Codes Of Betrayal Part 22

Nick tossed the fountain pen to Coleman, who leaped to avoid a splash of ink. Almost successfully. "Legitimate fountain pen. A good one. Worth over a hundred bucks. Won it in a c.r.a.p game, long time ago. Maybe worth a lot more now. I prefer the good modern click-click ballpoint." He turned first toward Tom: click; then at Coleman, click. Then at himself, in the mirror: Click.

"Where the h.e.l.l did that come from?"

Nick shrugged. "Oh, I got my sources. You should be able to extract some fairly good shots of the partic.i.p.ants. The light wasn't great, but what the h.e.l.l. The last buncha shots-they will look kinda strange. My cousin Richie in various stages of hysteria. And a coupla shots of cars. Just ignore those, they were just play shots, okay? Don't mean a thing."

He wondered what his "runners" would think if they'd seen his performance. And the risk he took, actually tossing the pen camera to his cousin. What the h.e.l.l, all undercovers keep certain things to themselves.

"We're headed for my office where we'll start a transcription of this tape, and the pictures too. If this pen is working," Coleman said.

"It's working."

"Good."

For the first time, he saw Coleman smile. It was an odd, almost painful grimace, but accompanied by the glow in his normally blank dull eyes it absolutely was a smile. He dug inside his jacket, then tossed a videotape to Nick.

"No copies, Nick. Caruso here will vouch for that, in case you don't take me at my word. Although, I can't imagine why you shouldn't. Tom's had the tape since day one. But I wanted to be the one to return it to you."

"Jesus, Tom, you had it all the time? You could have ..."

Caruso said, "Hey, I gave you an A on your course, what more do you want from me? Ya do nice work, kid."

Nick turned the water up as hot as he could bear, soaped himself, turned his face up, felt the heat, then slowly, very slowly introduced more and more cold water into the flow, at the same time reducing the hot. By the time it was almost pure ice, his body was numb and unfeeling. Just as his brain was.

CHAPTER 48.

LAURA SANTALVO TELEPHONED HIM the next afternoon. While Nicholas Ventura was being placed under arrest two hours ago, at his home in Westwoods, Westbury, Long Island, he had suffered a heart attack.

"I'm downstairs, Nick. On my way to Long Island Jewish Hospital. Can I drive you?"

They rode in total silence. Her face was expressionless. Her hands on the steering wheel were virtually motionless, moving only slightly as she kept in the fast lane. She followed the turnoff signs, and when they entered the vast hospital parking lot, she quickly pulled into the first available spot. It was a long walk to the hospital.

Neither of them spoke a word.

Nick went to the information desk, then Laura followed him down a long corridor. Follow the red line, he had been told; take elevator two; then follow the red line again. Follow the yellow brick road. We're off to see the wizard.

There was a uniformed policeman stationed outside his grandfather's room-a part.i.tioned section of the intensive care unit. Nick spoke to him and was allowed to enter. Laura followed, but kept a discreet distance.

There was the pulsating sound of various monitoring devices. The very walls seemed to throb with their persistent rhythm. There were tubes in and out of his grandfather's body.

Nicholas Ventura seemed to take up hardly any s.p.a.ce in the bed. He was a nearly flat presence. The only definition in the top sheet was the two raised points where his feet rested. He seemed diminished, arms thinner-or had they always been that thin, hidden by expensive tailoring? His hands were bony and trembling; no rings, no watch. Anything would probably slide right off. Tubes were stuck into his arms; fluids flowing and draining. His usually well-groomed hair was rumpled. Old man's hair, dry, flaky.

The bones were clearly visible under his stretched skin, which was taut and waxy. There was a light gray, spa.r.s.e stubble along his chin and cheeks. His nose seemed longer, sharper. His lips were parted and dry, and a hissing sound came periodically from his mouth, which was sunken. For the first time, Nick realized that his grandfather had had false teeth, removed for his own safety, lest he swallow or choke on them.

This anonymous, skeletal, barely moving body without recognizable facial definition was, in fact, his grandfather. The lids rolled back, revealing the bright blue eyes, which focused and, finally, confronted him. There was a working of the bony jaws; a dry tongue flicked the stretched dry lips. Nick found a gla.s.s of water with a bent straw, which he inserted into the toothless mouth. There was a gurgling sound; some water was swallowed, some dribbled down the stubby chin.

