Final Justice, page 21
“Hi Mom,” he said cheerfully, pulling off his boots and unzipping his jacket as he cradled the phone under his neck.
Elizabeth tried desperately to speak in a normal voice, not wanting her son to know that she’d been crying off and on for the past two hours. She’d finally read the letter from Verona and was completely shaken up.
“I just called your apartment Matthew,” she said. “And the message said that you and Peter had come home for the weekend. I feel terrible that I’m not there.”
“Mom, stop it,” he said. “This was a last minute decision. I promised Father McNulty to help with a kid’s program at St. Stephen’s this weekend, and Peter decided to come home too. Besides, we’re quite capable of managing without you. By the way, where are you?”
“I’m in Buffalo and I won’t be coming home for another week.”
“What are you doing in Buffalo?” he asked absently as he read the thank-you note that Meghan Lyons had sent him last week. He waited for his mother to answer, but there was silence.
“Mom, what is going on?” he asked, putting the letter down on the hall table. “I can feel that something’s wrong. Did I just hear you sniffling?”
“Oh Matthew!” she cried out.
“What, what?” he shouted into the phone.
“I came to Buffalo to visit Donna Brattini and have a meeting with Giancarlo about the Trust,” she answered as she took a couple of deep breaths to try and calm down.
“But last night, Rebecca Sherman was mugged. She was shot twice in the chest. The bullets missed her heart, though some of her ribs were broken. She wasn’t wearing a heavy jacket, just a lightweight poncho, and the bullets went right through her.”
How come you know so much? Matthew wondered for a fleeting moment.
“Well, that’s good news Mom,” he said in a soothing voice. “It could have been much worse.”
Again, there was silence.
“Mom, something is going on. Tell me what it is!”
“Matthew, I just read a letter your grandmother wrote to me over a year ago, just before she died,” she answered, “and I’m a bit overwhelmed. I needed to speak to you and Peter just to tell you how much I love you, and how much I appreciate having you close by.”
“Was her letter sad?” asked Matthew. “Did she lay a guilt trip on you or something?”
“No, no,” answered Elizabeth. “Quite the opposite. I can’t believe how passionate about life she was, and how much she was aware of the real world, despite the fact that she’d spent most of her life in that convent.”
“Well, I remember thinking how ‘with it’ she was when we visited her last year,” said Matthew. “And when she told us that the few hours we’d just spent together almost made up for all those years of her being alone, I knew that she was sincere. I mean, our visit really couldn’t make up for fifty lost years, but I understood what she meant. A wonderful evening can make up for a bad day. A happy ending can make up for a sad story. At the end of her life we were with her, and that helped to make up for all the years we weren’t.”
There was a moment of silence before Elizabeth spoke.
“You are a very sensitive young man,” she said as a smile replaced her tears. “I’m proud to be your mother.
“Now, where is Peter? I want to tell him about this too.”
“He and Angela aren’t back from the Kennedy Library yet,” answered Matthew thoughtlessly, immediately wishing he could cut out his tongue.
“Angela? Angela who?” asked Elizabeth.
“Angela Brattini,” answered Matthew, trying to think of something intelligent to say. “She gave us a lift back from school on Friday.”
“Oh,” came Elizabeth’s cool response. “Where is she staying? I didn’t think Angela was allowed to leave school overnight on her own.”
Now the silence was on Matthew’s part.
“Matthew, is something going on?”
“Mother, how should I know?” he answered, knowing that she knew that he would know if there was something to know.
“Ask Peter to call me when he gets in please.”
“Okay. You take care. I’ll speak to you next week. Love you, Mom.”
Elizabeth had a sense of foreboding. Is it possible? Peter, and Angela Brattini? No! It cannot be allowed!
She walked over to the chair next to the window and sat down, still holding her mother’s letter in her hand. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, giving a moment’s thought to the ramifications of a Peter/Angela relationship.
Angela and I have the same father. We’re sisters, and that makes Peter her nephew. The bloodlines are too strong. It is an impossible scenario. A shudder ran through her body.
She looked over at the clock. It was five-thirty, and on impulse, she called Toronto.
“Hi Larry, how are you?”
“Elizabeth! Oh, I’m so glad to hear from you. Where are you?”
“I’m in Buffalo, at Donna Brattini’s home. I’ll probably be here for another week.”
She then went on to tell Larry the same edited story about Rebecca that she’d told Matthew, though she did indulge in one small stab at Grant Teasdale.
“Who knows how things might have been different if Rebecca hadn’t been delayed forty minutes in U.S. immigration,” Elizabeth snapped to Larry. “Maybe the mugger would have found someone else.”
Larry laughed and said he doubted it.
Yes, but we would have been long gone before anyone could have followed us, Elizabeth thought angrily.
“Elizabeth darling, when am I going to see you again? I want to hear all about your new career. We can talk, in between.”
“Larry! Stop it you beast,” she laughed, again.
Yes, it does feel wonderful, and exciting to be wanted, and to want, she thought as she hung up the phone. And maybe it doesn’t have to be love in its purest sense either.
