask?”

“I’m trying to understand what’s happening here.”

“Nothing complicated,” she said. “I’d prefer the cash.”

“And for this, you’d go behind his back?”

“I’m not going behind his back.”

He lifted one brow. “So he knows you’re doing this?”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

“I’m not trying to be fresh. I’m confused. I thought marriage was about having someone you rely on. Someone you can say anything you want to. No secrets and no holding back. Otherwise what’s the point?”

“This has nothing to do with him. The ring is mine.”

“He won’t notice you’re not wearing it?”

“He knows I don’t care for it. It’s not my style.”

“How much are you asking?”

“Seventy-five.”

Dante watched her face, which was more expressive than she knew. In her life, for some reason, the stakes had gone up. He waited but she didn’t expand. “I’m surprised you’re willing to part with it. No sentiment attached?”

“I’m not comfortable discussing it.”

He smiled. “You want seventy-five grand and it’s not worth a conversation?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. It’s personal.”

He watched her with interest, amused at her refusing to meet his eyes. “Must be very personal to have you salting money away.”

Startled, her gaze came up to his. “What makes you think I’m doing that?”

“Because you sold two other pieces of jewelry. Nothing as pricey as this from what Maurice says.”

“I had no idea he’d discuss it with you. I consider that indiscreet.”

“What, you think there’s a confidentiality clause in a deal like this? Business is business. I figure you’re stockpiling cash and I’m curious.”

She hesitated, not meeting his eyes. “Call it insurance.”

“Mad money.”

“If you like.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

Dante’s phone rang. He reached over to the end table and picked up the handset, saying, “Yes, ma’am.”

Lou Elle said, “Can I see you in my office?”

“Sure thing,” he said and hung up. To Nora, he said, “Would you excuse me? This should only take a minute.”

“Of course.”

He closed the door behind him and proceeded to Lou Elle’s office in the same corridor. She’d been the company comptroller for the past fifteen years. He found her sitting at her desk, the ring box open in one hand. She held it up. “What’s the story?”

“Lady in my office is selling it.”

“How much?”

“Seventy-five. She tells me her husband bought it from a New York dealer for one twenty-five. No bill of sale, but she seems sincere.”

“Guess again. It’s bullshit. The diamond’s flawed. It’s been subjected to a process called clarity enhancement, in which a resinlike material is used to correct imperfections. If he paid one twenty-five, he was robbed.”

“Maybe he didn’t know.”

“Or maybe he paid less and lied to her. The color’s bullshit too. The diamond probably didn’t score well so it’s been irradiated, which gives it the pink tint.”

“We’re still talking five point four six carats.”

“I didn’t say it was junk. I said it wasn’t worth seventy-five.”

He smiled. “How much did I pay for your training?”

She handed him the ring box. “Nineteen thousand for the certification as a gemologist, with an additional thirteen grand for certification in colored stones.”

“Money well spent.”

“At the time, you complained.”

“Shame on me.”

“That’s what I said.”

He put the box in his suit coat pocket and patted the bulge. “Remind me and I’ll give you a bonus at the end of the year.”

“I’d rather have it now.”

“Done,” Dante said. “Give Maurice Berman a call and tell him what you told me.”

When he got back to his office, Nora was standing at one of the circular windows, watching the pedestrians passing on the far side of the street.

“Good for spying purposes,” he said. “Glass looks opaque from the outside, smoke black.”

“I’ve seen the windows from the street. Odd to be seeing them from this side.” She smiled briefly and returned to her seat. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. This was another matter altogether. Nothing to do with you.”

He stopped at his desk and removed a big padded mailer from the bottom drawer and then crossed to the side wall and triggered the panel that concealed his office safe. He shielded the contents of the safe from view while he removed seven thick bundles of hundred-dollar bills bound in packets. He added one smaller bundle and placed all eight in the mailer. He returned to his seat before he gave it to her.

She opened the mailer and glanced at the contents. She seemed startled and the color rose in her cheeks.

“Seventy-five,” he said. “It’s all there.”

“I expected a wire transfer or maybe you’d pay by check.”

“You don’t want seventy-five grand showing up in your bank account. A deposit that size generates a report to the IRS.”

“Is that a problem?”

“I don’t want to create a paper trail that starts with me and ends up with you. I’m under investigation. The IRS finds out you’ve done business with me, they’ll beat a path to your door. You don’t want our association coming to light.”

“There’s nothing illegal about selling a ring.”

“Unless you sell it to a guy the Feds are hot to prosecute.”

“For what? You said you were a private banker.”

“A private banker of sorts.”

She stared at him. “You’re a loan shark.”

“Among other things.”

She held up the bulky mailer. “Where did this come from?”

“I told you. I operate a number of businesses that generate cash. I’m passing some of it on to you.”

“That’s why you didn’t haggle. I said seventy-five and you never batted an eye. You’re laundering money.”

“It’s only ‘laundering’ if dirty money’s been integrated and it comes out clean. All you have to do is hang on to it.”

“That’s ridiculous. What good’s the cash if I can’t use it?”

“Who said you couldn’t use it? Stash it in a safe-deposit box and move it into a checking or savings account in increments of less than ten grand. It’s no big deal.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? I have the ring. You have the cash. As long as you don’t call attention to it, we both benefit. The point is, it’s yours.”

“I’m not that desperate.”

“I think you are. I don’t know what’s happened in your life, but your husband’s a fool if he’s giving you grief.”

“That’s no concern of yours.”

Nora rose from her chair and retrieved her handbag. Dante stood up at the same time. She pushed the padded mailer toward him. He held up his hands, refusing to accept the package. “Why don’t you think about it overnight?”

“I don’t need to think about it,” she said, and tossed the mailer onto the chair.

There was a brief knock at the door and Abbie appeared. “Mr. Abramson is here.”

Nora said, “I’ll let you get back to work.”

Dante took the ring box from his pocket and placed it in her palm. “Change your mind, let me know.”

Nora broke off eye contact, saying nothing as she left the room. Dante watched her depart, hoping she’d look back at him, which she refused to do.

Abbie remained in the room.

Dante looked at her. “Something else?”

“I just wanted to remind you I’ll be out of town Thursday and Friday of this week. I’ll be back at work next Monday.”

“Fine. Enjoy yourself.”

Once she was gone, he returned to his desk and settled into his chair. Abramson came in and closed the door. He’d been in partnership with Dante for twenty years and he was one of the few men Dante trusted. He was in his fifties, balding, with a long, solemn face, and glasses with dark frames. He was tall and trim in a custom-made suit. He’d apparently had Novocaine on the left side of his mouth and it hadn’t worn off. There was a puffiness and a droop to his lip on that side as though he’d suffered a stroke. He said, “Audrey’s dead.” No preamble.

It took Dante half a beat to shift his focus from Nora to Abramson. “Shit. When was this?”

“Sunday.”

“Yesterday? How?”

“She got picked up for shoplifting. This was Nordstrom’s, Friday afternoon. I guess she couldn’t talk her way out of it so she was thrown in the clink. Her boyfriend put up bail, but by then she was hysterical. Word reached Cappi she was close to cutting a deal, so he and the boys took her up to Cold Spring Bridge and tossed her over the rail.”

“Fuck.”

“I’ve been telling you for months the kid is out of control. He’s reckless and dumb and it’s a dangerous combination. I think he’s leaking information to the cops.”

“I’m too old for this shit,” Dante said. “I can’t have him whacked. I know it needs doing, but I can’t. Maybe once upon a time, but not now. I’m sorry.”

“Your call, but you buy into the consequences. That’s all I’m saying.”