In a barely audible whisper he asked Nick, "Why? Please, Nick. Just tell me why?"

A pathetic, shrunken, dying old man who had done most terrible things; issued horrific orders. Nothing but a sh.e.l.l now, stripped of all power, all affect. All responsibility.

Yet still demanding something of him. Through the large, bright and steady sky-colored eyes. Yes. He was still there, inside that pathetic sh.e.l.l. Demanding: Answer to me. Right now.

Nick leaned closer and without even realizing it, he pointed a finger. "No. You tell me." When the expression before him went blank with bewilderment, Nick leaned closer. "Why did you order my father killed? He wasn't even thirty years old, Papa. His death broke my mother's heart. I was left an orphan, Papa. Because of you."

The old man shook his head from side to side, but Nick persisted. No pity.

"No one takes that kind of action without the okay from you. And you gave Vincent the okay. For him to kill my father."

"No." The voice suddenly became strong, familiar. He motioned for some water, gulped. "No, that is not true!"

"Papa. I know the truth. He called you; you gave the order. Vincent wouldn't have given the okay without your permission."

"I told Vincent no." His voice, despite the slurping toothlessness, was fierce. "I told him to bring Danny to me. He was my daughter's husband; my grandson's father ... I would have worked things out. I loved Danny. I loved him." He closed his eyes for moment, then, the blue blazing with determination and sudden wisdom, he continued. "Ah, yes. I see now. I understand. Your uncle, your Irish cop of an uncle, told you this. So that you would hate me. Even your mother, my angel, she believed that b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Wouldn't listen to me, wouldn't talk to me." He gestured emphatically and nearly pulled one of the needles from his arm. "G.o.d never forgave me, that I loved my daughter more than G.o.d Himself. Do you think I could hurt her like that? Never. Never. I sent Vincent away. He was outside the family forever for disobeying my order to him. And the two men with him, they didn't live to see the sun come up again. Vincent tried to blame these two men-they misunderstood what he intended. But they did what Vincent told them to do. This-this mick, this Frank O'Hara. He lied to you so that you would betray me. Let him answer for your dishonor."

He was exhausted. He reached for Nick's hand, clutched it with surprising strength, motioned him closer. The smell of death emanated from every part of him, encompa.s.sed him and the air around his failing body. "Nicholas, my namesake, you are my daughter's only legacy. I forgive you for this betrayal. Please remember: I forgive you. I understand. I am grateful G.o.d gave me this moment to tell you these things. That you know the truth. On my deathbed, as I will see G.o.d face to face, I swear: I never ordered your father's death."

When Laura touched his shoulder, Nick had to pry his hand from his grandfather's grasp. She leaned to kiss the dying man's forehead; her voice was soft and melodious. "I'm here, Papa. Laura's here."

Nick walked down the corridor and stood staring vacantly out the window, which was smeary, greasy, dirty.

He thought about the many faces of his grandfather. He had seen him joyous among his family during celebrations. A gracious host; a considerate guest. He had been a fearsome taskmaster to those who served him: kind and compa.s.sionate to those who performed well; ruthless to those who violated his commands or trust.

He had seen this man soften with love toward himself, toward Peter, toward Laura. He had undertaken to make himself a scholar. Was self-taught in vast portions of history and art and music. He was a connoisseur of beauty and harmony. He had sought oneness with nature and peace through meditation: through time spent in his unique brick garden. He solved problems for everyone around him who sincerely asked for his help.

And he ordered people killed.

Nick thought about his grandfather's determined rationalization over his involvement in the drug trade. He had no interest whatever in the China White trade. All he wanted was the money; his share of the multi-millions generated from its sale. He only used, handled, dealt with money. Laundered it; invested in legitimate trade; put it to good use. He created jobs; funded schools for disabled children; had hospital wings named for him. Founded the Peter O'Hara Foundation for Animal Welfare.

And ordered a hit on Salvy Grosso and his stupid nephew. Just like that. Snap of the fingers.

Nick hadn't realized he was crying until he looked up, saw Laura through his tears. He wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand.

