Chapter Twelve
(Cesare)
After thanking the nearby hotel for temporary use of its round-a-bout for parking, Cesare flew the helicopter back to Eliot and did a complete post flight safety inspection.
After calling Monty to come pick him up, he walked towards the small hangar not far away.
It was no more than a large garage; closed and locked up for the night by local pilots.
Cesare approached an old door, layered with a myriad of small scuffs, mystery dents, and grease stains.
A thick, black, utilitarian doormat lay at the front of the entrance.
Something about the sight stirred an almost nostalgic response within him.
Maybe it was the utter authenticity. Maybe it was the sense of generations of local pilots walking through the aged door.
This wasn’t an airport you used to impress a visiting dignitary or an oil magnate. This was somewhere that real people came to make real memories. Something about the damn door made him want to walk in and meet the people who made those memories.
Giving a nod and saying a brief ‘thank you’ towards the ring camera beside the locked door, Cesare leaned down and put the keys to the helicopter and a hundred-dollar bill beneath the mat. He’d paid everything upfront, but nobody would ever say he wasn’t generous.
Besides that, if anyone had concerns about his sudden landing in York Harbor and his subsequent delayed return, an extra hundred couldn’t hurt to pre-emptively smooth things over.
Cesare turned around, looking out across the darkened airfield. Crickets chirped their summer symphony, and an owl hooted in the distance. Fireflies flit around the small meadow on the other side of the runway. It was enchanting.
Cesare could imagine Sabrina’s face lighting up with delight had she been there. He could imagine bringing her here often, and leaving keys beneath the mat after an evening flight, like it was a normal part of their Friday night.
His chest tightened with something he refused to give any more attention to. He took a step back just as the headlights of a Lincoln Town Car lit up the airstrip. Monty pulled up to the hangar, and Cesare got into the back of the car with a sigh.
Monty, seeming to sense his melancholy, said little. Cesare found his gaze resting on the back of Monty’s head as he drove them to the hotel; the familiar visual as they made their way back quietly served to bring him back to reality.
He would never be a local here. Living down the road and going for joyrides on the weekend wasn’t in the cards for him, and Cesare Lombardi had bigger things to think about than fantasizing about being normal.
“Will we be seeing more of Ms. Hamilton?” Monty asked.
Cesare stretched his feet out as he relaxed in the back of the car. “When we’re finished in Maine, she’ll be returning to Philly with me.” Cesare nodded.
Monty nodded. “If I may, boss, does she know that yet?”
Cesare grinned wryly, the contours of his chiseled jaw looking almost jagged under the faint glow of passing street-lights.
Monty gave him a knowing look through the rear-view mirror and nodded. “Anything I should know for tomorrow?”
“I want to bring her breakfast in the morning. Early.” Cesare requested.
Monty nodded. “Of course. What time do you want it delivered?”
“I want to deliver it personally. Seven o’clock in Kittery.”
“I’ll have something ready. We’ll leave at six-thirty.” Monty nodded.
Cesare checked his phone and scrolled through a series of messages from clients, a few notifications from colleagues, and a missed call from his dad. His brow furrowed as he returned the call.
Cesare Lombardi Sr. answered the phone. “Speaking.” The old man’s gruff voice made Cesare grin.
“Pops, you called.” Cesare replied.
“I did. What’s it take to get you to talk to your father once in a while, huh?” Cesare Sr. retorted, his Italian accent thick as ever.
“What do you mean, once in a while?” Cesare drawled back. “I spoke to you yesterday.”
“I’m sitting here alone in the dining room we fed you boys in every night.”
“I know for a fact you just had dinner with Stefano, and that Auntie Maribella came by with a baked ziti just in case the five-course meal you had wasn’t enough.”
Papa Lombardi grunted on the other end. “So what? A father can’t call his son and tell him he wants his face at the dinner table?”
Cesare shook his head with a sort of fond exasperation. “Sure you can, Pops. I'm just working.” Cesare answered, relaxing in his seat. “How are you? What are your plans for tonight?”
