Deadly Fall Read online

  * * * * *

  Augusta pushed through the glass rotating doors of her bank. The lunch crowd would not be in for another thirty minutes, but it was still fairly busy in the branch. She unbuttoned all three buttons on her tan trench coat with one hand and unwrapped the long, crimson silk scarf from around her neck with the other. She draped the scarf over her arm as her boot heels clicked rapidly on the marble floor. The girl at the reception desk was perfectly groomed, as all bank employees seemed to be. The smile that stretched her perfectly lined and colored lips was bright and perky. Augusta tried to not hold it against her.

  “Hello. How may I help you?” She sounded like the Burford, Burford & Stevens receptionist, making Augusta wonder if the tone and perkiness were requirements for professional receptionists everywhere.

  Augusta slipped her small purse off her right shoulder, placed it on the counter, unzipped it, pulled out her key ring and held out the safety deposit key. “I would like to know if this key is for a safety deposit box at this branch.”

  The receptionist took the key from Augusta and glanced down at the numbers engraved on it. “I believe so.” She returned the key to Augusta. “If you’ll just take a seat in the waiting area, I’ll get someone to help you.”

  Augusta sat down on the edge of one of the armchairs in the waiting area, purse in her lap, and studied the pointed toe of her boot and the frayed hem of her jeans. Her hunch was right, she thought, excitement heating through her body. It only made sense that the tiny key would be to a safety deposit box. Where else would Drew have put the contents of the safe for safekeeping? And where else would the safety deposit box be but at her bank? He wouldn’t have wanted her to have to go through every bank in the city to find the box.

  “Mrs. Langan?”

  “Yes?” Augusta tilted her head back. The deep, well-modulated voice matched the robust, middle-aged man. He was dressed in a charcoal suit with a subtle pinstripe, coordinated with a checkered dress shirt and a plain silk tie. His thinning hair was cleverly disguised by an expensive haircut.

  “I’m Joseph Lawrence, the manager at this branch.”

  She rose and shook his hand. “I wasn’t expecting the bank manager to help with this matter.”

  “I saw you come in and wanted to come over and offer you my condolences.”

  “Thank you.” She didn’t want to ask how he knew what she looked like. She laid the blame on the media. “Did the receptionist tell you why I’m here?”

  “Yes, and I’d be happy to personally assist you. Please come with me.”

  Augusta followed Lawrence through the bank’s reception and teller area and up a set of stairs. She was shown to a room that only had space for a small wooden table and chair and was asked to wait there.

  Augusta lifted a hand, hesitated, then asked, “Before you go, Mr. Lawrence, can you tell me when my husband got the safety deposit box?”

  “About five weeks ago. His only instructions for us were that only you be allowed to open it. When I heard about his death, I wasn’t sure whether or not I should’ve called and informed you about this. Had you not shown up by Friday, I would’ve contacted you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lawrence nodded. “Take a seat and I’ll return shortly.”

  Less than five minutes later, he opened the door of the private room after a discreet knock. He placed a long, stainless steel box on the table.

  “Take as long as you need. If you require anything at all, please ask,” he said before he left, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Augusta stared at the box for long moments, her heart doing double time. Had she been of a more whimsical nature, she would’ve drawn a comparison to Pandora and her box.

  After a fortifying breath, she unlocked and opened the box. There were envelopes—a small white one and two large ones that bulged in the middles. Bricks of money were underneath the envelopes. Ben Franklins looked up at her.

  Throat tightening, she picked up the small envelope addressed to her in Drew’s bold writing. Had she not been sitting, she would have fallen down when, beneath the letter, she found a compact semi-automatic pistol and a magazine.

  Augusta leaned back in the wooden chair, ripped opened the envelope and, along with a letter, found the wedding bands and engagement rings. Tears formed in her eyes as she read the letter, the rings clutched tightly in her fist.

  Augusta,

  It’s hard not to be dramatic in this letter because if you’re reading this, then I’m dead. I hope everything ends with my death, but I doubt it. The Beretta 85 is the gun I made you use for practice. I know you don’t believe in firearms but consider this my second last request. The gun is registered under a false name and it can’t be traced back to you.

  My last request is for you to mail the package I addressed to John Archer at the FBI. He’s a good man. I trust him to do whatever needs to be done, and I trust him to protect you because if I’m dead, they’ll come after you to get the USB key I enclosed. It contains a recording of Daniele Castellated attempting to blackmail me into allowing him to use LSI to transport his “goods.” I guess he took exception to my refusal and my recording of our conversation.

  There are fifty thousand dollars in cash and fake IDs in the taped up envelope. They are for you to use if you need to hide until Castelletti is neutralized. Remember to use cash for everything. They can trace you if you use your credit or debit cards.

  I’m sorry you have to be involved in this. I thought the USB key would make a good insurance policy, but you know and I know I am occasionally wrong. Take care of yourself.