Her voice was steady and cool. "There's a room down the hall for patients' families. I checked it out. It's empty and there's coffee available."

She closed the door behind them; handed him a cup of coffee, opened a can of plain soda for herself.

"There are a few things I want to tell you, Nick. Papa said I should."

"Say whatever you want to say. I'm listening. If Papa said ..."

"First, probably this isn't really important now. But it is to me. Papa said I should have told you right away, that night. But you know me. No excuses, no explanations, no apologies. So-this is just for your information, okay?"

No. She hadn't been intimate with Richie. Ever. And he never had a key to her apartment. Ever.

"I figured that out myself, Laura. And you were right. I shouldn't have questioned you."

Her smile was sad. "But you didn't question me, remember?"

He smiled, too. "In my heart, I did. And you read me. Remember?"

Laura drank some soda, put the can down. She became very serious; looked out the window, then turned and faced him squarely.

"I have something else to tell you."

"Papa said you should?"

Her smoky gray eyes caught glints of ice from the cloudy sky. "He doesn't know this. I'm leaving for London tomorrow night."

He stood up, looked down at her. "Wadda ya gonna do, buy some more diamonds from your friend, Mr. Chen? Or did you hear about his broken leg, and you're gonna nurse him. What?"

"I'm going to visit my son, Anthony." She spoke quickly, not breaking the pattern of her speech, or she might not be able to continue. "Dennis's and my son, Anthony Chen. He is nearly thirteen years old. He's enrolled in a good school in England. A little sooner than expected. I want to help him settle in."

"Jesus Christ, Laura. Do you know what kind of a man Dennis Chen is? Do you know that he had one of his own sons killed because of the street drug deal when Peter got killed? His own son!"

She placed her forefinger over his lips and shook her head. Her tone softened. "Oh, Nick. My G.o.d, Nick, are you still so gullible? That wasn't his son. Anthony is his only son. He has two daughters who live with his wife in Taiwan. I don't know anything about any boy being killed."

Everybody lied to him. Everybody. "How do you know so much, Laura? How involved are you in all of this?"

"Not at all. Dennis has been my lover, for many years. We see each other from time to time, but when we are apart, we ask nothing, demand nothing from each other. That's how it is."

"You warned Chen not to come." It was obvious to him now. "Why? How did you know about the meeting? About the drug dealings, if you're not involved, Laura? Tell me the truth."

"I always tell the truth. I knew about the China White as sort of a peripheral reality. I know nothing, want to know nothing about any of your grandfather's ... dealings. Or Dennis Chen's. Neither of them ever brought me into anything. Each man has a special place in my life. I knew about a meeting because I've learned through the years to pick up signs. I didn't know when, or even why, or who would be gathering. Just that it was big. And very risky."

"What made you call Dennis? What made you suspect that ...?"

"You did, Nick. Don't look so surprised. I told you, I pick things up peripherally. Through my skin, my bones, my lifelong way of knowing. It was obvious to me in this case. I came by your apartment one night and watched you and your redheaded friend, Eddie, walk from the building to his car. Your partner, Eddie. I came to apologize, maybe, to explain about Richie. The two of you held my attention. There was a closeness between you; a trust renewed. You've told me how good it had been working with him, the 'Sicilian Irish poster boy,' you called him. I tried to think: why would you be seeing him? For what purpose? None except that you were still a cop, Nick."

"So you decided to warn your ... lover?"

"I warned Dennis because if I let him walk into a trap, I would lose Anthony forever. He is my only link to my son. He would disappear from my life and I would never be able to find him. Not ever."

"That was why you warned him?"

She turned away for a moment, then held him with a challenging stare. "One of the reasons."

He felt his breath catch. There was a knock on the door. He wrenched it open, then stepped back apologetically, nodding to an obviously distressed elderly couple. Nick walked back to the window at the end of the hall.