“Meh. I'm well enough. When are you coming back? I have a friend I’d like you to speak with when you return. He has some work for you. He needs someone good; someone discreet.”
“Where do you know him from?” Cesare asked.
“Oh, you know, college.” The older man grunted.
Cesare made a similar sound in response. Someone from prison, then. “I’ll see what I can do. Just give him my contact information, and we’ll go from there.”
“Eh, he’d prefer to discuss it with you in person. Face to face. I told him you’d call when you’re back in town.” His father answered.
Fuck. “Pops.” Cesare warned.
“Who put you through law school?” He asked, his tone taking on a steely edge.
Cesare was silent for a moment, debating how much he was willing to compromise, before sighing. “I’ll give them a call when I’m done here.”
“See?” Cesare Sr. needled. “How difficult did that need to be?”
“Is there anything else you wanted?” Cesare asked as they pulled up to the hotel.
“No, but you should know the front desk gave me your room number so I could send you a gift package. Very bad operating procedure. You should stay somewhere that knows how to keep their employees’ mouths shut.”
Cesare closed his eyes, pinching the skin between his brows in exasperation. “I’ve got Monty.”
“Monty is Plan B. I’ve taught you better. Stay somewhere else.” The phone went dead, and Cesare looked up at Monty, who pretended he hadn’t heard a word.
“Monty, are you aware of any communication that would have informed my father of where we’re staying?” Cesare asked.
“No, boss.” Monty immediately responded. “Do you want me to look into it?”
“Man’s a menace.” Cesare muttered. “No, don’t bother. I’ll see you in the morning, Monty.”
◆◆◆
Cesare was startled awake by someone pounding on the door of his hotel room just after five in the morning. He reached instinctively for the 9mm on the bedside table and flicked the safety off. Silently, Cesare approached the source of the disturbance; his weapon aimed firmly at the door.
A moment later, he recognized Dante’s voice coming from the other side, and Cesare immediately lowered the weapon with a scowl. He double checked through the peephole and swung open the door with an aggravated growl. “Are you trying to get shot?”
“Not at the moment.” Dante shook his head seriously. “This can’t wait, and you weren’t answering your phone. What date was our missing Jane Doe picked up by CPS?”
Cesare grunted in annoyance, returning the gun to the nightstand. He gestured towards a stack of papers on his desk. “It’ll be in one of those files. Have you slept yet?”
“Off and on.” His younger brother shrugged.
“I heard an interesting story in a bar tonight. Guy named Tom Crawford; drunk out of his mind. Everyone knew his name, and the bartender cut him off just before I arrived. Seemed like a regular occurrence. Long story short, he started talking about someone taking a baby from him, and that’s why he lost his job.
Blamed everything else in his life on it too. ”
Dante pulled out his phone, showing a photo. “Bartender said he’s always complaining about custody of his kid. Said his wife left with everything, including their son.”
Cesare let out a yawn as he motioned for Dante to get to the point.
“I found a newspaper article twenty years back. He was charged with a DUI after a car crash just outside of Portsmouth, in New Hampshire.”
“That’s twenty minutes from here.” Cesare nodded.
“Look at the plate in the photo.” Dante zoomed in on his smartphone’s screen, showing it to Cesare. It was grainy and dated, but the lettering was unmistakable.
“That’s a state vehicle.” Cesare frowned. “He was working for the state?”
“Bartender said Tom worked for CPS, for the state of Maine. Why would he be in New Hampshire at night with a work vehicle?”
“What’s the date of the crash?” Cesare asked.
“March 3rd, 2004.” Dante answered.
“You’re shitting me.” Cesare’s eyes widened as he rifled through the old hospital reports for Baby Jane Doe.
“Yeah. It sounded familiar, but without the hospital reports, the quickest way to verify it was to wake your ugly mug up.” Dante grinned.
“That late at night the only reason he’d be in New Hampshire would be to pick someone up or drop them off.” Cesare mused, thick brows drawing in concentration. “Found it.” He held up the paper in triumph. “Holy shit.” He exclaimed a moment later.
