Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Angelo
I walk through the children’s wing of the hospital, stopping at a blank wall that, according to the financial records in my hand, cost our charitable fund nearly ten grand for a local artist to paint a Mardi Gras parade scene.
“Where is everything for the Mini Mardi Gras program stored?” I track down the administrator.
“This way.” Her keys jangle with authority as we walk down the hall, ride down an elevator, and into the storage area. She flips on the light, and I discover the “floats” that cost over fifty grand are nothing more than a children’s pull wagon.
“And the costumes?” Ten grand worth. “Where are those?”
She opens a closet, where I find a box of Christmas decorations.
“And this is everything?”
“To my knowledge.”
“And Mini Mardi Gras is set to go on Tuesday?” I press.
“Yes. It’s on the social bulletin board.”
“Has the event been advertised anywhere else?” I ask.
“You need to speak to Dr. Khol. She’s the one spearheading this event.”
“Thank you.”
Not happening.
Instead, I call my accountant when I return to my vehicle. “Mr. Calvani, what can I do for you?”
“I’m currently wearing my chairman of the board hat in asking this; I need an audit conducted of the hospital’s charitable fund. Discretion is of the utmost concern.”
“Of course. Any particular area of focus?”
“Dr. Laurie Kohl’s handling of the Mini Mardi program, and any other program she’s been associated with.”
I may not need to kill Laurie after all; the woman may have dug her own grave.
Returning home, I find Remi and Nola watching the video of last year’s Monarch procession. “How many times have you studied this?” I take a seat and unloosen my tie.
Nola hops up in my lap, and I give her a scratch behind her ears. The cat purrs like an engine.
Remi pauses the video at the part where the mayor hands over the ceremonial key to the former king and queen.
“I’ve lost count. Tomorrow, I need to be standing directly behind the mayor when I make my grab, so I’ll be hidden by the podium; otherwise, I risk getting busted by the news camera. How is the court lined up?”
I call Maks in the room, and he joins us.
“Boss?”
“We’re discussing strategy for tomorrow. Remi, as to your question, attendants are lined up in alphabetical order; you’ll be near the front of the pack.” I pull up the list of attendant names from the email, being careful not to jostle Nola, who’s now asleep on my lap.
“But I need to be in the back of the group,” Remi argues.
“You’ll just have to improvise. We’re playing jazz here, remember?” I use her words against her, and she sticks out her tongue at me.
“Where does the mayor go after he hands over the key to the city?” Remi asks.
“He’ll view the Lundi Gras pre-celebration from his private box,” Maks answers.
“Where?” Remi presses.
Maks rolls open a map of the riverfront park.
“Boat will be docked here, where you will exit.” He marks the spot with a permanent marker.
“Stage for the key ceremony here.” He draws a rectangle.
“Concert stage across the park, here.” Another mark.
“And the mayor’s private viewing booth here.
” He draws a box. “Elevated stadium seating; one access point in the rear controlled by his security team.”
“So realistically, my one shot is during the key ceremony.” Remi closes her eyes.
“What is she doing?” Maks asks after about a minute of silence, with Remi’s eyes remaining closed.
“I haven’t a clue,” I muse.
“I’m ready for tomorrow,” Remi announces, opening her eyes.
“Good girl.” I steal a quick kiss from my little pickpocket. And yes, I will have to come up with a more fitting nickname come tomorrow. “I have business, unrelated to our project?—”
“So in other words, get out,” Remi says dryly.
I flick her nose playfully. “If you want to put it bluntly.”
“Come on, Nola.”
Nola opens an eye, giving Remi a not a chance look, and closes it.
“That’s fine; you can fill me in later,” Remi tells Nola. Smiling ruefully at me, she gives my beard a tickle before walking to the door.
“Stop,” I call, and she pauses, looking the picture of innocence. “I need my phone.”
Remi reaches into her pocket, producing Maks’ phone.
He pats his pockets and curses, and I try to hold in my laughter. “Do not touch my phone ever again,” Maks tells her sternly, snatching his phone.