When she came to him, he asked, insistently, "If you suspected it might be a trap, why didn't you warn Papa? I thought you were so close to him-like a grandfather-"

"Oh, much closer than that, Nick." Quickly, she modified her tone. She didn't want to insinuate anything deeply private. It wasn't necessary. "I went straight to Papa that night. The night of the 'redhead.' We talked-about my not explaining to you about Richie. He said I should clear it up. Well, I just did." She narrowed her eyes and studied him closely. "He knew, Nick. He knew there was something else. He's known me since I was a child. I never lie. He asked me if there was anything else I wanted to tell him. Not that I should tell him. When I said no, nothing I wanted to tell him, Nick, he knew. It was in his eyes, in his expression, in his posture. He read me, clearly. He had a decision to make then. His own choice. I warned him in my own way. Message delivered, message received."

"You expect me to believe he walked into that meeting, knowing it might be a trap?"

"I don't expect you to believe anything but what you want to believe. If you want to know why he made this choice, I can make an educated guess. He was tired, Nick. Of all of it. Just as you've obviously been living a double life, so has he. Maybe he loved one part of his life and hated the other. Maybe that's why he made his choice."

She had so much information, so much knowledge of how things worked, how men's minds worked.

"If anyone else, anyone, told me what you've just told me, I wouldn't believe one single word. I'd be positive that person was up to her neck in all of it-the money laundering, drug distribution. Right in the middle of everything."

She held her wrists up in front of him, surrendering. He clutched them in his hands. Shook his head. "Laura, Christ, Laura, I'll never understand you."

"That's part of my charm, isn't it? We had fun with each other. And by the way, your grandfather-I know you haven't asked, but remember, I can read you-never asked me to get close to you. When he realized it, he just said that I should be very careful with you. That you are very vulnerable. I hope I haven't hurt you, Nick."

"I don't know what the h.e.l.l you've done to me." He sighed deeply, ran his hand through his thick dark hair. "At least I had a chance to talk to my grandfather. I'm going to see how he's doing."

She blocked his way. "Too late, Nick. He's gone. I was holding his hand and he smiled at me and just let go. Just like that. He had a long life. I know he was very pleased that you came to see him."

Nick turned away. He paced back and forth, leaned against the window frame. His voice was husky. "G.o.d. I'm glad I came. It would have haunted me all my life if I hadn't. I'd never have learned the truth. About my father's death. I finally got to ask him about what happened that day. Up on the structure."

"And what did he tell you?"

It was the way she said it. Softly. Almost sadly. The same tone of voice she had used when she said to him, "My G.o.d, Nick, are you still so gullible?"

She took his hand. "Don't say a word for a minute, okay? Listen. And think. Why would Vincent-not the brightest guy in the world, or the bravest-why would he go against an order from Papa? Why? Nick, Vincent Ventura wouldn't go up and down a staircase without his father's permission."

She nudged his shoulder lightly. "The only person your mother loved as much as you and your father was Papa. He was her personal G.o.d. He showed her only wonderful things in life; protected her; cherished her. But your mother was bright, smart, knew how to listen and to read people. After your father's death, she had one ten-minute conversation with Papa. And then she knew. To the depths of her soul, she knew. There was no way she would accept his lie. She had so many losses all at once: her husband, her father. Her heart was fragile, but what happened and how it happened, the terrible, unforgivable betrayal by her father, all contributed to her early death."

Nick dug his hand into his trouser pockets; he clenched and opened his fists, could feel his fingernails digging into his flesh.

"Your grandfather died a happy man, Nick. He knew you'd consider a deathbed statement practically sacred. That's a cop thing, isn't it?"

Of course, she was right. Everything she said made sense. His original motivation in all of this, his double-triple life, all these months living practically on the edge of paranoia, all his actions to avenge the long-ago murder of his father, the loss of his mother, and the painfully recent death of his son-they hadn't been misdirected.

Why in G.o.d's name, Nick thought, wouldn't a murderer also be a deathbed liar?

CHAPTER 49.

NICK STOPPED AT HIS grandfather's bedside for a moment, stared at the empty dead face, said a prayer, and left. He planned to go back to his apartment to sleep for a while.

Tom Caruso intercepted Nick in the parking lot. "Let's get in the car and talk. We've got a slight problem."

One look at Caruso's face convinced Nick the problem wasn't slight. It was major. The first part of Nick's tape was loud and clear: names of those attending, carefully articulated by Nicholas Ventura, were the highlight. Then the tape became garbled. Statements were disconnected to anything said before or after.