Larry Lyons made two phone calls after he’d said good-bye to Elizabeth. The first was to Bob Lantinos in Washington, the number two man in the FBI, and once his boss.
“I need a personal favour Bob,” said Larry after the usual pleasantries. “Goldstar, and specifically Michael DeVillers.
“Okay, okay, I know,” he said in response to Latinos’ protestations. “I just need to know if there’s anything that’s not on his official C.V.; like allegations, rumours, not enough to get a tap, but suspi-cions—you know the kind of stuff I mean.”
His next call was to Grant Teasdale in Florida.
“Hello Doris, it’s Larry calling. Yes, I’m fine thanks, and Meggie too. How is Kevin? That’s good to hear. What time do you think Grant will be back? Great, I’ll be here at my apartment. Ask him to call. Thank you.”
Elizabeth looked at her watch. I’m getting hungry, she thought. I should go find Donna and take her out for a bite. Instead, she decided to read her mother’s letter again.
July 28, 1995. Verona Italy.
My dearest Elizabeth:
I am writing you this letter knowing that when you read it, I will be gone, having left this world to be with our Lord in heaven…. I hope.
Elizabeth laughed again, as she had the first time she’d read this part of the letter, shaking her head in amazement at her mother’s sense of humour at such a difficult moment.
I am preparing to leave this earth, at peace in the knowledge that my daughter and my grandsons are well loved, and that they will be cared for and kept safe from harm by their father, and their grandfather.
My hands are trembling and my heart is still racing with the love and excitement that has filled my body and my soul these past two days. And the reason for my happiness has been your father, Massimo Brattini.
Elizabeth was still reeling from that reality—even though she had learned the truth a year earlier. Massimo Brattini-Santino’s lifelong enemy. Her father!
I know this comes as a shock, and I wish I could have told you in person, but when you, and Peter and Matthew were here with me, I didn’t know his name. And after thirty years apart from you, with so little time and so much to say, the story of your birth did not seem the appropriate topic of conversation.
Massimo is a wonderful man whose life, like mine, was misshapen by events that overwhelmed us.
This letter is not to relive the past—Massimo will explain the whole story to your husband. Knowing how much Santino loves and cares for you, I am confident that he will help to ease any pain the truth may cause you. Rather, I am writing to you about hope, and love, and forgiveness. You see, after fifty years, I have finally forgiven myself for the past, and the peace that I now have is what I want for you.
I loved Massimo from the first moment I saw him, even though I was only fifteen years old. In that short moment in time when we were together, I gave myself to him willingly, despite the violence and fear that surrounded us. In those years, girls were taught that lust was a sin, and so, in penance for my passion, I promised to give the child of our union to God. And that child was you.
It has taken me all this time to finally understand that a God of forgiveness and love would not make that demand of me; I made it of myself. If God hadn’t meant for women to savour the joy of love, He wouldn’t have created us as he did; with hearts and bodies that respond passionately to those we love.
And that my darling daughter, is what these last two days have been about for me. For so long, I was afraid to live. Now, I feel young again, full of joy and wonder. I wish for you, for all of your life, what I am feeling now.
So live your life to the fullest, my sweet princess, and seize the moment with courage. Don’t be afraid. My love lives within your heart, and my spirit is the beacon to guide you in times of trouble. Go with God.
Your loving mother,
Giovanna.
Elizabeth began crying softly again as she remembered that day when Massimo Brattini had come to visit her dying Santino. His eyes had been so intent, never leaving her or the boys, and with the knowledge she now had, it was easy to understand why.
How hard it must have been for him to sit and chat and not say anything about my mother, she thought. Oh, I’m sorry that we never got to speak together as father and daughter. There’s so much I would have liked to know.
She was overcome with sadness at the loss of a mother she hardly knew, and a father she would never know. But as her mother’s words filled her head, she stopped crying and took comfort from them.
Seize the moment, she thought as she rinsed her face and went down the hall to look for Donna. She knew she would have to be very careful not to let anything slip out about her mother and her father, especially her father. She didn’t want Donna Brattini hurt before it was absolutely necessary.
Later, after dinner, as the two women walked arm in arm back to the apartment, their conversation was easy and light. Politics, fashion, and whether or not Hillary Clinton could succeed without her husband.
Nothing was resolved, just some nice banter ending with Donna saying that Hillary would be wise to seize the moment whenever she could.
Later, as Elizabeth was crawling back into bed, Donna’s words came to mind.
Seize the moment. That’s what my mother wrote to me. Well, I certainly seized the moment with Larry Lyons. Maybe it’s time for me to stop feeling guilty about it. Or maybe not. After all, guilt is a part of a good Catholic’s heritage.
She laughed out loud as she remembered what Rebecca had quipped to her just a few weeks ago.
“Guilt belongs to Jewish mothers. It’s shame that belongs to Catholics.”
When Elizabeth thought of her son Peter, her laughter stopped. She knew that if there was anything between him and Angela, it could only lead to pain and heartbreak.
I have to tell him the truth about his bloodlines, and Matthew too.
She was certain that Massimo hadn’t told Donna anything about his past.
But what about Giancarlo? What will he do when he finds out that I’m his sister? And that Santino DeLuca’s sons are his nephews?