“Touchy,” Remi teases, sauntering out.
I’m so in love with this woman, I can’t fucking see straight.
Giving Nola another scratch behind her ears, I ask Maks, “What do we know about this ‘Cornbread’ cellmate of Fabien’s?”
Maks produces a folder, handing it to me. “Kirksey Willis.”
“Never heard of him.” Opening the file, I examine the man’s mugshot. A weathered face and hard eyes, he gazes directly into the camera with a subtle smirk.
“Not surprising. Thirty-four-year-old thug from Gulfport, Mississippi. Owns a couple of strip clubs and a seedy motel. Busted for a prostitution ring.”
Reminds me of why I shut down our own ring.
“Little over a month remaining on his sentence,” Maks continues. “He was transferred from another facility and assigned as your brother’s cellmate over two months ago.”
“Any independent verification of him going by the nickname ‘Cornbread?’”
“No.”
“So we have Al’s word, and not much else at this point.”
“Have you considered the possibility?—”
“That Al fabricated the story to save her brother by throwing this cellmate under the bus?” An annoyed sound rumbles in my chest. “Yes, I’ve considered it.”
“Fabien’s released in seven days,” Maks reminds me.
“10,080 minutes; I’m well aware.” Catching myself tenting my fingers just like Vitto Calvani, I drop them. “I want security at tomorrow’s event doubled, and I want Al on lockdown while we’re gone.”
He nods, walking out.
“Am I being too soft with Fabien, or is that my father talking?” I ask Nola, who’s arching her back with a yawn.
If the cat holds the answers, she’s keeping them close to the vest as she hops down and saunters off.
My phone rings; it’s my broker. “Mr. Calvani, wonderful news,” she says excitedly.
“Fox Investment Group has accepted your offer on the Hotel D’Amico property.
I’m sending the contract over for your electronic signature.
If you can get that signed straight away, they’re wanting to move fast on the closing. ”
“How fast?”
“Tuesday. I know that’s Mardi Gras, and your lender might need more time?—”
“I’ll have a cashier’s check ready to close on Tuesday.”
“Perfect! I’ll see you at closing,” she gushes, no doubt excited about her cut of the pie.
After calling my investment broker and him being not nearly as enthusiastic—in fact, I was concerned he was having a heart attack—I read over the contract and sign the multipage document.
The house phone rings, and I answer. “Yes?”
“Nic is here to see you.”
“Send him to the study.”
While I’m waiting, I pull up the information Al forwarded me about her study abroad program.
Barcelona? Al doesn’t even speak Spanish. I’m surprised she didn’t choose a program in Australia—to be as far away from me geographically as she possibly could.
On second thought, if I have to kill Fabien, having a few oceans between me and Al might not be a bad thing. One has to wonder if she’s been studying those serial killer documentaries for a reason.
Next on my never-ending to-do list, reviewing the report from one of Maks’ old military contacts, being that I don’t trust the family involved in this one.
What the investigator discovered has my jaw dropping, but after I consider it for a moment, it makes sense. Mulling over my options, I decide to sit on the information for now.
Closing my computer, I stroll across the room, pouring myself an espresso. Nic knocks, and I beckon him inside.
“Kickups.” He hands me an envelope, and I take a seat and motion for him to join me.
He does, and I count the earnings.
“There’s a substantial dip?—”
“You did shut down the call girl ring, boss,” he reminds me.
I consider my cousin. Growing up, Nic was always far closer to Fabien than he was to me. “Whose side are you on?”
“Didn’t realize there were sides.”
“Bullshit,” I say impatiently.
He holds up his hands. “My loyalty is to the boss of this family; you know that.”
“And what have you learned of the D’Amico family’s situation?” I watch him over my coffee cup.
“Nothing that I didn’t already tell you. Michele loved his products a little too much.”
“What are Sienna’s plans, now that she’s no longer the madam?” I ask.
“I assume running the hotel.”
Why does everyone keep trying to make an ass out of me?