"You look tired."
"I didn't sleep well last night."
"Does it have anything to do with that wedding band you're wearing? Not that it's any of my business, of course."
Jamie's stomach took a nosedive as she realized she was wearing the wedding band she had put on before meeting with Harlan the day before. She had been so upset she hadn't thought to remove it when she'd returned home and changed. She hadn't been wearing it when she first met Michael and she wanted to keep things consistent. In his paranoid state he might shut down to her.
She had gone and blown her chance. "I can explain it," she said.
He leaned back in the booth as though waiting.
Chapter Twelve
Jamie was thankful the waitress had picked that particular moment to bring coffee and menus. She waited until the woman walked away.
"My husband and I are divorcing," she said.
"But you still wear his ring?"
Jamie stared at it. "I suppose I'm still trying to come to terms with it. I should take it off and I do sometimes."
Michael seemed to ponder it. "I really don't have a right to ask. I mean, we barely know each other, right? I just ..." He paused and gave a rueful smile.
"What?"
"I found myself looking forward to seeing you today, so the ring was a big surprise. I don't remember seeing it yesterday, but then, I was upset at the time. I'm sorry I butted in. And I'm sorry that you're going through a bad time. I was married once, but it didn't work out."
He looked genuinely sad for her. Jamie glanced down. It wasn't easy lying to someone who was so nice, and it wasn't easy keeping secrets from Max. But she seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. She had even called Vera and spent ten minutes on the phone lying to her about what a great time she was having in Tennessee. Yeesh.
But she had a very good reason for all the subterfuge. She was trying to keep Vera from worrying, and she was trying to get information from Michael that might protect him and lead her and Max to Nick Santoni. A girl had to do what a girl had to do.
"Jane, are you all right?"
Jamie looked up. "We barely know each other, Michael, and the last thing I want to do is burden you with my problems. I was just trying to be a friend when I thought you needed one."
He didn't respond.
"Would you rather I go?" She held her breath. Leaving was the last thing she wanted to do. If she left now she would be empty-handed as far as information was concerned.
"Please stay."
Jamie tried to hide her relief as she took a sip of her coffee. "How are you?"
"My sister was buried yesterday afternoon in a private ceremony. As much as I hate to say it, I'm relieved to have it over with. I didn't like seeing her suffer, you know?"
The waitress took their order and left them. "So what are you going to do now?" Jamie asked.
Michael shrugged. "Take it one day at a time. I own several delis in Knoxville. I have to look after them."
Jamie leaned closer. "Have you had any more threats?"
Michael glanced around the restaurant. "I wish I hadn't told you. I plan to take care of that little problem tonight."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm going to tell the guy flat-out no. I'm going to hire security guards to watch my delis, and I'm going to the cops. I'd rather spend the money on that than paying off thugs to keep them from burning my places to the ground."
"You're actually meeting with one of them?"
He nodded. "Yeah. It won't take long to say screw off. Excuse my language."
Jamie's mind raced. Finally, she gave a sigh.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. You'll think it's silly."
"What?"
"Michael, I was going to invite you to dinner tonight. I figured it would lift your spirits." She shrugged. "Mine, too."
"I'm sorry." He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "I would have gladly accepted under different circumstances."
Jamie pondered it. She didn't want to sound pushy and risk blowing it, but if she didn't come up with some kind of plan she'd lose her chance altogether. "Maybe we could have dinner afterward. What time are you meeting with this, um, person?"
"Eight o'clock. But we're meeting in Knoxville."
"I know how to get to Knoxville."
He hesitated. "I suppose that'll work. I'm just going to meet him in a bar, tell him I'm not going to do business with him, then walk away."
"We could meet somewhere close, say around eight-thirty?"
Michael looked thoughtful. He reached for a napkin and scribbled on it. "There's a quaint little Italian restaurant down the street from where I'll be. It's called Jeno's; you can't miss it. I'll meet you out front at eight-thirty."
"Great. I look forward to it."
They made small talk until their breakfast arrived, but Jamie's mind wasn't on the conversation. She was already forming a plan in her head.
* * * * *
"So, who's the guy?" Muffin asked as soon as Jamie had pulled from the parking lot and turned onto the highway.
Jamie had not been expecting the question. "How'd you know?"
"Female intuition."
"You're a computer, Muffin."
"Whatever. So who is he?"
"His name is Michael; he's very nice and drives an awesome Jaguar. He's also going through a bad time, and he needs a friend right now. That's all we are, friends. We're having dinner tonight."
"Does Max know?"
Jamie sighed. "No, I haven't told him. But I'll have to; otherwise, he'll worry."
"You should go, Jamie. It'll do you good."
She looked at the dashboard. "Really?"
"That doesn't mean you don't need to take extra precautions, but you need to do something to take your mind off what happened yesterday. You haven't even had time to get over all the crap you went through in Beaumont."
"You worried I might crack up or something? That you might have to find me a quiet state-operated mental hospital?"
"I don't think you need to sit in that cabin night after night while Max and I try to break through the Santoni family's firewalls. Or listen to Dave," she added.
* * * * *
Max's jaw went slack in disbelief. "Are you saying you have a date?"
