Chapter Six
GIANNI
O nce again, I find myself in an interrogation room, sitting across the table from my two favorite federal stalkers. Only this time, instead of being pummeled by threats and accusations, I’m being stonewalled by what I think is supposed to be intimidating silence.
I sit back, content to let them play whatever game they think they’re winning. We both know better. I’m not the one they wanted or expected to be sitting in this chair, but when a prize-winning fish jumps onto a hook, you reel it in or look like a fucking idiot.
I have Owen to thank for that.
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’s death and 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 been here 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 outside Cucciola’s Trattoria in 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 his stubby 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 of Cucciola’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 keep our hands out of Mexican cookie jars.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
I give him a tight smile. “I don’t give a fuck what you believe. The burden of proof is on you, not me.”
The lines around his eyes deepen. “And what about Henry Saddler?”
“What about him?”
“He’s missing.”
“Then maybe you should stop following me around and look for him.”
“This isn’t a joke, Marchesi,” he snaps, his good-cop routine faltering. “Security cameras caught him leaving your new wife’s hospital room half an hour before you were arrested. Yet, here you are, and no one has seen him since. You think that’s a coincidence?”
The card stills between my index and middle fingers. “If you’re asking if I’ve kept tabs on the two U.S. Marshals who shadowed my every move for months, the answer is no. Sadly, the bromance is over.”
Technically, that’s not a lie.
A lot of things are over for Henry…
Like breathing.
I can tell Lattimore’s patience is thinning. The sagging corners of his eyes suggest his waning energy is now scraping the bottom of the well. “Christ, what the hell is wrong with you, Marchesi? All you had to do was lie low for a few months and keep your mouth shut. Now, our whole case is fucked.”
“That sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”
His laugh is far from amused. “Oh, no, it’s very much yours.
There are a lot of things that don’t paint you in a good light.
Take Chief Reese’s daughter for instance.
We both know she’s the only reason you’re here.
Someone leaked that your shotgun wedding was about to make headlines, so you ran interference.
I can’t be mad at it. That’s what a man does for the woman he loves.
The question is, would she do the same for you? ”
He’s digging deep in his bag of tricks. Everyone knows sowing seeds of doubt is the fastest way to divide and conquer, and these assholes are banking on the bond between Becca and me having more holes than a Swiss cheese wheel.
Nice try.
“My wife is none of your concern.”
“I disagree,” Gibbs pipes up like an out-of-tune accordion. “The new Mrs. Marchesi is very much our concern, considering you were arrested for attempting to murder her.”
“Those charges were dropped.” Unless Reese fed me a line of bullshit, which opens up a whole new can of fuckery. “Or did you block out the part where all my alibis checked out?”
Lattimore returns his bony fingers to the folder.
“Yes, Dr. Brennan was quite persistent in defending you. However, I’m more interested in the fact she was reported missing…
” He pretends to riffle through the paperwork for a beat or two, then glances up with a smirk.
“How interesting. The same day you left Providence.”
It’s all I can do to not crush the card in my fist. “Stay away from Becca.”
“Careful, Marchesi. That almost sounded like a threat.”
“No, a threat implies there’s a warning. That’s a promise, which implies nothing but a guaranteed follow-through.”
As they both stare slack-jawed, I glance up at the clock on the wall.
7:40 p.m .
Enough time for Anton to have returned Becca back home and away from prying eyes.
Tucking the ace of spades back in my pocket, I clasp my hands on the table.
“Now, I’m getting bored, so I’m going to expedite this for you…
You two are going to back of f and leave my wife and me alone.
” I cut them off just as both of their mouths open.
“Because here’s the thing, Agents … You have nothing on me, but I have something on you.
So, I highly suggest you turn off that camera right now.
” My eyes track upward where a red light blinks in the far-right corner.
Gibbs lets out a nervous huff. “No.”