Page 43 of A Week Away
“I do.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“If I had proof I wouldn’t tell you or anyone else. This is a situation where proof can get you killed. And I think that’s all I’m going to say.”
I put a five on the bar and stood up.
“Thanks. You told me a lot. And by the way, I talked to your wife on the phone. She said you should go fuck yourself.”
He smiled wryly. “Can you believe I married her because she was so sweet?”
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
September 15, 1996
Sunday evening
When we pulled up in front of Cass’s house there was a recent model silver 5-series BMW sitting in front. It was close to seven and I was getting pretty hungry.
“That’s Mr. Cray,” Cass said, and I realized I wouldn’t be eating dinner any time soon.
We pulled into the driveway. I looked back at the BMW. I hadn’t realized at first, but there were two people sitting inside the car. A gray-haired man in the drivers’ seat and a woman with a lot of black hair. After a moment, she leaned over the seat and kissed him on the cheek. Then she got out of the car and he drove off.
Joanne Di Stefano gave the impression of being tall—that was likely because of her hairstyle, which added two or three inches above her head, and her heels which added another three inches. She wobbled across a strip of grass and then was on the sidewalk.
Her hair was pitch black and probably included a fall or two—no one seemed to have told her the eighties were over. I couldn’t see her eyes as they were behind a giant pair of sunglasses. She wore a mink jacket which just begged for someone to throw red paint on it, and beneath that a deep purple, form-fitting dress. Around her neck was a gold necklace that said JOANNE in a pretty script. She had a designer purse hooked in one elbow and an expensive looking travel bag hanging from her other hand.
When she saw Cass get out of the Belvedere, she dropped the bag, threw her arms in the air and screamed, “There’s my baby! Oh my God I missed you.” She picked her way up the driveway until she got to Cass and pulled him into a tight embrace.
He seemed to resist for a moment—possibly because of all the times I’d mentioned that his mother might have had his father killed—but then he gave in to her embrace. She was kissing him all over his face when I got out of the car.
She stopped abruptly, and asked, “Who the fuck are you?”
“He’s a friend of mine,” Cass said.
“When did you start having middle-aged friends?” Then to me. “If you touched my son?—”
“Mom, that’s so gross.”
“Then who is he? Who are you?”
“I’m Dom Reilly.”
She looked me up and down, and asked, “Is that some kind of joke? Cause mister you got a funny sense of humor.”
“You went to Reno sometime between 1982 and 1986 and sold your husband’s identity to a guy named Gavin. I bought it.”
She looked at Cass for a long beat, then said to me, “You’re saying that kind of shit to me on my front lawn? My own fucking front lawn?”
“Mom.”
“Go get my bag,” she snapped at her son, then she went up to the house and let herself in. Cass walked down to the sidewalk and got her bag. I dawdled. I assumed I was supposed to follow them into the house but didn’t want to go first.
At the door, Cass said, “Come on. It’s okay.”
“It doesn’t seem okay.”
He shrugged and went into the house. I followed him. Inside, Joanne had shrugged her way out of the mink jacket and was standing in the living room with her hands on her hips. “Okay. Okay, so fucking what?”