Jamie pretended to fluff the throw pillows on the sofa so she didn't have to look at him. "No, it's not a date; I'm meeting this guy for dinner." She turned to Max. "He just lost his sister. She was his twin. He's devastated, and he needs somebody to talk to."
Max scooted his chair back from the kitchen table, where computers, monitors, and various other equipment that Jamie knew nothing about blinked and winked and made soft whirring sounds.
"You always find them, don't you, Swifty?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're just like my sister. The two of you must have radar. If somebody has problems, you lock in to them and you immediately have to fix whatever is wrong." Max suddenly looked suspicious. "How well do you know this person?"
"Well, I haven't had time to call a profiler from the FBI, but I managed to lift his prints off his water glass, so I should know something by the time we're supposed to meet."
Max didn't seem to find humor in her remark. "How do you know he wasn't just using a line?"
"Max, he asked me to look at his sister's dress, for God's sake. The one she was buried in yesterday. The man is in a lot of pain. I don't care if you think I'm just a big softie, I can't turn my back on him."
"Just be careful, OK? I know you need to get out, but don't forget what we're up against."
Which made her all the more determined to find out what Michael knew. If he knew anything, she reminded herself. And once she did, she would lay it all at Max's feet and have the inside edge to her story.
A buzzing sound from a speaker drew Max's attention away from her for a moment. "It's just Dave."
Dave came through the front door a few minutes later. He looked anxious. "I can't find th
e deer anywhere."
Max stared at the man.
"What deer?" Jamie asked.
Max spoke. "Dave swerved to miss a buck this morning, but now he has convinced himself he hit it."
"I could have nicked him," Dave said.
"I was in the truck when the deer ran out in front of you, Dave," Max went on. "You missed him by a mile. We've gone back to look for him twice. If you had hit him he'd be dead by the road."
"Not necessarily. He could have wandered off. He might be lying in a gully in pain at this very moment."
"Try not to think about it," Max said. "We have to worry about Jamie right now. She has a hot date tonight."
Dave looked at Jamie. "Man, you move fast."
Jamie rolled her eyes at Max. "Thanks."
Dave stepped closer to Max. "Are my eyes red?"
"They look perfectly fine to me."
"I can't remember if I took my allergy pill this morning. I should probably count them."
"Dave likes to count his pills," Max told Jamie. "And when he's not counting his pills he counts license tags and telephone poles."
Dave, who'd reached into his pants pocket for his prescription bottle, simply stood there. "It's what I do," he finally said. He glanced at Jamie. "Didn't your new boyfriend notice you were wearing a wedding ring?"
"It doesn't matter. Michael and I are going to have an affair anyway."
Max tried to hide his amusement. "They can't help themselves, Dave. They took one look at each other and their morals flew right out the window."
Dave didn't seem to be listening. "I should probably run down and take another look just to make sure that deer is OK."
Max stood. "I need to check in with Muffin."
Jamie watched him go, then sank onto the sofa. If only she could tell him what she thought she knew.
"That thing is covered with dust mites," Dave said.
Jamie just looked at him.
* * * * *
Max climbed into the truck. "Have you got anything on Santoni yet?" he asked Muffin.
"Your timing is perfect. I just found Santoni's address."
"Damn, that's great news," Max said, grinning. "Just what we've been waiting for."
"His place is about forty-five minutes from here. It would have been a whole lot easier finding him if the man put things in his own name, but like I said before, he has a number of aliases."
"You have my undivided attention."
"The name Juliano has popped up a couple of times in the family tree. It was Nick's mother's maiden name; seems Nick borrows from that tree now and then just to keep people guessing. Nick's sister was named Bethany-Ann Juliano Santoni, if you can believe it."
"I didn't know he had a sister. Nothing we've pulled up mentioned siblings."
"I was playing around with birth records and discovered Santoni's mother, Mary-Bethany Elizabeth Juliano Santoni, gave birth to twins in a hospital in Carlstadt, New Jersey. Michael Nicholas and Bethany-Ann Juliano."
"That's interesting."
"Yeah, but this is where it gets weird. Bethany-Ann died at birth. That didn't stop Nick from borrowing. He's using the name Michael Juliano."
"What else?"
"I discovered Nick Santoni attended Saint Teresa's Holiness School in Carlstadt, New Jersey, but that was before computers, so I can't get anything more. He had a couple of best friends, Rudolf Marconi or Rudy, as they call him, and Thomas Peter Bennetti."
"I'm having trouble keeping up with all these names," Max said.
"Most of these guys are Catholics, and you often find their names contain one of the saints. Go figure. I've found various mortgages in and around Knoxville owned by a Michael Juliano. Marconi owns a couple of bars in Knoxville."
"What about the other guy? Bennetti."
"He sort of dropped out of the picture."
* * * * *
Nick Santoni's home was perched high on a mountain and surrounded by a massive brick wall, the house built of stone and granite that had been dragged up the side of the mountain. Cameras sat atop the gated entrance, aimed in all directions. They were monitored by Santoni's employees, who watched from the office of a nearby building, which also housed a kennel of Doberman pinschers. Each hour, a man leashed two dogs and walked the property.
