Codes Of Betrayal Part 4

"How come you never had a kid, Laura?"

She pulled back against the leatherette seat and stared at him, then looked away.

"I would have had a child with my second husband. You heard about him, right? Emilio Sartucci, the skier."

Nick remembered. It had been a tragedy. He started to speak, but she cut him off.

"Two years after Octavio was killed, I married Emilio. He was an Olympic medalist, a national treasure in Italy-like a matador in Spain. Everywhere we went, crowds gathered, just to see him, touch him. We were married six months-to the day-when we went with some friends of his to Switzerland. The macho gang; Italian heroes. They were told the skiing conditions were dangerous; wait a few days. But it was a challenge, you see."

Nick reached for her hand and she pulled it away. "Laura, I'm sorry. I-"

"Oh, it was a long time ago, Nick. I told him it wasn't worth risking his life to impress friends ignorant enough to challenge death so stupidly. So three of them died-an avalanche. One boy survived with brain damage. Only Emilio's body was dug out." She paused. "My G.o.d, the funeral was incredible. Every celebrity, actor, athlete, movie star, politician, every wanna-be and almost was attended the funeral. A cardinal officiated. The press said I was 'beautiful and devastated.'" She shrugged. "What I was angry. I hate stupidity."

Her expression now was placid, calm.

"Did you love him?"

"What difference does that make? We were good lovers."

"No one special in your life now?"

Laura closed her eyes, shook her head, and laughed. "Special? G.o.d, you sound like a high school boy. Lovers-yes. Who I choose, when I choose, for however long I choose. G.o.d, look at you-are you shocked?"

He didn't know what he was. The tone between them had grown edgy, antagonistic. He didn't know why he felt so angry, so judgmental toward her.

"So you're a pretty rich lady now?"

Laura nibbled on her pinky and grinned.

"Fly all over the world?"

He wanted to smack her or kiss her-either one, or both. She changed instantly as they got up to leave, as though she had pushed a b.u.t.ton. Became a young girl, smiling, flirting with the counterman as they were leaving.

Maury wiped his red wet hands on his dirty white ap.r.o.n; offered his cheek for her kiss. "Any time, Laura, you come to me for the best egg cream in the world, right?"

"I come to see you, Maury. The egg cream comes in second."

"Ah, she makes me feel like a young boy, this one."

Nick knew exactly what the older man meant. He felt awkward, graceless, somewhat stupid.

She gave him a lift to the subway; he'd head for the precinct and get a car for the trip home. She put her face forward for a light kiss. Without a thought, Nick jerked her face to meet his lips. The kiss surprised them both.

It was nearly 1:30 A.M. by the time Nick reached home. Kathy had parked the station wagon right in the middle of the driveway, so he had to park in front of the house. She'd left a night-light on, more to discourage prowlers than to help him find his way in the dark. The house felt empty. He remembered that Peter wasn't home but looked into his bedroom anyway. The sleepy old dog, Woof, head resting on the pillow, grunted softly without really waking up. The other dogs were flopped out around the house. They all knew his step; no one had to go out.

Nick shared his gla.s.s of milk with the oldest of the family cats, a gray part-Siamese with pea green eyes. She sipped carefully, then washed herself and disappeared. No one really knew where she slept. She was the mysterious one of the group.

Kathy wasn't good at faking sleep. She breathed too regularly. He touched her foot lightly, shook it gently, and she didn't respond. Nick took a hot shower, then looked in the mirror when he brushed his teeth. He wondered what Laura saw when she looked at him.

He remembered the first time he knew he loved Laura Santalvo. He was eight; at his father's funeral. She and Richie listened when he told them he and his mother were moving in with his O'Hara uncle. Sure, he'd see them. He'd come back and visit.

Richie, heavyset with a wise-guy face even at nine, put his arm around Laura's shoulder and gave a squeeze.

"Don't worry about Laura, Nicky. I'll take good care of her."

Laura stepped down on Richie's foot, so hard he doubled over in pain and shock.

"Like h.e.l.l you will."

Then, she took Nick's face in both her hands and kissed him full on the lips. She was eight years old, but the kiss was a h.e.l.luva lot older. Nick didn't get kissed like that again for a very long time.

He turned out the light and started for Peter's room for an automatic last check, then remembered. He felt his wife's body tighten slightly when he got into bed beside her. When he touched her shoulder anyway, then the back of her neck, she pulled further away.

