15. Enzo #2
“Perhaps you’re right, Gio.” I stand up and set the dog down on the floor, watching her tap-tap her way along the hallway and back to the twins’ room where she has slept since they were babies. It’s like severing the ribbon knotting me to them all over again. “Nyx isn’t worth the hassle.”
His mouth quirks into a lopsided smile. “You know I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I speak the Sabatelli language, remember?”
He nods once. “I’m glad to hear it. For a while there, I was starting to worry that I would lose you too.”
I don’t acknowledge the jibe that I’m following in our sister’s footsteps. “Thank you for the offer of dinner, but I won’t stay.”
“Enzo, please don’t go.” Megan is on her feet and standing in front of me, holding my hand. “We’re only looking out for you; you understand that don’t you?”
“Of course.” My smile is tighter than I would’ve liked it to be, but the ache in the back of my throat is back, and I need to get out of here. “I’ll be back.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” I hug Megan, and nod at my brother before I leave.
I’m in the elevator, the door hissing shut when I hear Megan’s low murmur to her husband, “He isn’t going to let it drop, is he?”
I ask Luis to take me straight to one of the Bratva-owned casinos my sister has been frequenting. She mentioned seeing Giovanni in a casino, but then said she was mistaken; at least, that’s how my hazy memory recalls it. At least I know where he is tonight.
Luck must be on my side. The NYC Police Commissioner is there with his wife, sitting in a private booth on the mezzanine level, accompanied by a black-haired man with an air of arrogance that can be bought with dirty money and an abundance of ammunition.
I order a Diet Coke at the bar and survey the tables, half-expecting to see Bianca here.
She isn’t. I recognize some familiar faces, mostly Russian, although Don Dragonetti is with a small group, all sitting around the Baccarat table, brandy glasses in front of them, smiling widely like they somehow guaranteed their chances of beating the Bank and no one else is in on the secret.
I wait for the Bratva suit to walk away from the booth with his phone pressed to his ear before I make my move.
I slide onto the seat across the table from the Police Commissioner and address his wife first. “Evening, ma’am. Sir.”
The woman’s smile falters, and she looks to her husband for confirmation that the situation is under control.
He gives her a brief nod and sits back in his seat, careful not to draw attention to the booth. He doesn’t even glance around the casino floor for his previous companion.
“Mr. Sabatelli. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Just checking in to find out what you can tell me about JADED.” I’m not here to waste my time.
His eyes flicker briefly towards the casino floor below, but he recovers quickly. His wife’s brow is furrowed, but she gives her husband space to respond.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” The commissioner raises his whisky to his lips and swallows a large mouthful.
“The nightclub owned by your friends here.” I smile, glossing over the conversation for the benefit of everyone else in the room who might be looking our way. “Isn’t that why you’re here? In the name of fairness and cooperation; does that sound about right?”
The commissioner’s wife sinks back into her seat, making herself invisible.
“I think perhaps you should leave, Mr. Sabatelli.” He doesn’t add before his friend returns, but we both understand the veiled threat.
“Just stopped by to say hello.” I address his wife. “Good to see you again, ma’am. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
I leave my unfinished Diet Coke on the table and make my way back across the casino floor and outside to my waiting car. The commissioner knows more than he is letting on, and if I’m right, he’ll be warning his Bratva friends right about now that I’m asking questions.
Predictably, he emerges from the casino seventeen minutes later, escorted by his bodyguard but without his wife, climbs into his waiting car, and drives away.
Luis and I follow him to a part of town where the apartments are more affordable and are mostly well looked after by the residents.
We park up at a safe distance and watch the bodyguard let himself into the building while the commissioner waits in the back seat of the vehicle.
Moments later, a light appears in the corner apartment on the third floor.
We wait.
Whatever he’s doing in there, it isn’t long before the light is snuffed, and the bodyguard reappears, empty-handed, chin raised, as if it’s a regular occurrence for the Police Commissioner to visit the community unannounced outside working hours.
When the commissioner’s car is out of sight, I go to the building and press a random button on the entry panel. When the resident answers, I inject some relief into my tone and say, “I’m so sorry, I live on the third floor, but my key got stolen with my wallet earlier. Can you buzz me in?”
The buzzer immediately sounds, no questions asked. “Thanks,” I speak into the panel, but the person in 2C has already gone back to whatever show they were watching on TV.
Letting myself into the third-floor apartment is easy. The door has a single-mechanism Yale lock, no deadbolt or chain, almost as if security was the last thing on the resident’s mind when they moved in.
And out again.
The apartment is furnished, but from the distinct smell of bleach and polish, someone has been in here and given it a deep clean before the keys are handed over to the next resident.
The closet doors are open wide to reveal the empty interiors, there isn’t a photograph or book anywhere, the paintings on the walls are generic Walmart offerings, and there isn’t even a toothbrush in the bathroom.
But the commissioner left the casino to personally check that the cleaners had been thorough.
Why?
The real question is: what does this apartment have to do with the commissioner and me casually dropping the word JADED into the conversation?
Whichever way I look at it the answer is always the same: a pretty fucking lot.
He made sure there was nothing left to see, so I don’t hang around. I peer through the spyhole to make sure there’s no one outside before I leave, when I spot a brown envelope behind the small wooden table in the hallway. It had obviously slipped off the back of the table and gone unnoticed.
It’s a utility bill… addressed to Kate Glasgow.
I fold it in half, slip it into my pocket, and let myself out.