Nick pulled up to the gate, and in a matter of seconds it slid open. He parked in front of the house, unlocked the door, and went inside. The slate floors and heavy leather furniture had been designed for a man, and although Nick owned several properties in various locations, his mountain home was his favorite.
He strode purposefully toward a wet bar, poured his favorite scotch into a short glass, and drained it. His cell phone rang, but he ignored it. Instead, he poured a second scotch, sank into the nearest chair, and opened his newspaper. The headline stared back at him: Renowned Evangelist Found Dead in Hotel Room. Nick reread the article and tossed the paper aside. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
His cell phone rang again. With a sigh, he reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled it out.
"You've been ignoring my calls," the voice said from the other end. It was the tired, raspy voice of a man who had spent much of his life smoking expensive cigars with his brandy. "Is that any way to treat your favorite uncle?"
"I was tied up most of the morning, Uncle Leo," Nick said. "I couldn't talk."
"I've been listening to the news, Nicholas."
"Yeah?"
"You want to tell me about it?"
"What? You think I killed Rawlins?"
"Not at first. Then I started playing around with it in my mind."
"You got it all wrong. I'm as surprised over his death as you are."
"You mean his murder." The man paused. "I have always been able to tell when you're lying, Nicholas. You lied about hiring Vito Puccini, and you're lying now. I sent you down there to protect you. I'd hoped you would change. You think you can just kill somebody, bury the body, and that's it? You think the cops are idiots? You watch too many gangster movies, Nicky. The family is sick of your tactics. You've become a problem. A big problem."
Nick frowned. "The family is always on my ass, trying to pin something on me. If someone in this town takes a shit, I'm the one who gets blamed for it."
"You've been stepping in shit all your life, kid. Problem is, you track it all over the place so that your family has to walk in it. The police watch our houses. My daughter can't take my grandchildren to the park because men follow her."
"What would I have to gain by killing Rawlins?" Nick asked.
"You're asking the wrong question."
"OK, what's the right question?"
"What would you have to lose if he lived?"
Nick sighed. "I don't have any answers, Uncle Leo. I've got my boys looking into it. That's the best I can do right now."
"Harlan Rawlins was the only thing you had going for you."
"That's not true! I've got money coming in from a number of sources."
"Yeah, but he was your big fish." Leo suddenly went into a fit of coughing. "I'm an old man, Nicky. I don't need this. The family doesn't need this. Losing that TV network was a bad mistake, and we still haven't recovered that loss. I can't help you anymore." He paused. "You need to come home."
Nick was silent for a moment. "What are you saying?" He wiped a hand down his face and found it wet. "Have I been replaced?"
"It's best this way."
"Look, Uncle Leo, I'm in the middle of something down here, and I can't let go. I didn't want to say anything until I took care of it, but I've got Maximillian Holt and his girlfriend in the palm of my hand."
Silence.
"Max Holt has been snooping around, Uncle Leo. He somehow managed to trace Vito Puccini back here, so he found out Harlan hired him. Hell, Harlan even wrote a letter of recommendation."
"Which you forced him to do," the man said knowingly.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Harlan Rawlins wouldn't know
how to go about hiring a hit man. Do you take me for an old fool?"
"You don't have to believe me, Uncle Leo, but I'm telling you Holt is bad news. Hell, he has more connections than we do. He could have easily taken Harlan out."
"Are you planning to kill again, Nicholas?" The man sounded tired.
"Holt could hurt the family, Uncle Leo. He could expose us all."
"The family has done nothing to Max Holt; you have. And when you kill him you will have to kill his girlfriend, and then there will be someone else. It never stops. You create too many problems."
"Listen to me, old man! Your grandchildren will never be able to play in the park as long as Max Holt is alive, because he's going to even the score."
"I think you are very confused," Leo said. "You are no match for a man like Max Holt. You are a coward. Your own father knew this."
Nick started to answer, but the line went dead.
Chapter Thirteen
Detective Pete Sills sipped coffee from a chipped mug and waited until the lab technician finished speaking to another detective before he approached him. "Hey, Lance, you got anything for me on the Rawlins case yet?"
"Are you kidding? The chief has us working double-time on it. He obviously wants to look good in front of the media. When is his next press conference?"
Sills smiled. "You know I don't keep up with the politics around this place. I'm just a worker bee."
"You and me both," Lance said. "Anyway, we matched the pills they found on him, as well as those he'd stashed in his desk drawer, and it's obvious he came about them illegally, since the bottles were unmarked. This guy was taking a shitload of stuff. I'm surprised he could even remember what they were, or the dosage.
"I also ran a test on the powder they found beside the wine bottle, and the ingredients are consistent with those found in most laxatives."
"There was evidence he'd gotten sick shortly before his death," Sills said. "I wonder if maybe it was all that crap in his system."
Lance shrugged. "We won't know the facts until the autopsy, of course."
"I've talked to the wife," Sills said. "Rawlins's beatings sent her to the emergency room more than once."
"You think she killed him?"
"She had motive. Problem is, she can't weigh more than a hundred pounds, and she's a timid little thing. I just can't picture her killing her husband with a knife."