Nick rolled over on his side. The h.e.l.l with it.

CHAPTER 8.

PETER WATCHED WITH ADMIRATION as the muscular, sweating men carried the ma.s.sive platform on which the statue of San Gennaro, patron saint of Naples, had been placed, amid flower arrangements and candles and an a.s.sortment of holy relics and items. They moved slowly through the crowd, not stopping, just slowing a bit, as people pushed forward to slip five-and ten-and even twenty-dollar bills into whatever crevice they could find. If a bill dropped underfoot, it was a given that it would not be pocketed, but picked up and placed with the saint.

Sonny had told him that San Gennaro had been a humble priest in Naples who doubted his ability to turn wine and bread into the blood and flesh of the Saviour during ma.s.s-until one day a miracle took place, and he never doubted again. Even though most of the people at the celebration weren't Neapolitans, many not even of Italian heritage, the event had become a New York tradition of which few in attendance knew the origin.

Everything involved in the festival was traditional. Every single booth lining the way of the procession had been contracted for months ago. No one could sell so much as a hot dog without paying for the right to do so. All the food, in all the booths-the meats and pastas, breads, cakes, cheeses, wines-came from designated suppliers. Each supplier paid a fee for exclusive rights. The San Gennaro generated a great deal of money; a small amount went to the charity for which it was conducted. A great deal went into other hands that had nothing to do with charity. But what the h.e.l.l. The wine was good. The food was excellent and the air was filled with marvelous fragrances and the noise of happy people.

Tourists ate too much, walked around a little, then ate some more. Their kids were splattered with sauce, their mouths rimmed in red, and though their bellies ached they pleaded for the original, incredible, tangy lemon ices sold nowhere else in the United States.

Peter was slurping his second lemon ice cup and was ready for a third. His cousin took him by the arm and led him away from the crowd.

"Look, kid, I gotta meet a guy over in Chinatown for a coupla minutes."

"Chinatown? Where's that?"

Sonny jerked his chin. "Not far, a coupla blocks away. You wanna pick a spot, I'll be back here, ten, fifteen minutes tops, okay? Get yourself a cannoli, something, ya got money?"

"I've never been to Chinatown, Sonny. I'll go with you, okay?"

The older boy narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. "Yeah, okay. But listen up. I gotta meet a coupla c.h.i.n.ks, we got a little business to take care of. Now, here's the thing, Petey boy. This is strictly between us, right? Can I trust you to keep quiet, this never happened? Like, we never left the Gennaro until we headed home, right?"

For a minute, Sonny thought his cousin was going to hold up his hand in the Boy Scout pledge. He ruffled his hair; he was a good kid, if a little dumb.

They hadn't gone more than four or five blocks. The noise and music from the San Gennaro could still be heard, but it was as though they had entered another world. On all the stores and shops, signs and legends were written in Chinese. Peter was amazed that anyone could actually make sense of the beautiful symbols. It was like an ancient world. There were restaurants one next to the other; open food stalls; real estate offices; travel agencies; bail bondsmen; pool halls; meeting rooms. There were people of all ages, single and in groups, moving along the sidewalks, spilling into the gutter, stopping to look into a window, to handle merchandise. There were medicinal shops displaying charms and dried vegetables, roots, animal parts. There were modern bookstores and video shops.

Sonny suddenly brought him to a stop. Then he jerked his chin toward a narrow alley.

"You stay right here, outside. I gotta see these kids for a minute."

Sonny entered the alley, then came back out. He looked tense, angry. "They want you to come with me. Lousy c.h.i.n.k b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, they don't trust n.o.body. You keep your mouth shut, ya don't see nothin', hear nothin', capice?"

Peter started to ask a question, but his cousin stopped him. "Hey, dummy up. We'll be two minutes, then we are outta here. And it never happened, right?"

There were four rail-thin Chinese boys, in their teens. Everything about them was tense. Peter glanced at them, surprised by their hostility.

Sonny reached into his pocket and took out a few bills. He put his hand out and the tallest of the Chinese snapped his fingers. More. Much more.

Sonny smiled, a tight, unpleasant expression.

"Hey, you gimme what I'm buyin', I pay for the whole thing, right? No games, you little weasels, ya not gonna screw around with me. You know who I am?"

