“Yes, and—”
“Vincent diPietro?”
So not a surprise. “Nope. Devina Avale.”
“Interesting. She wouldn't happen to be the woman who said good ol' Vincent put her in the hospital last night, would she? Why…yes, she is. It's right here on my computer screen. Terrible set of people you're hanging around with. So violent.”
“And to think it's a step up from the likes of you.”
Now there was a little less of that amusement: “How does that saying go? It's not wise to bite the hand that feeds you…Yup, I think that's right.”
“I'm more likely to shoot than use my teeth. FYI.”
“I'm well aware of how much you like guns, thank you very much. And in spite of your piss-poor opinion about me, I have all the intel on Marie-Terese right here.” Matthias, to his credit, got to the point. “Born Gretchen Moore in Las Vidas, California. Age thirty-one. Graduated from UC San Diego. Mother and father deceased.” There was a shuffling sound and a grunt, as if Matthias were switching position—and the idea that the guy had to deal with chronic pain was satisfying as hell. “Now for the interesting part. Married Mark Capricio in Las Vegas, nine years ago. Capricio is a bona fide card-carrying member of the mob, a real sick shit who has a personality disorder and a half, given his rap sheet. Total skull cracker. She evidently tried to leave him about three years ago and he beat her up, grabbed the kid, and split. Took her a couple months and a PI to find him. When she got the son back, she divorced the asshole, bought herself the Marie-Terese ID, and disappeared, eventually ending up in Caldwell, NY. Since then, she's kept her profile ultra-low, and with good reason. Men like Capricio don't let their wives go.”
Holy. Shit. So…chances were good that those two dead boys and that beaten man in the alley last night meant Capricio had found her. Had to be. Vin had said the second attack had been on a guy seen with her—
“But when it comes to her ex-husband, she has nothing to worry about in the short term.”
“Excuse me?” Jim said.
“Capricio's been doing twenty in federal prison for a salad bar of felonies including embezzlement, money laundering, witness intimidation, and perjury—and after that he's got a bunch of state felonies to serve out, including accessory to murder, assault, battery. Guy could be an exam question in law school, for fuck's sake.” Another shift around was marked with a soft curse. “Apparently, it was all crashing down on him right about the time Gretchen/Marie-Terese was going to leave him. Which is logical. He was probably getting more and more violent on the home front as the feds and the Nevada staties closed in on him. When he snatched the son, he was running from the law, not just his wife—which made the fact that he managed to disappear for three months a testament to the depth of his connections. Clearly, someone ratted on him, though—maybe her PI applied the right pressure at the right time by threatening to turn one of his protectors in. Who knows.”
“But I wonder if his family's coming after her now.”
“Yeah, I read about those two gunshot murders in that alley. Doubtful it's his family. They'd just kill her and take the son. There'd be no reason to expose themselves to any added risk by wiping out innocents.”
“Yeah, and besides, you kill someone just because she's been with him, that's personal. So the question is, who's after her—assuming she is the common thread between Friday and Saturday night's attacks.”
“Wait, someone else got blown, and not in a good way?”
“And here I thought you knew everything.”
There was a long pause and then Matthias's voice came back—this time without its usual swinging-dick tone. “I don't know everything. Took me a while to realize that, though. Anyway, I'll do the Devina thing for you. Stay by your phone for my call.”
“Roger that.”
As Jim hung up, he felt as if he were dressed in a familiar set of clothes: The back-and-forth with Matthias was just as it had always been. Quick, to the point, smart, and logical. That was the problem. They'd always worked well together.
Maybe a little too well.
Jim refocused on his pursuit, tracking Devina's taxi as it headed across downtown to the old warehouse district. When they got into the maze of industrial buildings that had been converted into lofts, he let the taxi turn off onto Canal Street by itself and proceeded to the next left-hand turn. Going around the block, his timing was perfect: As he came back to Canal, he got to see Devina get out of the cab and stride up to a door. When she entered using a key, he took that as an indication she had a place there.
Jim kept going, and as he headed out of the district, he made another call.
Chuck, the diPietro Group's crew foreman, answered in his usual gruff way. “Yeah.”
“Chuck, it's Jim Heron.”
“Hey.” There was an exhale, like the guy was in mid-cigar. “How you doing?”
“Good. Wanted you to know I'm coming to work tomorrow.”
Guy's voice actually warmed a little. “You're a good man, Heron. But don't be pushin' it.”
“Nah. I'm fine.”
“Well, I 'predate it.”
“Listen, I'm trying to get in touch with two of the guys I usually work with and I wondered if you have their numbers.”
“I got everyone's number but yours. Who you need?”
“Adrian Vogel and Eddie Blackhawk.”
There was a pause, and the image of the guy chewing on the stub of a fattie was irresistible. “Who?” Jim repeated the names. “Don't know who you talking about. Nobody by those names on the bluff job.” There was a hesitation, like the guy was wondering whether Jim was all there. “You sure you don't need a couple days off?”
“Maybe I got the names wrong. They ride Harleys. One's got short hair and piercings. The other's huge and has a braid down his back?”
Another exhale. “Look, Jim, you're gonna take tomorrow off. I'll see you Tuesday at the earliest.”
“No one like that on the crew?”
“Nope, Jim, there ain't.”
“Guess I'm confused, then. Thanks.”
Jim tossed his cell phone on the seat next to him and all but strangled the steering wheel. Not part of the crew. Big surprise.
Because that pair of bastards didn't really exist any more than Devina did.
Christ, it appeared as if he were surrounded by liars in this new job. Which really put him back in familiar territory, didn't it.
His phone rang and he picked it up. “You can't find her, can you. Devina Avale is nothing but air.”
Matthias wasn't laughing this time. “Nothing. Not a damn thing. It's like she dropped onto the earth out of nowhere. The thing is, she has all the right surface credentials—but only to a point. No birth certificate. No parents. Established credit only seven months ago, and the social security number is actually that of a dead woman. So it's not a great facade, which means I should have been able to find something, anything on the real her. But she's a mirage.”
“Thanks, Matthias.”
“You don't sound shocked in the slightest.”
“I'm not.”
“What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”
Jim shook his head. “Same shit, different day. That's about it.”
There was a short silence. “Expect a package from me.”
“Roger that.”
Jim hung up, put the phone in the front pocket of his jacket, and decided it was time to go face the music over at the Commodore. Vin diPietro had a right to know who and what his ex was, and here was hoping that the guy would be open to the truth—even though it sounded a lot like fiction.
Abruptly, the memory of Vin looking up from the stool in the locker room at the Iron Mask came back.
Jim could only hope that question had been a rhetorical one.
