“The yard at Iron Mountain.” She touched the two boys. Julian had the same photograph on his desk upstairs. It came anonymously one day when Julian was fifteen. No card. Just the photograph. For years, they’d speculated about that picture. Who’d sent it, and why? She’d often found Julian asleep with it in his hands. “You know what this means?”
“It means he’s known where to find us for a very long time.”
“But why didn’t he reach out to us? To Julian?” Abigail could not take her eyes off the photograph. According to Julian, it had been taken less than a month before Michael ran away. “We could have had him back years ago.”
“Which brings us back to timing.”
Some inflection in his voice made Abigail look up. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Falls pulled a final photograph from the folder. He slipped it out facedown, then turned it up and spun it across the table. It was an enlargement of yet another photograph, this one showing a teenage Michael leaning against the hood of a car. An older man had one arm around Michael’s neck. They were laughing. “He had this photograph as well. I’d guess he was sixteen when it was taken. Maybe a bit older.”
Abigail studied the photograph: Michael and an older man, brownstones with open windows, parked cars, a fire hydrant. “It looks like a city street.”
“New York.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am.”
“This could be anywhere, Jessup. A dozen different cities.”
“Do you recognize the man with his arm around Michael’s shoulder?”
“No.”
“Look again.”
She tilted the photograph to the light. “Okay. He’s vaguely familiar. Maybe. The picture’s almost twenty years old.”
“He’s been in the news for longer than that.” Falls dropped a newspaper on the table. It landed hard. “This is yesterday’s
“Otto Kaitlin?”
“Possibly the most powerful crime boss in recent memory.”
“I know who Otto Kaitlin is. What does he have to do with Michael?”
“It’s the same man.”
“You’re being absurd.”
“There’s a full spread on page five. What they know of his life. Some old photographs. The similarity is more obvious.”
Abigail turned to page five, compared the photos. Michael and the laughing man. The dead mobster tied to forty years of murder, racketeering and extortion. There was a mug shot of Kaitlin as a young man, another of him on the courthouse steps, cuffed and lean in an expensive suit. The similarities were there: the hair and eyes, the confident smile. Otto Kaitlin was an old-school gangster, a gentleman killer tried a half-dozen times and never convicted. He was articulate and photogenic, a killer with easy grace and a Hollywood smile. Books had been based on his career. At least two movies. Abigail felt her way to a chair and sat.
Falls opened a drawer and pulled out a handgun sealed in a plastic bag. “This came from Michael’s car.”
“You took it?”
“Seven dead in Otto Kaitlin’s house. Six of them shot with a nine millimeter. Then, an hour later, the explosion in Tribeca. Another nine dead. A dozen injured. Police are looking for a man and a woman who fled the scene in a car traced back to Kaitlin’s house. A man and a woman. The descriptions match.”
Abigail shook her head. “What descriptions? A man in his thirties. A woman with dark hair. It could be anybody. A million different people.”
“Six people were shot with a nine millimeter.”
“You think that’s the gun?”
“It could be.”
“Could be. Old photos. Listen to you. This may as well be office gossip, the mindless chatter of old ladies.”
Falls pointed to the photo of Michael and the laughing man. “We know that’s Otto Kaitlin.”
“We know nothing of the sort.”
Falls pushed the photograph into her hands. “You’re in denial. Look at it.”
“Okay. There’s a similarity, but it’s a ridiculous stretch. Michael is Julian’s brother. He was almost my son.”
“You’re being irresponsible.” Falls spread his hand on the newsprint photos of Otto Kaitlin. “These are serious people, Abigail. Mobsters. Killers.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“He shows up in a stolen car with a bag of cash and an untraceable weapon. This is not an average man.”
“And yet, I believe his reasons.”
“That he loves his brother?”
“Yes.”
“What if this danger follows him? If he
“You can protect us.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Big strong man. Ex-cop. Ex- military.”
“Don’t be flip.”
“We spent over a million dollars on security last year.” Abigail dropped the photo and put both palms flat on the table. “Julian is my son, and as hard as his life has been, I’ve never seen him as broken as he is now. His brother has come back to him after twenty-three years, and I think it’s happened for a reason. I think he can help. So, do what you need to do your job. Alert the senator’s people to a possible threat, but keep your reasons vague. Be cautious. Be smart. But if you scare Michael off, I’ll never forgive you.” She straightened, voice crisp. “In the meantime, you keep your theories to yourself. I don’t want to hear anything about mobsters or mass murder or old photographs.”
Falls shook his head, disappointed. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You said it yourself.”
“What?”
Falls watched her carefully. “The man’s no dishwasher.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Some things are best done in the dark, and alone. This is what Michael told himself, and it was almost enough to wash the taste of betrayal from his throat as he slipped from the covers and swung his feet to the floor. The clock read four twenty; in the bed, Elena lay still. Michael watched her as he dressed, and as the gun came silently from the bedside table. It was loaded-full clip, one in the pipe-and he considered how quickly she had become accustomed to its presence. One day it was an unknown; the next it was merely part of the scenery. In a strange, sad way, the thought gave him hope. He would change what he could to make her happy, but knew, deep down, that violence was more than a stain on his soul.
He tucked the gun into his belt, eased open the door and slipped out. Windows were dark in the far mansion, the night very still under high clouds and a slash of moon. Michael was in the drive when Elena called his name. The open doorway framed her perfectly, shadowed face and wild hair, the ghost of her shape
