The Easy Way Out (Jake Travis Book 9), page 16
“Who?”
“Evan. And perhaps Rachel as well.”
She straightened up, planting her hands on her hips. “You can forget about that drug money mumbo jumbo. There’s the root of your problems right there. Just like that door you ran into, can’t be any plainer than that.”
“You think—?”
“Money’s a powerful thing, but it plays second fiddle to a man’s love for a woman, and that plays second fiddle to a father’s love for his daughter. You think I’m kidding?” She jabbed her finger at Rachel. “She is why doors are slamming in your face. Funny, ain’t it? How you don’t even recognize what hits you.”
32
RACHEL
Three men ran.
Rachel had just finished telling Vargo that she wanted to go out that night with some friends.
This was not the first time father and daughter had tangled over the issue.
“Angel will accompany you,” Vargo said.
“Angel?” Rachel protested. “No way.”
She’d seen Angel around. They’d tossed the knife a few times together. Angel was the only person Rachel knew who was rarely friendly to others and never to himself. She understood the former and was troubled by the latter.
“It is not open to discussion,” Vargo said.
“I won’t go out with him tagging along.”
“Then you won’t go out.”
And so started the history between Rachel and Angel.
They worked out an alternate arrangement, one she would never share with her father. Is this not what daughters do? Even uncommonly mature ones? Angel would drop her off and pick her up but was nowhere to be seen (so she thought) when she was with her friends. In this manner, Rachel and Angel were joined as fellow conspirators, sharing more than the last two letters of their names. They developed a relationship of trust. Of guarded secrets. She worried whether Vargo questioned Angel and, if so, whether Angel lied. It was not hard to imagine Angel lying. She couldn’t put her finger on his relationship with her father. While Angel worked for Vargo, he possessed an independent streak, a daring, both in talk and in his actions. More than a hired hand, he adhered to his own confusing agenda. Sometimes there. Sometimes not. Always on the phone. Some men acted as if they were important. Angel acted as if nothing was important.
One night at a bar, a group of four men settled their eyes on Rachel and her friends. Rachel refused their free drinks, but as the night wore on, it became obvious the men were not interested in her wishes. They shouldered up to Rachel and her friends. Their breath thick with alcohol. Their armpits stenched with the day’s work.
“Leave us alone,” Rachel said, pushing one of them away. He had snuggled up to her, desperate to suck her neck, to feel her skin between his teeth. For it was the most flawless, the most beautiful piece of flesh the man had ever seen.
He grabbed her. He clamped his mouth on her neck. Angel—where did he come from?—rocketed the man across the room with a fist to his head. The man thumped to the floor, dead to the world. Angel drew a knife. He flashed it to the other three men.
They ran.
When Rachel went to bed that night, she wondered what Angel had done. What they knew about him that had caused three men to run.
33
A man with an impressive set of jowls and a cigar in his hand sat to the right of Edward Giancarlo. Droopy took a puff and exhaled, swirls of smoke invading the air. The inconsequential detail of not knowing the man did not prevent me from disliking him. Leonard, Giancarlo’s hairy-armed assistant, stood at his home position.
I had called Giancarlo’s office and asked if I could drop by his house later that day. William Standiford, Giancarlo’s prudish secretary, said no. I’d thanked him and replied that I would arrive at six. Garrett accompanied me.
Giancarlo introduced the man as his attorney but didn’t release his name. In response, Droopy, as if extending his business card, puffed more smoke signals in my direction. Giancarlo explained that he knew I was tight with Detective Rambler and was willing to cooperate. He knew of no reason why someone would target his first wife’s daughter, if that even was the case. He admitted that Detective Rambler had questioned him regarding the murder of a man named Salvatore Russo but insisted he’d never heard of the man, nor of a man named Riggins, whom Rambler had followed up with.
It was a prepared remark, said in the company of his attorney, who likely drafted it. If it was Rambler’s wish that Giancarlo be more forthcoming with me than with him, we were off to a lousy start.
“I’d like to show you a few pictures.” I reached inside my satchel.
Rambler had instructed me the previous day that Sally’s pictures, camera, and camera bag were evidence and to drop them by the police station. I was surprised that he had not admonished me for taking them in the first place. He was keeping me on a leash, a leash that he was willing to lengthen at his convenience. I’d made copies of the pictures and complied with his request. Some of those copies were in my leather satchel. He also gave me some ammunition to use on Giancarlo.
“For what purpose?” his attorney said. His accent was bred in the south.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I said.
“Wesley Anderson the fo-ourth,” he said. He made two syllables out of fourth. His drunk eyes wandered above my head as if to emphasize that I held no interest for him. “Unless you can authenticate the photos, they are useless. If the police had anything they wanted to show Mr. Giancarlo, they would do so. I believe you heard my client’s statement.”
I directed my comment to Giancarlo. “Aren’t you curious?”
“No.”
“Yet you invited me in.”
“Invite? No. Allow? Yes.”
