Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (22 page)

Okay, Nora. Now what?

I leaned back in the chair and looked the desk over. I opened the middle drawer and peered inside. It was empty save for two Bic pens, some rubber bands, a small magnifying glass, and two pennies. I closed the drawer and opened the drawer on the right. This time I scored a box of breath mints and a box of staples. The drawer on the left was totally empty. I pulled out both bottom drawers. Aside from some thin files with press releases, they were empty as well. There were certainly no clues here. Alicia/Adrienne had covered her tracks well.

Or had she?

I’d moved offices about eight times in the six years I’d worked on the
Chicago Tribune
, and each time I’d left something behind without realizing it. It wasn’t intentional—it’s just one of the hazards of moving. You’re usually so irritated that you have to move in the first place and usually so rushed by the time the big day finally rolls around that there’s always
something
that gets cast by the wayside.

In Alicia/Adrienne’s case, I was certain it might be something she’d hidden, something she might have even forgotten about. I’d done that—hidden something so very well that I often forgot I had it, or when it came time to look for it, damned if I could remember the “safe place” I’d stored it in.

I got up, walked over to the massive cherrywood bookcase. The shelves overflowed with books on marketing, media, and other related subjects. I ran my finger along the spines, idly noting the titles:
The Social Media Marketing Book
,
Marketing Made Easy
,
Marketing and the Media
,
Book of Crests
,
Marketing in the New Media . . .

Whoa!

I backed up and looked over those titles again.
Book of Crests
stood out like a sore thumb. I pulled it out of its slot and took it over to the desk. I settled myself into the soft leather and opened the thick volume. A quick perusal revealed it to be a sort of encyclopedia of coats of arms of various family names. I noticed a small Post-it sticking out and turned to that page.

On it was a photograph of the Gianelli family crest. It depicted the usual coat of arms, and right at the top was a large knight’s helmet (or as Chantal would say, a bascinet) with long, flowing plumes.

A memory stirred at the back of my mind, elusive, just out of reach. I pushed the chair back and rose. As my fingers closed over the book, I felt my back hip pocket vibrate. Startled, I dropped the book. The heavy volume crashed to the floor. I winced at the sound and dug in my pocket, pulling out my cell. I snapped it open.

“Nora Charles.”

“Hey, babe. Hank told me to give you a call. He thought I could dig up some info you asked him to check on quicker. You know, because of my contacts.”

Petey Peppercorn was a PI from Chicago, one of the best. He’d been another of my confidential sources for years when I worked the crime beat, and we’d become fast friends. His tone was light, but there was a steely undercurrent to it that told me he had something important to tell me. “I hope this isn’t a bad time?”

I sank back into the chair. “It could be worse. What do you have? Something on Karl Goring?”

“Yeah, and I had a devil of a time getting it. I see why old Hankie passed the buck to me. That trail is buried deeper than Captain Kidd’s gold. The only reason I got anything at all is my guy at the FBI owes me big-time.” He blew out a breath. “Listen up—I’m only gonna say this once. When Goring was young, he got in with the mob. At first it started out small, and then it grew into something pretty big. Anyway, long story short, the kid realized he was in over his head and turned on the mob leader. You know what that usually means.”

“Witness Protection?”

“Yep. My source couldn’t tell me any more than that, but he did tell me the name of the mob guy Karl’s testimony put away.”

“Who?”

“Giancarlo Gianelli.”

And now I remembered why that crest seemed so familiar. I’d done a story on Giancarlo Gianelli when the former mob kingpin had died after a long stretch in prison. He’d had a large and loyal family, who always wore symbols of the Gianelli name—usually something in the shape of a knight’s head, the symbol on their family crest. I remembered something else, too.

“Giancarlo has siblings, right?”

“Yeah—one’s Mickey. He got busted two years ago. Money laundering. He’s got thirty-five to life in Chicago State.” Petey’s chuckle was dry. “One of his ex-dolls blew the whistle on him—a deathbed confession from prison, I heard.”

“Really. Deathbed.” My mouth was so dry, I could barely form the words. “You don’t remember her name, by any chance?”

“Ada, maybe? Adele—no wait. Adrienne. That was it. That help you any?”

I tightened the grip on my phone. “You have no idea.”

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re mixed up in, and I don’t wanna know. I thought you got out of the crime reporting business—thought you went back to run your mama’s deli.”

“I did—I am. What can I say? Old habits die hard.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re foolin’ around with the Gianellis, there’s something you should know. Aldo—that’s the last remaining brother—the Feds are watchin’ him too. Got to do with offshore accounts and terrorist ties, but so far they can’t prove anything. Since they’re under observation by the Feds, they gotta keep their noses clean, but my guy on the inside told me that Aldo’s been mouthing off a bit lately, hinting he’s about to settle an old score. I’m not quite sure what that means, but it can’t be good. You know the Gianellis—they’re into revenge.” He paused. “So whatever you’re into, Nora, be careful. I’d hate to hear they pulled your body out of the ocean wearin’ a pair of cement shoes, if you get my drift. Hank and I—we’d miss ya.”

