Page 18 of Tormented Diamonds
Two hours later, I can still see his text in my head.
Rumor has it the star-spangled welcome wagon is waiting to take Becca in for questioning. I suggest giving them a better option.
So, I did. Was there a smoother way to go about it that didn’t involve manipulating the truth? Probably. But time wasn’t on my side. I’ll do anything to save Becca from walking into a trap. Even if it means sacrificing myself.
Agent Lattimore is the first one to cave. Slumping back in his chair, he tilts his head and rests his lanky arms across his chest. “Congratulations, Marchesi. I hear you’re a married man.”
“I am.” Lifting my left hand, I flip my ring finger. “I would’ve invited you to the wedding, but I didn’t want to.”
He chuckles. “The timing seems a little odd, don’t you think? You know, being less than twenty-four hours after your father’s murder and all. You wouldn’t be trying to keep your bride from speaking out against something, would you?”
I slide my hand inside my suit jacket and pull out a playing card. “My father’sdeathand my wedding are two separate and unrelated events,” I say, flipping it between my fingers. “However, I’ll be sure to pass along your well wishes to my wife, along with the insinuation she’s being brainwashed. Women love that shit.”
He gives me that same blank stare, only now it has more of a deer-caught-in-headlights quality. I suppose that has something to do with seeing his case against my father go ass-end-up. “What about you taking control of your father’s empire and proclaiming yourself boss? Is that ‘separate and unrelated,’ too?”
I shrug. “Good things come in threes.”
Agent Gibbs pounds his chubby fist on the table. “What game are you playing this time, Marchesi? Why would you serve yourself up on a platter?”
“No game. I figured you two were tired of following me around like jilted lovers, so I thought I’d be the adult in this dysfunctional trio. However, I’ve beenhere over half an hour, and all you’ve done is compliment me.” I spin the card between the pads of my thumb and forefinger. “Almost like you have nothing to hold over me.”
I don’t miss the look that passes between them.
I’m a little insulted. It’s like they’re not even trying anymore.
Lattimore clicks his tongue. “Just because there hasn’t been an arrest made in Marcello’s murder, that doesn’t mean we don’t have a case.”
Wrong. That’s exactly what the fuck it means. It’s been seven days since my father’s death. If they had anything remotely incriminating, I would’ve been behind bars within the first twenty-four hours.
“I don’t think you’re clear on the definition of murder, Agent. I suggest you re-read the coroner’s report in that little file of yours.” I drag my gaze down to the worn brown folder he has clutched in his hands. “My drunk father fell asleep with a lit cigar in his mouth and burned his house down. Unfortunate, but self-inflicted. Life goes on.”
“Do you really think we’re that stupid?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
Lattimore scowls. “We have time-stamped video of you outsideCucciola’s Trattoriain Hackensack, a Marchesi affiliate, owned by your late girlfriend’s uncle. A place where, nine hours later, an SUV of Marcello’s men got blown to hell. If that weren’t damning enough, we’ve also got you and Anton Altieri in Staten Island, entering a building owned by Benito Toscano.”
I give the card a double spin. “You’ve been busy little bees, haven’t you?”
The lid blows off Gibbs’s control. Snatching the folder, he slams it open in the center of the table, strewing papers outward with both hands. Once he finds the one he wants, he spins it around, stabbing the center with hisstubby finger. “We have an established timeline and motive, Gianni. No one buys this ‘accidental’ fire bullshit.”
As I suspected, it’s an image of Anton and me walking through the door ofCucciola’s, which means absolutely dick-all. As far as the photo shows, all we did was eat lunch, which a statement from Sartorre, as well as Anton’s credit card statement, can prove.
The straws these fuckers are grasping at keep getting shorter and shorter.
“All you have is an itinerary, which is circumstantial, at best. As far as my father’s death…?” I lift my shoulders in an apathetic shrug. “Read the report. I wasn’t even there. I was at my house with my then soon-to-be wife. Feel free to verify that,” I add, for no other reason than to watch that vein in his forehead pulse. “Besides, this all is a moot point, isn’t it? My father snapped, crackled, and popped into a pile of ash.”
Gibbs leaps to his feet. “Because the Marchesis own the damn medical examiner. That report was bogus, and you know it.”
I don’t respond, which causes his red face to deepen to an alarming shade of burgundy. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have any hair on his head because I’m pretty sure it’d burst into flames.
Lattimore places his hand on his arm like he’s a rabid racoon. “Mike, cool it. Remember your blood pressure.” Gibbs tosses me a tight scowl before lowering into his seat, leaving his partner fumbling through his trusty brown folder. “What do you know about an illegal shipping ring going on at the Port of Providence? Maybe one involving the Carrera Cartel?”
“Why the hell would I know anything?”
He glances up mid page-flip. “You worked there for months. Figured if anyone had insider information it’d be you.”
“I’m Italian, Lattimore. We keepour hands out of Mexican cookie jars.”
