Max hurries across the lawn and intercepts us as we make our way toward my car for the drive back to Liberty Street. “You folks coming to the cemetery?”
I shake my head no.
“Yes, you are,” he says. “Stick around afterward. Jake wants to talk to you.”
I wonder why. Speaking of the unexplained, Jake’s a pallbearer. Max isn’t. I ask why, adding, “You guys were pretty tight, right?”
“Sure, but Ed and Jake go way back. I was never CHPD, so I only got to know Ed over the last coupla years. Anyway, stick around after they bury Ed, okay?” After I nod, he gives Papa a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
We pile into the Porsche and head for the cemetery.
Mrs. Stankowski stands proud and erect at the windblown graveside twenty minutes later, setting aside the crushing grief she must feel while she honors the man she married but won’t get to enjoy retirement with. They’d come heartbreakingly close. I remember Ed mentioning that she’s retiring from her teaching position after the school year. “Then we’ll be a couple of old tumbleweeds blowing around the country,” he’d happily told me.
I wipe away a tear as the priest begins the brief Catholic graveside service and have shed many more by the time Ed’s body is committed to the earth. Everything about this day transports me back to Mama’s funeral, so I’m mourning for two.
As the mourners straggle away in groups big and small, we edge away from the grave site and linger under some trees. I admire the fall foliage as the leaves perish in vibrant shades of red, orange, and gold. My eyes are drawn down to the mound of dirt beside the pit that now holds Ed’s coffin, then once again range over the breathtaking show being put on by the dying leaves. The tragedy of Ed’s life being snuffed out is thrown into bitterly stark relief. He deserved to exit at the end of a long, well-earned retirement, just as the leaves around us are going out in style at the natural end of their life cycle.
Jake and Max find us five minutes later. Jake looks as if he hasn’t been to bed since the night of Ed’s murder.
He begins by touching Papa’s arm. “Sorry if I was hard on you, Francesco. Ed’s wife gave me hell when she heard about it.”
Papa nods.
“Make no mistake, though, you need to get your ass out of that house.”
Papa nods again.
Jake switches gears. “The bastard who shot Ed is still in grave condition, but we were able to speak with him briefly.”
Max’s expression leaves little doubt that he wishes the guy wasn’t doing even that well. I’m totally in sync with his thinking. Mind you, we’d all like to hear everything the guy can tell us. Then he’s free to croak.
“We’ve done some digging on the guy,” Jake continues. “He’s not from Italy, after all. He’s from Toledo and is connected to the Luciano family’s operations there, though he’s pretty much retired now. It turns out that his family traces their roots back to Calabria and the Cosche assholes there.”
Papa’s eyes switch from sorrow to rage in an instant, but he holds his tongue.
Jake gives him a moment to say something, then moves on. “We were right. Some sorry old bastard from over there is behind this.”
“What do we know for sure, Jake?” I ask.
His lips tighten into an angry straight line that suggests frustration. “The line between Italian law enforcement and Ndrangheta gets a little murky at times, so I had Interpol do a little poking around Calabria to smoke out these fuckers.” His eyes shoot to Brittany and Pat. “Sorry about the language, ladies.”
Brittany, who has been plucking leaves off the oak tree we’re standing beneath, is now absently picking one apart. She waves the apology aside and hisses, “They are fuckers.”
I feel Bobby Harland’s eyes on me when I don’t react. I won’t correct Brittany for saying what we’re all thinking. When my eyes meet Bobby’s, I offer him the slightest nod. He responds with the ghost of a smile. Damned if I don’t like this kid.
“Anyway, until we work this out, Francesco needs to make himself scarce,” Jake concludes.
“We’re working on a plan for that,” I inform him.
His eyes cut to mine. He spins his hand in a “come on” motion and waits for me to explain.
“We’re thinking we might spirit Papa away to stay with his sister in Italy.”
Jake’s brow furrows as he absorbs the news. “Italy?”
“Who’s gonna look for him there?” I reply. “Plus, he’ll be with people we can trust.”
“I guess there’s some twisted logic in that,” he allows after he thinks for a minute, but he’s clearly skeptical.
Max jerks a thumb at Jake and addresses Papa. “I hear this guy told you that you’re on your own now?”
Papa nods.
Max shoots Jake a pissed-off look. “Well, he don’t speak for all of us, Francesco. You’re moving your ass out of your house, right?”
Papa nods.
“Good move,” Max says before he turns to me. “Tell me about this plan of yours.”
I explain our nascent plan, such as it is.
“I kinda like that,” Max says. “When do we leave?”
We?
Chapter Fourteen
Papa and I arrive at Cedar Heights Police Department headquarters shortly after eight o’clock three evenings later. In an echo of the September evening when my father shot a man a year ago, we’re ensconced in the Spartan reception area while someone fetches Detective Plummer. Once again, he leads us to the last in a row of metal desks that have seen better days and seats us in a pair of folding chairs placed in front of it. It’s déjà vu all over again, including
