Dina Santorelli (21 page)

"You're
right. Somebody had to do something, Detective," Katherine said. She smoothed
the velvet down on the top of the sofa with her hand. "What should I have
expected? After all, your track record isn't all that remarkable."

"Excuse
me?" Nurberg could feel the skin on his cheeks reddening.

"I
mean, this case was a huge step up for you, wasn't it, Detective Nurberg?"
Katherine stepped out from behind the sofa. "Kidnapping is a far cry from
public disturbance."

Nurberg
was furious. "Ma'am, I have an exemplary record and several commendations, not
that I need to defend myself."

"Apparently,
you do."

"All
right... all right..." Phillip stood in between Katherine and the detective.
"This isn't getting us anywhere. Katherine, please, would you leave the
detective and me alone for a moment?"

Katherine
fluffed the back of her hair and pulled at the string of beads wound tightly
around her neck. Against the backdrop of the historical room, she
resembled—although Nurberg hated to admit it—a slender Eleanor Roosevelt. A
small sprinkler head, installed in 1961 after an electrical fire tore through
the entire first floor of the mansion, hung above her and was the only clue
that this was a modern-day scene. Nurberg wished something would set it off
right now.

"All
right," Katherine said. She gazed at Detective Nurberg as if to say
something—or perhaps waiting for him to—and then marched off for the second
time in two days.

As
Mrs. Grand left, so did the hostility, and Nurberg felt somewhat embarrassed.
"Governor, I'm..."

Phillip
shook his head. "No need to apologize. This is a difficult time for everyone.
We all seem to be losing our heads."

"But
please know, sir, that we are doing everything we can to find your daughter."

But
Phillip Grand wasn't listening. He picked up a photo, which was displayed on a
circular wooden table, of him and Mrs. Grand with President and Mrs. Obama from
the presidential inauguration three years ago. There were several
sterling-silver photo frames there featuring a variety of dignitaries, all
facing toward the main hall so that the tourists, who were roped off from
entering the Drawing Room, could see them.

"You
know, he called this afternoon," Phillip said. "The president."

"Oh?"

"Yes,
he'd seen the story on the news and took a moment to call. Nice fellow."

"Governor,
there
is
something I'd like to talk with you about."

Phillip
returned to his spot on the sofa. "Yes, Detective. What is it?"

"This
morning, you visited Taryn's Diner downtown."

The
governor pushed himself back on the sofa and rolled up the sleeve on his right
arm, then his left. "Yes."

"Why?"

"He
needed air," Katherine said, returning to the room and bending down on the far
side of the sofa closest to her to pick up her pocketbook, which had been
placed on the floor. "Sorry, forgot my bag." She put it over her shoulder.

As
she left the room, Phillip said, "I had to get out of the house."

"Away
from me, supposedly," Katherine yelled as she stepped up the nearby staircase
that led to the mansion's private quarters.

Phillip
sighed and put his head back, resting it on the sofa back. "That woman..."

"Sir?
Taryn's?"

"Detective,
I just... needed to go."

"Were
you hungry?"

"Yes,"
Phillip said. "I was hungry."

Detective
Nurberg sat on the facing sofa, where Katherine Grand had been seated when he
first arrived. "But witnesses say that you had nothing to eat while you were
there, sir."

"Witnesses?"
The governor sat up straight. "Detective, am I under police surveillance?"

"No,
sir." Nurberg hesitated. He was about to piss off his only ally. "I just
thought it strange that you would go out for a bite in the middle of an
investigation, particularly when I had asked you to stick around."

"Strange
enough to start asking questions about me, I see. Didn't you think soliciting
residents would arouse suspicion? Or get people talking?"

"Governor
Grand," Nurberg leaned forward. "We are on the same side here, aren't we?"

"Why
wouldn't we be?" Phillip said.

"What
I mean is..." Nurberg cleared his throat. "We
are
on the same side. You
do know that, right?"

"Yes,
Detective, yes." Phillip rubbed his temple. "I'm sorry. I think this is all
getting to me."

"I
understand, sir, and, again, I'm sorry I don't have better news."

"You
are doing all you can, I know."

"It's
just that I really thought we would have heard something by now," Nurberg said.
"In most kidnapping cases, where there is a ransom or any other kind of demand,
the abductors make contact within the first twenty-four hours."

"Is
that right?" Phillip shifted in his seat. "Well, what does that mean then?"