The shortest, but obviously the leader of the Chinese, moved closer. "f.u.c.k you and f.u.c.k who you are. You try to stiff me like you done with other guys, you don't be around to talk about it to no one no more."

Sonny put his money back in his pocket. He reached inside his jacket for a moment. The boy who had spoken pushed his hand against Sonny's chest. In a single moment, guns appeared, and were fired at Sonny, who had instinctively pulled back. He was. .h.i.t in the stomach.

Peter O'Hara, who hadn't moved, was. .h.i.t in the center of his forehead.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

CHAPTER 9.

AT THE END OF the 8:00 to 4:00 p.m. tour Monday, Nick and Eddie planned to spend at least an hour catching up on the paperwork that had acc.u.mulated since they had been stuck on the surveillance a.s.signment. They handled the papers mechanically and without interest. Four or five squad guys were checking out the roster, catching up with telephone messages or just shooting the breeze.

A uniformed patrolman, young guy with a s.h.i.+ny new look, stepped into the squad room as though he had no right to be there. Someone waved him in, and he asked for O'Hara.

Nick and Eddie looked at each other. Neither one of them knew the kid. "Yo, I'm O'Hara. Wadda ya got?"

"Detective O'Hara? You're wanted in the captain's office. Right away, he said."

Nick nodded to the young cop, who took off after a hungry look around the room.

Nick told Eddie not to worry. "Hey, if I did something, don't forget, we're partners, right? I'll include you in for your share, good or bad." Then an afterthought: "Wait for me, you're my ride home tonight."

Nick tapped on the captain's door, and it was opened immediately. Captain Nelson touched him lightly on the shoulder, stepped back into his office with Nick, and closed the door behind him.

There stood Deputy Inspector Frank O'Hara. Just standing there, his face expressionless but his complexion noticeably pale. A flash went through Nick: Oh, Christ, he's gonna ask me something about the party. Who was there? What did I hear? Oh, s.h.i.+t.

As he took a step toward his uncle, Nick remembered the last time he had seen Frank look like that. Drained of all color, even his lips pale. Eyes glazed and narrowed. He took a deep breath.

Someone was dead. That much Nick knew.

"Frank, what?" And then, "Frank, who?"

His uncle said one word.

"Peter."

CHAPTER 10.

THE HOURS FOLLOWING THE murder of his son became a videotape forever spooling through Nick's brain. Some of it would come back in startling clarity: a segment-by-segment recollection of faces, voices, sounds, gestures; of locations, smells, light and darkness. Of sensations: panic, terror, anger, madness, sorrow, helplessness. But mostly, it was a feeling of unreality-this all happened to someone else.

He remembered inconsequential things: Frank leaning forward and touching the uniformed driver to slow down; no need to speed through traffic lights.

The thought flashed through his head as they entered the hospital: Good, St. Clare's. That's the cop's choice; always insist they take you to. St. Clare's, no matter what. He noted there were a lot of uniformed cops, milling around aimlessly. Glancing at him, then looking away quickly.

Then he was in a small consulting room, staring down at a doctor who seemed too young to shave.

Nick rubbed his hand roughly over his face as he listened to the words.

Head wound.

He knew about head wounds; they said instant death.

He understood that. What he couldn't understand was what the f.u.c.k any of this had to do with his son, Peter.

His cousin Richie burst into the room. He looked like a crazy man. He was yelling, pounding his chest, the walls. There was blood on his knuckles. His wife, Theresa, came alongside him and watched as two of Richie's men came, led him away. She looked over her shoulder at Nick, reached out, without touching him. "They're gonna give Richie something to quiet him down. Nick, G.o.d, Nick, I'm so sorry. Sonny ... he's in surgery."

She turned and followed her husband.

Then he was in some patient's room; there was a bed over by the window. Frank roughly drew the curtain across the slide and ignored the woman's weak voice: who? what?

Frank spoke quietly. "The kids walked over to Chinatown, Nick. After the San Gennaro. They walked right into a shootout between two street gangs. Sonny took two in the gut. Peter ... in the forehead."

There were so many questions, but he couldn't seem to form the right words. Instead, he said, "Take me to my son."

They walked down a corridor and Frank stepped back knowing there was no way to stop him, no point.

"He's in there, Nick. Want me to go in with you?"