Cesare looked from his brother to the hospital notes and back to Dante. “The dates match. Picked up at 7:37pm from Portsmouth General by Dept. of Social Services, ME.”
“This guy has spent the last twenty years drunk in a bar, telling the world that someone took his baby, and everyone has assumed he’s talking about his family.” Dante replied grimly.
Cesare frowned. “There’s no way. It’s too easy.”
“People will go out of their way to find a way to believe that everything is fine, that nothing needs to disturb their perfect little lives.” Dante replied cynically. “Acknowledging otherwise would be a real hassle.”
“He blew a .28 at the site of the crash.”
“We need the police report and any other information we can get on the accident.” Cesare replied. “There’s no mention of a baby or any minors?”
Dante shook his head. “The article quotes a local officer who says it was a good thing there were no children in the car. Oddly enough there’s no mention of Crawford being a social worker, or that he was driving a work vehicle.”
“That’s juicy shit.” Cesare muttered. “Journalists don’t leave out the juice for no reason.”
Dante nodded. “If Crawford was at the hospital at 7:37, and was a .28 at 8:15, there’s no way he wasn’t intoxicated when he picked up the baby. It’s a fucking miracle he made it as far as he did.”
“The hospital would have been liable for signing a baby out to anyone that was drunk, and liable for failing to detect the signs.” Cesare whistled. “If anyone on the medical staff heard about the crash, their legal team would have shut down any information sharing that wasn’t legally requested.”
Dante nodded. “And the State of Maine would have been embarrassed enough about a DUI in a government vehicle. But if a child were in custody in that vehicle?”
“It would have made national television.” Cesare finished grimly. “Why mention it? Why make it worse if the police didn’t see any evidence of a baby to begin with?”
“Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they did.” Dante folded his arms, an ominous expression crossing his dark features. “I’ll have a friend at the bureau request the records of the crash, and go from there.”
Cesare nodded. “This was a good catch.”
Dante grunted. “I’ve got Tom’s address. I can pay him a visit this evening; he may be a little more sober.”
Cesare’s jaw worked as he looked over the reports through the lens of new information. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. If he’s at the bar every night, lie low today and catch him on the way home again tonight. We want him too drunk to give admissible testimony about speaking with you.”
“What about the bartender?” Dante asked.
“Did anyone see you talking to Tom last night?” Cesare asked.
“I didn’t speak to him last night at all.” Dante shook his head.
“Perfect, that’s exactly what we say in court if you’re ever subpoenaed. Anything anyone else says is hearsay.” Cesare nodded.
Dante grunted, sitting down in the stuffed chair beside the bed. “You going to tell me about the girl?” He asked, a wry grin suddenly tugging at his mouth.
“What girl?” Cesare evaded.
“The girl for whom you emergency landed a helicopter in the middle of York Harbor.” Dante replied with a shit-eating grin. He sat back, folding his arms behind his head, looking more relaxed than he should have.
“It was a private roundabout. Nothing dramatic. And I can still gut punch you.” Cesare muttered, starting the coffee.
“You can, but then you lose the best P.I. you’ll ever find.” Dante answered evenly. “What’s your angle?” He asked.
“My angle?” Cesare frowned.
“Yeah, your angle.” Dante replied, the faintest twinge of an Italian accent coming out. “You always have an angle. So what is it?”
Cesare stared hard at the coffeemaker, feeling unusually stunned at the realization that Dante was right. He did always have an angle. But for the first time in his adult life, there was no angle. He saw Sabrina, he wanted Sabrina, and he was going to have Sabrina.
And he would keep her innocent, cinnamon-rolls-and-baby-seals-world as separate from the underbelly of his as possible.
He looked up at Dante, unready to say any of this out loud.
Dante stared at Cesare’s almost crestfallen expression and let out a whistle. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” Cesare nodded.
“Does she know who you are? Who we are?” Dante asked.
Cesare shook his head. “She has no clue. And I’m keeping it that way.”
Dante tilted his head. “No disrespect brother, but is that possible?”
Cesare frowned, returning his gaze to the coffeemaker, happily gurgling away on the minibar.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” He asked.