Chapter 22
Giancarlo Brattini was leaning against the counter of the Duty Free kiosk watching the exit doors from Arrivals. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his bodyguards browsing through the magazine racks. Since the death of his father, he’d rarely ventured anywhere without them.
Maybe if Pops had listened to me and kept his protection, he might still be alive. It was a thought that haunted Johnny more often than not.
Brattini knew that the situation in which he now found himself was strange, to say the least. He was waiting at the airport to pick up Lisa Jacobs, the daughter of Rebecca Sherman, a woman he had shot the night before, a woman he believed had something to do with his own father’s murder.
After he took Lisa to visit her mother, he was then going to take her to stay with his own mother. She would be joining another hou-seguest, Elizabeth DeLuca, none other than the widow of his late father’s archenemy.
And to add even more spice to the equation, he found himself attracted to Lisa. More than attracted to. He actually liked her.
This sounds like a plot from the soaps that Marsha watches every day, he thought. Get a handle on it Gianni baby, he willed himself. This scene is getting too bizarre.
Lisa Jacobs came bounding through the exit doors, two cameras dangling from her neck and a large garment bag over her shoulder. She was wearing tight jeans, cowboy boots, a cream coloured T-shirt and a navy double-breasted blazer. Her curly auburn hair was hanging loosely down to her shoulders and as she looked around the terminal, the strain on her face was evident.
When she saw Brattini approaching her, a half smile of recognition came over her face.
“Well, is this by chance or by design?” she asked.
“I just happened to be in the neighbourhood,” he answered smiling. “Want a lift anywhere?”
He took her garment bag and offered to carry her cameras.
“Not these babies,” she answered, patting her Nikon F90x and Leica Minilux. “They’re my whole life.”
A navy Mercedes pulled up when they passed through the automatic doors into the cold, and Lisa shivered as she climbed into the back seat with Brattini. During the half-hour ride to the hospital, they indulged in small talk, mostly about Lisa’s career as a photographer and her most recent assignment in Big Sur, California, to do a cover for Sports Illustrated.
“I was under the impression that today’s women frowned on publications that exploited female bodies,” Johnny said, turning slightly in the seat so he could face her.
“I don’t frown on anything that has to do with my job,” answered Lisa. “Of course, I don’t mean violence, abuse, or pornography; you know, stuff like that. But I’m in the business of taking pictures. And if that’s what the public wants to see, then I want to be the one to photograph it. And there are those who say that my work adds a bit of class to what would otherwise be run-of-the mill girlie pics. I choose to believe them.”
“Will your husband be joining you this weekend?” he asked. There was a noticeable hesitation before she answered with a brusque “no.”
“I’ll wait for you here,” said Brattini when the car stopped in front of the hospital’s entrance. When she was out of sight, he picked up the c-phone and called his consigliere, Pauly Bertusi.
“Get me the info on Lisa Jacobs, and do it yourself. This is a personal matter. Yah, she’s related to that prick by marriage. I want to know about her husband, and what, if anything, he has to do with the Senator and Richard Dudley.
“No, call me on my C-phone. No urgency. Yah, it can wait until Monday.”
In less than fifteen minutes, Lisa was back in the car.
“Mom wants to see you,” she said. “She’s still in ICU, but they’re moving her into a room tomorrow. I’ll wait in here where it’s warm.”
Brattini’s mind was racing as he casually pushed the elevator button for the sixth floor and the ICU. Keep your wits, he told himself. Sherman’s cagey.
He assumed that Rebecca couldn’t suspect him of anything or she wouldn’t be asking to see him where she was so vulnerable. Why not? She’s as safe as she could ever be right where she is. He was positive she hadn’t seen him in the dark of that old station.
When he arrived at the nursing desk, he gave his name and a male nurse showed him to the room. He’d never liked hospitals, and being surrounded by so many sick and dying people hooked up to tubes gave him the creeps.
He tiptoed over to her bed, noticing that the one on the other side of the room was empty. When Rebecca opened her eyes and looked at him, her face was expressionless. She motioned to an empty chair by the wall and he went over and brought it close to the bed and sat down.
“Thanks for picking up Lisa,” she whispered, forcing him to lean closer in order to hear her. “I thought this might be the appropriate time and place for us to have a meeting.”
“Shoot,” he said, realizing instantly the stupidity of his glib use of that word.
A weak smile came over her face and she said, “You’ve already done that.”
Holy fuck! Keep cool—keep your eyes on hers. Don’t move.
“Giancarlo, your late father said something to me over twenty years ago that I’ve never forgotten. It was an old Arab proverb that went, “Choose your enemies carefully, for they are the people you will most resemble.” I wish I’d paid more attention to its meaning when I had the chance.
“And now I’d like to quote from another Arab proverb,” she continued, “kind of like a returned favour. And it goes, “If your enemy is my enemy, then we are friends”.
Brattini figured there was some point she wanted to make and he sat quietly waiting for her to make it.
“It’s true that I killed DeSalle…shortly after he murdered your father.”
Brattini’s hands clutched the arms of the chair and he sat up, a quiet moan escaping from his lips. He said nothing.
