Dante felt all the cells in his body rearranging themselves, felt memories shift, felt truth ricochet through his soul. He knew. He did know. What else made sense in his life except his mother . . . beautiful, young, and faithful to him after all.
Alfredo said, “I wish I could help, but I can’t. I have no counsel. No advice. Take it in and do with it as you will. I couldn’t leave you without letting you know. I should have told you years ago, but I’m a coward. Ashamed of myself, but always proud of you. You’re a good man and I love you more than I can say. If you’d been my son, this would have all turned out differently. You need to leave the country while you can. I’ll be fine. I don’t have long anyway and I don’t want you hanging around on my account. This is our good-bye. You go. I’ll cover your back. I’ll be like the guy left in the fort while all the others escape certain death. I’ll rest easier knowing you’re safe, so you do that for me.”
Dante nodded. He reached out and the two men gripped hands tightly as though they might find a way to give immortality to the bond. Dante felt as fierce and as strong and as clean as he’d ever felt in his life. It was Alfredo’s parting gift.
30
Late Wednesday afternoon, a uniformed officer finally stopped by my office to pick up copies of the report I’d passed along to Cheney Phillips. In point of fact, what I’d given him was my one and only copy—except for the carbon, which I confess I used to run off additional pages after I talked to him. I knew he’d feel better if he thought he’d corralled all the paperwork in my possession, so I handed the officer two more copies and we were all satisfied. The carbon I returned to its hiding place. As soon as the officer left, I put through a call to Cheney, hoping to fill him in on Len’s attack, the exchange of gunfire between Cappi and Pinky, and my subsequent conversation with Dante. He didn’t pick up the call and I made a note to myself to try again later.
I arrived home from work to find a message from Henry on my answering machine. He’d tried me at the office, but I must have been out the door by then. He said he was on his way to the nursing home to visit Nell. The doctors expected to release her sometime in the coming week. The purpose of his call was to let me know he was flying home the next day. He gave me his flight number and time of arrival—4:05 P.M. He said if I had prior plans and couldn’t get to the airport, he’d take a cab and not to worry. He also said he’d treat me to dinner at Emile’s-at-the-Beach if I was free. This was cheery news. I knew without even looking my calendar was clear, and I was excited by the prospect of having him home. I popped over to his house to make sure his plants were alive and well. It was also time to clean up the mess Pinky’d left in the hall when he dashed off. The tidying up didn’t take long. I dusted, dry-mopped, and vacuumed, and then opened the back door to air out the place.
I made a run to the supermarket and stocked the few items he’d need so he wouldn’t have to worry about shopping for groceries right away. The rest of Wednesday went by in a blur. I called the hospital twice for updates on Dodie, who seemed to be holding her own. The reports were superficial and didn’t contain much in the way of medical data, but since I wasn’t a family member, I couldn’t push for more. Pinky was impossible to track down. The floor nurses didn’t have the time or the inclination to roust him out of the waiting room and steer him to a phone. If he managed to get home for a shower and a few hours’ sleep, the last thing I wanted to do was disturb him.
It wasn’t until Thursday morning I had time to make a trip to St. Terry’s. I stopped by my office en route, sitting down at my desk just long enough to try Cheney again. In the wake of Len’s attack, I was losing my fear of him and anger was taking its place. When Cheney finally picked up, he was short with me. I wouldn’t say he was rude, but I knew by his tone he was in no mood to talk. I said I’d catch him later, but the call left me wondering what was going on. I’d no more than returned the handset to the cradle than the phone rang.
I answered, hoping Cheney had repented. Instead, I found Diana Alvarez on the line.
“Hi, Kinsey. This is Diana.” She’d adopted the breezy, good-natured tone of a close friend, and I didn’t have the energy to remind her she was no such thing. “Has Cheney said anything to you about some big deal coming down?”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure. I was talking to one of my sources at the PD and got the impression there was something major in the works. I’d love to get the heads-up so I can file a story.”