“Earlier today, I dropped the originals off at Detective Rambler’s office.”
Giancarlo considered my implication. “Proceed.”
I took the pictures out and laid them on the table, pointing at the one of him and Angel.
“It appears you are on a first-name basis with Angel, the man who shot your employee, Marcus Knowles, the night of the handoff.”
I could have added that he stuck his heel in my face, but a man has got to have some dignity.
No one spoke. I wasn’t sure Garrett was even breathing. Anderson placed his cigar in an ashtray. He leaned over and examined the picture. “As I mentioned,” he said, “if these digital illustrations mean anything, then we will be approached by the appropriate law official. Until that time arrives, if that time arrives, we have no comment.”
“Wait, there’s more.”
“Oh?”
“Consider these ditties.”
I placed two pictures of Giancarlo and the younger woman on the table. In one picture, they were walking out of a restaurant on Beach Drive. The other was in North Straub Park by the water. Giancarlo and the woman faced each other, creating a profile setting and artistic background, just what Salvatore Russo excelled in. In neither picture did they touch each other or appear to be intimate. Kathleen had pointed out that Giancarlo was one cool Popsicle to leave a restaurant with a new lover and not hold hands. I had countered that Giancarlo, in the process of disengaging from wife number three, was proficient in all stages of the courting game.
Giancarlo snatched the pictures from the table and inspected them.
He glared at me. “Where did you get these?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss my source.”
“It was Rus—”
“Edward,” his attorney cut in. “The man said he was not at liberty to discuss his source.”
Giancarlo took a deep breath, his attorney having just stopped him from mentioning Salvatore Russo’s name. “So I have a . . . girlfriend. What is the purpose of you showing me these?”
“These could be damaging in a divorce hearing. You know who took them. That man is now dead.”
Anderson positioned himself higher in his chair, a plump little bird puffing its feathers. “Are you suggesting Mr. Giancarlo is in some manner involved?
“Just pointing out the obvious. What were you and Angel discussing?”
Anderson took the question. “That is none—”
Giancarlo raised his hand to silence his attorney. “Mr. Travis is simply trying to stir the waters,” he said, keeping his drab eyes on me.
“Tell me about Angel.”
Giancarlo leaned forward in his seat. “You’re sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Angel is wanted for attempted homicide,” I said, sliding in the ammunition that Rambler had given me. “He’s being charged with attempting to kill Marcus Knowles. He was your employee, in the event you forgot.”
“You seem to have a close knowledge of what the police are doing.”
“We get our hair done at the same place.”
“This is no joke.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“They should go after Angel.”
“Got an address for me?”
“I’m questioning why I should continue this conversation with you.”
“Because you know I’m Rambler’s earpiece and you need to give him a reason to lay off. His interest in you is rising by the minute. He thinks you’re being framed, but if you’re unwilling to help yourself, there isn’t much he can do.”
Giancarlo sat back in his chair. He picked up an amber tumbler and took a patient sip. He placed it back on a coaster.
“The man called Angel accosted me downtown one evening. He talked nonsense. I told him I had no clue as to what he was referring to.” He nodded at Leonard. “Leonard was there. He can confirm our conversation.”
“I’m sure he can.”
“Prior to that, I never saw the man before in my life.”
“That was the only time you met him?”
“That is what I said.”
“A door was inadvertently left open the night your employees were taken to the warehouse.”
I waited for a reaction, but Giancarlo was unresponsive.
“Do you wish to amend your previous statement?” I asked.
“I do not.”
“They heard you conversing with Angel.”
Droopy—Anderson—blew smoke in my direction. Little twerp.
“They must be mistaken,” Giancarlo said, not backing down. “I was here at home that evening. Leonard can attest to that.”
“Leonard will attest you were on the moon if you instruct him to.”
Anderson cut in. “Are you—?”
“I’ve got it, Wes,” Giancarlo said, again cutting off his attorney. “I might have underestimated you.”
“Your attorney’s smoke can’t hide your stink, Eddie. You’re moving money for Vargo, your old client from years back. Or did you never break ties with him? Angel and Vargo are in a pissing match. I think the bullet that hit Liana Castillo was intended for Kylie, your second wife’s daughter.”
Yankee Conrad had gotten back to me and confirmed what I’d been suspicious about; Vargo had been a client of Giancarlo’s when Giancarlo started out as an attorney.
“I know who Kylie is,” he said bitterly. “The police have shared their theory with me. Is there anything else I can do for you? I’ve been more than cooperative, but I still have other affairs to attend to this evening.”
“We haven’t come to the main event.”
“Oh?”
“My nephew, Evan. He is in love with Vargo’s daughter, Rachel. I think Angel has them both.”
His jaw tightened. His eye narrowed as if he could laser me out of his life.