"I
wish I knew," Nurberg said. "As much as my gut tells me I'm wrong, I keep going
back to your nanny, Rosalia. She was the last one to see Charlotte."

"No,
no... Rosalia. She can't be involved," Phillip said. "Can't be."

"How
confident are you?" Nurberg asked.

"I'm
sure of it."

Nurberg
shook his head. "Well, please call me if you think of anything. And
don't—DON'T—talk to
them
." Nurberg pointed toward the front mansion
window.

"Good.
I thought you were going to tell me to make a statement or something—or some
kind of plea."

"A
plea? To whom?"

"Oh,"
Phillip shrugged. "I don't know."

"No,
I'll just keep going over what we do know, look again at the security tapes.
Maybe we missed something."

"Thank
you for all your hard work, Detective Nurberg."

The
two men rose from the sofas and walked out of the Drawing Room. Phillip
escorted Nurberg as far as the main corridor and then stopped.

"I'll
be in touch," Nurberg said.

As
Nurberg left the mansion, Phillip could hear the immediate rush of entreaties
calling "Detective! Detective!" Peeking through a front window, he watched
Nurberg bully his way through the crowd of media as if he were digging a
tunnel, which kept collapsing behind him. When the detective was out of sight,
the governor stepped into the adjoining room, a gold-hued sitting room that
housed several of Franklin Roosevelt's personal items, including a wheelchair
and an ashtray. He opened the door that led to the first-floor bathroom, the
one used by mansion visitors, and immediately threw up in the forty-year-old
porcelain pedestal sink installed by Governor Nelson Rockefeller.

Gino's last meal arrived at
4:30 p.m. with less pomp and circumstance than even he could imagine. The gate
to his cell opened, Hank placed the food tray in Gino's hands, relocked the
gate, and was on his way all within a matter of seconds.

It's
a common misconception that last meals are something of a lavish endowment for
condemned inmates. The truth was that the federal government only allowed an
expenditure of twenty dollars on a last meal, not quite enough for the lobster
tails Gino had been counting on. And no tobacco or alcohol products were
allowed. Gino could have had his food purchased at a local restaurant—it was
rumored that the last guy to be put to death at Stanton ordered from the
McDonald's Dollar Menu—or had it prepared by the Institution Food Services
Supervisor at the prison.

Gino,
whose expensive tastes had been humbled in recent years, went with the latter.
He looked at his plate: tuna fish on white toast with lettuce and extra mayo, a
one-liter plastic bottle of Coke with a tall plastic cup of ice, a side order
of Tater Tots, and a Bavarian cream donut. Simple. His only extravagant demand
had been ten packets of ketchup, since the prison tended to be stingy with
those. The whole thing probably cost five bucks, if that.

No
one seemed to question why Gino had asked for his last meal a day early. They
probably figured he was being his usual batty self, but it had been a long time
since Gino had had a Bavarian cream donut, and nothing, not even a stay of
execution, was going to stop him from having one. He put the tray on his knees
and was taking a bite of his sandwich when Hank returned to his cell.

"Got
a visitor, Gino."

"Now?"
he asked, a glob of mayonnaise in the corner of his mouth. "You fuckin' with
me?"

"Nope,
let's go. You know the drill."

Gino
put the tray on his cot and stuck his hands through the opening in the cell
door. Hank cuffed them. As the cell door opened, Gino turned around, and Hank
shackled his ankles as well. The two slowly made their way toward the visitors'
room. Phillip Grand broke rank with the other governors when it came to death-row
visitation. In addition to legal visits—and media interviews, of course—Grand
allowed family members to visit condemned inmates up until twenty-four hours
before an execution. What a guy.

"What
time is it, Hank?" Gino asked.

"Time
to get a new watch," Hank said with a chuckle.

Gino
rolled his eyes.

"All
right, all right, it's..." Hank looked at his watch. "6:03 p.m."

"Thanks."

Whoever
was visiting got in just under the wire.

As
Gino shuffled into the visitors' room, he let out a groan. Sitting across the
wired glass was Leo, his right leg shaking up and down. The fact that his son
was here to see him when he was explicitly told not to was
a)
not a good
sign and
b)
immediately validated Gino's decision to let Bailino take
the lead on this little operation. Gino shot a glance at the video cameras and
sat down.

"Hi,
Pop," Leo said.

Gino
stared through the glass.

"I
know you're not happy to see me. But I had to come and see you and talk to you
about somethin'."