  Drew

  P.S. When you find a man you trust enough to have kids with, name the first for me.

  By the time she reached the bottom of the letter, her tears blurred the last lines. Augusta used her scarf to dry her tears and wondered if Daniele Castelletti was one of the men in the pictures Nick had left for her. What did the mafia have that they thought they could use to blackmail Drew, a man who was known for being ruthless but always above board?

  Augusta tore up the letter until it was nothing more than a small pile of quarter inch squares. She then brushed them into her purse so she could dispose of them later. She checked herself in her compact mirror. Her eyes were a little red, but otherwise, she looked normal. Hoping Joseph Lawrence was true to his word, she opened the door and peered outside.

  The security guard at the end of the hall came to her when she made eye contact with him. If he thought her request was strange, he didn’t show it.

  Half an hour later, Augusta stepped outside and, even though the sun was having a difficult time penetrating the blanket of clouds, wished she had brought along her sunglasses. She squinted up and down the street, looking for the patrol car that had been following her all morning. When she couldn’t spot them, she mentally shrugged. Cops needed food, too, didn’t they?

  Clutching her purse tightly, Augusta headed for her car. And she came to an abrupt halt when two well-dressed suits blocked her car from sight. She took two quick steps back and looked up. Both medium height and deceptively slim. Slick, dark suits she knew would carry Italian designer labels on the inside. Slicked back hair that were advertisements for excessive hair gel use. Tanned faces with grave expressions that were more suited to undertakers than nine-to-five junior executives.

  Fear gripped her but didn’t paralyze her. Before she could turn and run, however, they both stepped forward and each grabbed an upper arm.

  “Miz Langan, our boss would like you to join him for lunch.”

  * * * * *

  The pictures Nick and Ethan had circulated slid down on Nick’s desk to settle on top of the report he was scanning. He looked up. A red-eyed, rough-looking man in wrinkled street clothes looked down at him. Nick wasn’t sure why, but vice always looked a little shabbier than the rest of the force. Maybe it had something to do with the isolation that was part and parcel of vice. Sergio Ramirez would’ve been pretty without the dark half circles under his eyes
and the heavy stubble on his cheeks and chin. Noting that his clothes weren’t stained, Nick decided today was a good day for Ramirez.

  Ramirez pulled up a chair, spun it around and straddled it backwards. “Heard you and Murtagh are trying to identify these guys,” he said.

  Nick sat up. “You know them?” He caught Ethan’s attention from across the room and waved him over.

  “The skinny one’s Stefano Salvo and the big guy’s his cousin, Tommy. Stefano’s the brain’s of the operation and Tommy carries out his orders.”

  “We got a match on Tommy Salvo. A rap sheet longer than my arm, ranging from assault to attempted murder. He’s been in and out of correctional facilities since an early age.”

  “You can add murder to Tommy’s list of crimes, but we’ve never been able to prove it.”

  Nick grunted. “It’ll stick this time. And we can add assault and attempted murder. I’m betting it’s his blood on the victim’s pants.”

  “Got an arrest warrant yet?”

  “Waiting for a judge to sign it. And we wanted to wait until we got an ID on the second guy so we can hit both residences at once.” Nick paused. “Stefano didn’t pop up in the system.”

  “Stefano lets Tommy do most of his dirty work and take the fall. Tommy’s loyal enough—and dumb enough—to do time for Stefano.”

  “And the girl? Who’s the girl?”

  “Daniela Castelletti. Tommy Salvo’s one of her father’s button men.”

  “And Stefano?”

  Ramirez shook his head. “Only an associate. His mama was Irish,” he explained. “But Tommy’s his cousin’s personal enforcer. He does whatever Stefano orders.”

  “Oh, shit.” Nick’s chair creaked as he sat back. What the hell was Andrew Langan thinking of to get involved with one of the Tri-State area’s most ruthless mafia bosses? Castelletti may have a host of legitimate businesses that would make a Goldman Sachs advisor salivate, but deep down past all the layers, figuratively and literally, the man was as corrupt as his Sicilian roots were deep.

  Ethan joined them, eyeing Ramirez warily when he caught the less-than-thrilled expression on Nick’s face. “What?”

  Ramirez repeated his information for Ethan.

  “Oh, shit.” Ethan sat down heavily on his desk. The Lieutenant had all but rubbed his hands together in glee when Ethan and Nick had briefed him about the surveillance tapes early that morning. “If Castelletti gave the order, we’ll never prove it.”

  Ramirez nodded in silent agreement. “There might be enough to nail those two Salvo bastards for murder. That’s life without parole,” he said in his gravelly voice.

  Ethan sighed. “That’ll probably satisfy brass and the DA.”

  The grim look on Nick’s face didn’t go away. If anything else, it became even grimmer. How would Augusta feel if she knew that the person ultimately responsible for Andrew Langan’s death would not even be questioned? Let alone brought to justice.