“My bet is that Angel’s trying to take over Vargo’s operations,” I said. “And Vargo’s leaning on you for help. Not muscle, but moving money. Angel found out and decided to kill your daughter, but Angel is drug trash; he didn’t even know Kylie wasn’t your biological daughter and messed up the hit anyway. Salvatore Russo—the name you nearly mentioned—was stalking you for other purposes, and it cost him his life. If you’re not careful, they might pin Sally’s murder on you.”
“We are done here,” Anderson said, as if he could dictate events by releasing edicts from his chair.
I leaned forward, pinning my eyes on Giancarlo.
“Manuel Castillo came to me.”
“Who?”
“The man whose daughter died on the playground.”
“The swing set girl?”
“Her name is Liana Castillo.”
Why would he come to you?” he scoffed.
“He was looking for someone who gave a damn.”
“And that is what you do? Charge people to pretend you care?”
“There’s no money being exchanged.”
“I fail to see why you insist on pestering me. I can’t help you.”
“You’re holding out,” I said, rising to my feet.
“I don’t care—”
I stepped into him and grabbed him by his collar, jerking him to his feet. Leonard lunged at me. Garrett intercepted Leonard with a sharp punch to the stomach. Leonard bent over, gasping for breath. Anderson leaned back and blew a lazy puff of smoke into the air.
Giancarlo glared at me. “Are you done?”
“We’re done playing with my nephew’s life. I want names. Addresses.”
“You just assaulted my client,” Anderson pointed out.
I released Giancarlo and stepped back. “We all know nothing here will ever see the light of a courtroom.”
Giancarlo straightened his shirt. “In order to find your nephew, you propose becoming the thugs you pursue?”
“If need be.”
“I cannot help you.”
“You will not help me.”
“Juggle the words all day.”
“I got Angel having them both, but it didn’t start like that, did it? He had to renege on a promise, or Rachel never would have accompanied him in the first place.”
“I can’t help—”
“Save it.”
I changed tack, hoping to trip him up and salvage a small victory.
“Evan said an American questioned him in Mexico. Who was he?”
“Edward,” Anderson said. “You do not—”
“Quiet, Wes,” Giancarlo said. He hesitated before proceeding, as if he were trying the words out in his mind before articulating them. “He moves the money.”
“I didn’t ask what he did. I asked who he was.”
“You need to look into your own house.”
There was something in his pleading eyes, as if no one else was there. No Garrett. No wheezing Leonard. No Wesley Anderson the fo-ourth. Just Edward Giancarlo and me.
“I need more than that.”
“Or what? You and your friend bully us around? You’re one bad move from being escorted out of here in the back of a squad car.”
“Who’s the American?”
“I’ve told you all I can. More than I should, considering there’s nothing you can tell me that I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“If you think you have something, let’s hear it.”
“You’re close to blowing the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“How’s that?”
“Losing a good woman who loves you.”
“I already know that.”
34
The student center at the college where Kathleen taught has floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Those walls look out on a maze of sidewalks that connect intellectual sojourns: history, this way; marine biology, that way; fine arts, straight ahead. Summer session students strolled across the property, their heads bowed in captivity to the electronic devices cradled in their hands.
It was hard not to pine for the stolen days of youth. But I was thankful that I didn’t work—or live—in a world where nearly every woman was between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, sported a pair of runway legs, and refused to stand straight and view the world in front of them.
Giancarlo’s comment to look in my own house had rattled me. That’s the trouble with going rattling; sometimes you’re the one who gets rattled. I sensed he wanted to be on my side, but something was holding him back. Garrett and I had batted around what—or who—Giancarlo might be referring to, but my near-term objective demanded my full attention.
Kathleen said she and China usually met after class for coffee. She had told China she couldn’t make it today because she had office hours. I was betting that China still needed that jolt of caffeine.
Kathleen would not approve of what I was about to do. I wasn’t sure I approved of what I planned to do. But there I sat, nursing a coffee, and there she came, wearing a blouse that flared at the sleeves as much as it flared around her waist. Skin tone that’s totally unfair.
She went to the counter, ordered a coffee, and headed to an outdoor table.
I stalked her.
“China?”
She glanced up at me.
“Yes?”
I introduced myself, giving her my name and mentioning that I was Kathleen’s—Dr. Rowe’s—husband.
She cocked her head. “I usually meet her at this time, but she couldn’t make it today. Are you looking for her?”
Her voice was smooth. Velvety. Like an unknown orchestra instrument that leaves you peering deep into the reed section, craning to see the source of your enchantment.
“I am not. I was hoping to have a few words with you.”
She crinkled her face. “What can I do for you?”
“Can we sit down?”
“Sure.”
She was surprised by what I said. She insisted that Dr. Rowe hadn’t breathed a word to her. She understood why, and that made her decision easier. But her surprise was no match for my own when she explained what she wanted and insisted it be that way. I agreed and wondered what I’d gotten into. Kathleen said life is an open door. We’ll see. We decided to meet again. Not to make a rush decision.
I’ll never get over how some little things are so hard, and some big things are so easy. How luck, when she shines upon you, is the most transforming yet unwarranted occurrence.