Talk,
oh great
, Gino thought. Leo had never
really mastered the code.

Gino
arched his eyebrows. "Boss?"

Leo
nodded.

It
was about Bailino. "What's... the... matter?" Gino said, like a child, in an
attempt to remind Leo to speak wisely.

Leo
hesitated and appeared to be thinking hard, but it didn't last long. "The
fuckin' guy is playing house," Leo said. "With the girl and the kid."

"Are
you out of your fuckin' mind?" Gino yelled into the glass, the outburst
reverberating in the small room. He glanced at Hank who was standing behind
him, but the guard wasn't the least bit rattled. Gino looked back at Leo.
"Shut. The. Fuck. Up." He thought quickly. "What he does with ToniAnne and Joey
doesn't concern you."

Confused,
Leo looked as though he wanted to make himself clearer. "I'm just sayin'..."

"No,
you say nothing. I'm going to talk, and you're going to say
nothing
."
Gino felt a fluttering in his chest and thought how damn ironic it would be if
he keeled over right there. Even though he was looking at his son through a
thick piece of glass, there was no denying the red glassiness of his eyes. He
had been drinking again.

"Good,
now first of all, you don't think I have enough shit on my mind that you have
to come to me with this garbage? Think, Leo.
Think
."

"I
don't know, Pop. Now that you mention Joey, he's putting crazy ideas in that
kid's head."

"Yeah,
I know," Gino said. "I'm not so crazy about the college thing either."

"Pop,
but that's not what I'm talking about. It's Joey... and Don. Since Mikey died,
it's like Don thinks he's running the show, acting like... It's bad enough the
kid goes upstate every summer to intern in that stupid factory."

Gino
had had enough. "Leo, I don't have time for this. I'm getting up and I'm going
to eat my meal. I love you, kid, but you're killing me. Literally. Go home. Be
nice to your sister." Gino turned to leave the room.

"Pop,
I'm sorry," Leo called. "I shouldn't have come."

Gino
waved his hand, and, with Hank behind him, shuffled his way back toward his
cell.

"Kids,
huh?" Hank said. "Can't live with them, can't die with them."

"Yeah.
Kids."

A
wave of despair filled Gino as he sat back down on his cot. He returned his
tray to his lap and took another bite of his tuna sandwich. There was a scene
every time ToniAnne or Leo visited him.
Every time
. Yelling, crying,
bickering. Even in the early days, when Gino greeted them in the general
visitors' room, with arms outstretched, he'd want to choke them within minutes.
The other prisoners would stop their hand-holding and hugs to stare. For that
reason, he had asked ToniAnne to stop visiting him three years ago—her visits
depressed the shit out of him. And as the years passed, his kids had gotten
older and fatter. And stupider. He much preferred contact by phone. Even Skype
was too much to bear.

Gino
picked up the newspaper that he'd left on the cot and flipped through it,
stopping to look at the small headline on page twenty-three: "Cataldi Death
Imminent." The story placement was a slap in the face. To make matters worse,
the article had called him "the last of a dying breed." The accompanying photo
showed a crumpled-up old man.

Where
did I go wrong
, he wondered, picking
at his Tater Tots. He used to dream of a robust network of Cataldis, the
linchpins of major corporate and governmental enterprises, but these kids were
too damn spoiled and vain and distracted. Patsy Bailino, that son of a bitch,
managed to raise a son who was competent and levelheaded and fearless. Gino's
jealousy was palpable. In his early years, Donny Bailino was a bit of a weird,
awkward kid, a loner type who liked to read—a lot like Joey, for sure—but he
had grown into a formidable man. He had the brains and stomach for anything
that Gino proposed, and he was a fountain of bold initiatives. After all, it
had been Bailino's idea to contact
reliable
workers at his warehouses
across the country and have them call in sightings of Charlotte Grand in order
to throw off the local scent. Gino thought it would never work—one of those
people was bound to squeal—and told him so, but so far, so good. And it was
Bailino's plan to have all this take place at his log cabin, which happened to
be isolated and soundproof, right under the nose of the local police. "It's not
unusual for a family to come together in anticipation of the death of a
patriarch," he'd told Gino. "The Feds'll have their hands full with the
disappearance. This won't even be on their radar." And he was right. It wasn't.
It was genius. Gino had to admit that without Don Bailino's support over the
years, and savvy business sense, he would not have been able to maintain the
few business ties he still had from behind bars.