Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Ledger
The yacht club at Sheepshead Bay was a collection of gray cedar buildings, white docks, and the cold, green water of the Atlantic that smelled of dead fish and diesel fuel.
Through the rain, the masts of the expensive sportfishers rocked with a hollow, aluminum clatter that sounded like old bones. In the VIP lounge on the second floor, the air was warm, smelling of grilled steaks, cigar smoke, and the expensive cologne of the men who didn't work for a living.
Victor Bianchi sat by the window, a glass of dark rum in his hand. He was sixty, short, with a belly that pushed against his silk shirt and a face that was permanently red from forty years of high blood pressure and salt air.
His sister, Clara, sat across from him. She was a thin, sharp-featured woman in a gray wool suit, her fingers constantly moving over the screen of her tablet.
"The girl hasn't called," Clara said. Her voice was low, under the sound of the rain against the glass. "The house in Grunewald is quiet. My source at the local precinct says there’s been no emergency dispatch to Blackwater House."
Victor took a sip of his rum. "Alessandro is old. He’s stubborn. He probably took the hit, felt his chest go tight, and decided to sleep it off. He’s got that old-school pride. He doesn't like the doctors."
"He’s not stupid, Victor," Clara said. "If the solvent was too strong—"
"The solvent was perfect," Victor snapped. "I got it from the dry-cleaner’s warehouse in Red Hook. It’s what they use to strip the grease off the presses. One breath of that, and your lungs turn to leather. He’s dead, Clara. Or he’s on his way. We just need the maid to find him so we can put the bottle of degreaser in her locker."
"The police will look at her mother," Clara warned. "They’ll see the payments."
"That’s the point," Victor said with a wide, yellow-toothed smile. "The maid’s mother has the old Bonanno connection. The papers will say it was a old grudge. A hit from the eighty-eight war. The public will love it. The feds will close the file in a week, and by then, the Chicago people will have the docks."
His phone buzzed on the table.
The screen showed a private number.
Victor’s smile vanished. He picked up the phone, adjusted his collar, and pressed the receiver to his ear.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Victor?"
The voice on the other end was high, thin, and shaking with a terror that was entirely real. It was Sarah.
"Sarah," Victor said, his voice instantly dropping into the warm, fatherly tone he used when he visited the parish charity events. "What is it, dear? You sound upset."
"My... my mother," I said through the receiver. I was sitting on the floor of the study at Blackwater House, Enzo’s hand resting firmly on my shoulder, while Alessandro sat three feet away, his gray eyes watching my face like a hawk. "The doctor at St. Jude just called. They said her heart... her heart is failing. They’re transferring her to the municipal hospital in Queens. They said... they said the private room is no longer paid for."
Victor looked at his sister. Clara nodded once, her fingers tapping the tablet.
"That’s terrible, Sarah," Victor said. "There must be some mistake with the bank. Don't worry, dear. I'll call Clara right now. We'll get it sorted out. Where are you?"
"I'm... I'm still at the house," I said, my voice cracking. "I'm in the study. I went to clean the desk, and... and Mr. Moretti is on the floor."
Victor’s breath caught in his throat. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against the table. "What do you mean, Sarah? Is he hurt?"
"He’s not breathing," I sobbed. "His face is blue, Mr. Victor. There’s... there’s a bottle of cleaner on his desk. It smells so bad. I think... I think he took his medicine and got sick. I don't know what to do. The guards are at the gate. If they find me here—"
"Listen to me, Sarah," Victor said, his voice rising in an urgent, commanding hiss. "Do not touch anything. Do not call the police. Do you hear me?"
"I'm scared," I whispered.
"I’m coming right now," Victor said. "I’m in the car. I'll be there in twenty minutes. I’ll go through the kitchen door. You stay in the study. Do you hear me? Stay in the study and do not let anyone in."
"Okay," I said. "Okay. Please hurry."
I hung up.
The black burner phone went dark in my hand.
I looked up at Alessandro.
He did not look like a man who was on his floor. He had stood up, his black suit jacket buttoned, his gray hair combed. In his hand, he carried a heavy, silver-plated automatic pistol—the one he had kept in the drawer of his desk since the day his wife died.
"Enzo," Alessandro said.
"Sir?"
"Get the cars ready," the boss said. "We’re going to the docks."
"The docks?" Enzo asked, his eyes wide. "But Victor is coming here."
"Victor is not coming here," Alessandro said, his voice cold as the rain outside. "He’s going to his sister’s house in Queens to pack his bags. He’s too smart to walk into a house where a maid just told him I'm dead on the floor. He wanted to keep me on the phone so he could find out if the police were already here. He’s going to the docks in Red Hook to get his papers from the warehouse. That’s where his safe is. That’s where the ledger is."
He looked down at Emma, who was sitting on the rug, her rabbit backpack on her lap, her small fingers tracing the gold embroidery of the Persian wool.
"Sarah," he said.
May you like
"Yes, sir?"
"You and the child are coming with us," he said. "If I leave you here, Victor’s people will have this house surrounded before the hour is out. In my car, you are safe. On the street, you are target practice."
