I stared at the paper in my hand. “Bertha?”
He nodded. “I confronted her about her inappropriate behavior when you left the office. She began to rant about her duty to the Family and your withholding information from them. She said that she answered to a higher authority. You’d think Mazzoni was the Pope. Then she stormed out. I contacted the phone company for a current listing of calls from the office number.” He flipped the switch to activate the exhaust fan and lit a cigarette, the hand that held the butane lighter trembling slightly. “I have no idea how she knew of our conversation, Angelina. I swear that I said nothing to anyone.”
Leaning back and shutting my eyes, I recalled the day that I met with Bart to ask if he would broker an agreement to let Hank—Tommaso—live the life of a free man without interference from the mob. “Bertha was angry, the day of our initial discussion. Remember how she huffed over to your desk when you asked her to leave the room, ostensibly to black out our meeting on your desk blotter? I think she used that as a cover to press the intercom button so that she could listen in on what we discussed.”
He held the smoke in his lungs for a count of three, then spat it out as he cursed, “Merda.”
“Indeed.” I steepled my hands. “It makes a weird kind of sense, Bart. The Family supported Bertha when her husband was killed. She’s worked for you for decades, helping you defend those in the organization. We’ve even joked before that Bertha personifies the phrase, ‘married to the mob.’ So when I tried to protect Hank Wagner, whom she probably sees as a defector and therefore a betrayer, she acted.”
After several more pulls on the unfiltered gasper, he stubbed it out and leaned toward me. “There is a certain logic to your deductions,” he agreed, “but in exposing Hank as a betrayer, she betrayed me. I can neither forgive nor forget that. I do not think that Chicago will either, since Milwaukee is under their control and she essentially invited an outside Family into their territory to perform an execution. Mrs. Conti will find Milwaukee to be too hot for her, even in the dead of winter.”
An image of Bertha’s body unfolded in my imagination and I inwardly shuddered. I wanted no more deaths on this case, but I had to tread carefully. This was a Family matter and not one in which I had more than tangential input.
“Bart, on behalf of Marcy and on my own behalf, I ask you to hold back on informing the Chicago boss for one day. Only one. I want to take this to my papa and ask his counsel. He has already approached them to ask them to contact Philly for more information. If he believes that they should know about Bertha, then I will step aside and let him handle it. Will you agree?”
“She dishonored me, Angie, not Pasquale.”
I nodded. “I see that. But for the sake of the many years of service she gave you, can you give me that day? I will be in your debt.”
“Rot! It is I who owe you. My office broke faith with you, which led to the death of your client’s husband and your own immediate danger. I let you down.”
He swiveled his chair away from me and I waited in silence.
Turning back, he said, “I will speak to Pasquale tonight and explain what has occurred. He and I will reach a consensus and then I will tell you as much as I can. That is the best I can do, Angelina.”
It was the best I would get, either from Bart or, I suspected, from my papa. “Very well. I will wait to hear from you.” I rose and paused, looking him in the eye. “Please, Bart, no further violence. I cannot lie on your behalf if that should occur.”
“I would not ask you to, but I make no promises.” He rose and rounded the large desk. Placing his hands on my shoulders, he said, “I know you do not understand the code that we live under, Angie, but it is not one that I will breach. For your sake, though, and because you are also an injured party, I will extend as much leniency as I can.” Then he bent down and kissed me on each cheek.
Bemused, I reached around his big body and hugged him. “Thanks, Bart.” Then I turned and drifted down the stairs to the security desk.
“Here’s your stuff,” Mighty Mary told me. “Everything okay?
“It’s a delicate situation,” I responded. “I’m afraid I can’t say more.” I grabbed my belongings and headed for home, where I spent a restless night worrying alternately about Wukowski and Bertha Conti.
Chapter 34
The point of decorating … is to create the background for the best life you can have. — Deborah Needleman
Bobbie was already in the office when I arrived the next morning. “I’m in the conference room, Angie,” he called. “Can you take a minute to look at some things?”
“Sure.” I hung up my coat, grabbed my cup of Joe and headed into what appeared to be a maelstrom of brochures, swatches and paint chips.
“I’ve got some great options for my office space,” Bobbie told me. “I’ll start with my top picks and we can work downward from there. I don’t want to break the budget.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” I told him, settling in a chair while he made what amounted to a designer presentation. Two hours later, we agreed on what he called The Look. I could honestly hear the capitalization.
I sat back while Bobbie carried on a bit about a mid-century upholstered club chair that his partner, Stephano—real name Steve, but that was far too plain for a person in the high-end clothing industry—wanted to donate. As he talked, I thought that I would miss Susan and our old office. Then