  Ramirez shrugged. “Besides, what if Castelletti didn’t give the order? What if it was personal?”

  Nick’s cell phone going off didn’t allow them to play with Ramirez’s idea. As he listened, Nick’s face hardened until it was like granite.

  “Yes,” he bit off into the phone.

  Ethan lifted questioning brows. Nick held up a hand. “Where?” he demanded into the phone. He listened, then said, “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t go inside until we get there.” He disconnected.

  Ethan grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and followed.

  * * * * *

  Even though it was only noon, the inside of the restaurant was dark. The heavy, ornate décor contributed to the darkness. It was lunchtime, but only half the restaurant was filled. Most of the patrons sat at the tables near the large, smoked windows. Naturally, the two goons escorted Augusta to the table at the far back corner of the restaurant where a handsome man sat alone. He rose as they approached, and had Augusta not known better, she would’ve assumed that he was nothing more than a successful businessman. He was just below average height and, with the lines on his face, looked to be in his sixties. His sharp eyes were dark and intense. She didn’t think he missed much. His short, expensively-styled hair was snow white but still thick. He was elegantly dressed in silk, from the charcoal suit to the white shirt to the red tie. This was her day to be out-dressed by men.

  He held out his hand. “Dr. Langan, thank you for joining me. I’m Daniele Castelletti,” he said. His voice was smooth and rich, with no trace of an accent.

  She’d guessed who he was, but having him confirm it was like a blow to the stomach. Deciding it would be healthier to play along, Augusta clasped the proffered hand. He had a firm grip. “Your…associates did not give me much choice in the matter.”

  “I apologize for them, but I was most anxious to speak with you.”

  Castelletti gave a small wave with his hand and his men went and sat at a nearby table.

  “Please take a seat,” he said, pulling out a chair for her.

  Augusta took her time taking off her scarf and coat and hanging them on the back of the chair. She sat and set her purse in her lap. She folded her hands over her purse and inconspicuously unzipped it halfway, allowing for enough room to slide her hand around the grip of the Beretta, flick off the safety and squeeze the trigger if she needed to. Castelletti’s messengers declined to search her, assuming she didn’t pose a threat. Even with the Beretta, Augusta decided they were probably right.

  When Castelletti seated himself, Augusta continued to study him quietly. She didn’t know who she had been expecting, but the polished, quietly handsome man seated across from her wasn’t it. No, she had to be honest to herself at least. She had been expecting Don Vito Corleone, not an Italian Cary Grant.

  “First, I would like to extend my condolences to you on the loss of your husband. I knew your husband, and he was a good man whom I admired greatly. I will miss him.”

  Admired? You have a strange way of showing your admiration. She swallowed, but her throat felt constricted. The water glass in front of her was full and looked untouched, but she wasn’t sure her hand was steady enough to take a drink without spilling it on herself. Was she supposed to accept condolences from the man who was responsible for Drew’s death? Yes. For once in her life, she had to be circumspect. “Thank you, Mr. Castelletti.”

  “Please, call me Daniele. Your husband and I were on a first name basis. You and I should not be so formal.”

  Augusta carefully hid her clenched fists in her lap. Do you kill a lot of people with whom you’re on a first name basis? She forced a small, very brief smile. “Of course.”

  He gestured to the cell phone she laid on the table by her folded napkin. “If you will please turn that off. I find them disruptive during meals.”

  Augusta was about to answer in the resoundingly negative, but her eyes swept the room. There were about a dozen diners in the restaurant. “Of course,” she said again, but instead of turning it off, she discreetly set it on vibrate and placed the phone between her and the chair back.

  “Would you like some wine?” He picked up the bottle of red wine breathing on the table. “It is an excellent Rosso del Conte.”

  Maybe the wine would help calm her nerves. “Please.”

  As she watched Castelletti fill each of their wineglasses halfway with ruby liquid, the entire situation took on a surreal quality. Any stranger watching them would think it was nothing more than an intimate lunch between two friends. No underlying motives, no deceit. No fear.

  When Castelletti set down the wine bottle and reached for his glass, Augusta very carefully picked up hers, trying not to compare the redness of the wine to the redness of blood, and took a sip. Under normal circumstances, she would’ve enjoyed the rich, fruity wine. Today, however, the Sicilian red tasted like vinegar on her tongue. She put her wineglass down, telling herself she should be thankful it didn’t taste faintly metallic.

  “I have taken the liberty of
ordering lunch for the both of us.”

  As if she could keep anything in her stomach, let alone get anything down her throat. “Thank you.”

  “You are wondering why I have set up this lunch.”

  “The thought has crossed my mind.”

  “I would have preferred to invite you to dinner in my home, but I did not think you would feel comfortable enough to accept my invitation.”