I tried a laugh, but it came out sounding like a hyena on crack. Loud and shrill. “You know me, Petey. I’m always careful.”

“Yeah, right. Well, you need anything else, just holler. We never had this conversation, by the way.”

“What conversation?”

He chuckled. “That’s my girl.”

The line went dead. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and bent to retrieve the book. As I picked it up, I saw the edge of a photograph peeping out from underneath the dust jacket. I set the book back on the desk, removed the jacket. The photo had been taped to the inside, but the fall must have shaken it loose. I picked it up and looked at it.

There were two men in the photo. One was heavy, his fat belly protruding over the waistband of his expensively cut suit. He had slicked-back black hair, beady eyes, and a smile that showed expensively capped teeth. The second man was medium height, slight build, with a sharp nose, protruding chin, and small, slitted eyes. There was a cruel slant to his mouth that indicated he could probably be a pretty tough customer. Looking at him sent a chill racing up my spine. There was something about him that struck a chord, yet I was positive I’d never seen him before. God, I’d certainly have remembered him!

The fat man was handing the shorter man a small object. I squinted, trying to get a better look. I blinked, unable to trust what I’d seen. I pulled open the middle drawer, grabbed the magnifying glass, and pored over the picture.

Nope. I hadn’t been mistaken. It was a ring, and it looked almost exactly like the one I’d found in Lola’s envelope, except the inlay was different—I couldn’t quite make it out. Damn grainy photos! I flipped it over—there were initials printed there: MG and CW—and a date, some five years earlier. MG—Mickey Gianelli? I had no idea who CW might be. I stuffed the photo into my cross-body bag and replaced the
Book of Crests
on the shelf. Then I shut off the light and started for the door. As I approached it, I froze. The outline of a person was visible through the door’s thick frosted pane. As I stared, the knob slowly turned, hesitated, and then the door burst open. I found myself looking straight at none other than Kevin Grainger. He seemed as startled to see me as I was him.

He found his voice first. “Who are you, and what are you doing in this office?” he demanded.

All I could do was stare. Kevin Grainger cut a far more impressive figure in person. He was tall and well built, the gray suit he wore draping nicely on his frame. He had a firm chin, well-shaped lips, and his eyes, a rich cornflower blue, blazed with a mixture of fury and puzzlement as he assessed me.

I opened my mouth, but I was so startled that no words came out, just a plaintive squeak. He folded his arms across his chest and continued to glare. “Well? I’m waiting. Who are you?”

I found my voice. “Mr. Grainger, I presume?” At his curt nod, I continued, “I am so sorry. I’m—my name is Nora Charles. I own a specialty sandwich shop in town—Hot Bread. I came here today to pick up a catering contract, and I’m afraid my sense of direction is a bit off.” I offered him a small smile. “As you can see, I got a bit turned around. I just stopped in here to—to get my bearings.”

The fury seemed to subside and he ran his hand absently through his thick mass of iron gray hair. “I see. Well, I’m sorry to bark at you, Ms. Charles, but—well, I didn’t expect anyone to be in here. The occupant is out on leave.”

I nodded. “Alicia Samuels. Yes, I know.”

One brow rose. “Oh?”

“I’ve done some research on KMG,” I said quickly. “When I spoke with Ms. Simmons, she indicated you were in the process of naming a catering manager. From all I’ve read, Ms. Samuels seems a good fit—someone I’d enjoy working with.”

“Yes, well, to be quite frank, Ms. Charles, I’m not at all sure if she will be returning.”

“That’s too bad. She seemed perfect for the position. Her leaving is nothing serious, I hope?”

His frown deepened. “I’m sorry. I don’t discuss employees’ personal matters with outsiders.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. It’s just that I would like to discuss the possibility of Hot Bread taking on more of your event catering, and since Ms. Simmons was my only contact here, I’m not quite sure whom I should approach.”

“Marshall Connor has the position for the moment. Not permanently, you understand, but he’s a very organized individual and he’ll be a good interim replacement. You can make an appointment to speak about it with him.” His hand waved in the air, an impatient gesture. “KMG has sustained a number of losses of key personnel recently. If you read the papers, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”

I said a silent prayer of thanks that Grainger apparently did not know I was the one who’d found Patti’s body. I wondered briefly just how much—or how little—Daniel might have told him. Aloud I said, “No, sir, you don’t. Might I offer my condolences on both your personal and professional losses.”

He hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Thank you.”

“My mother was quite fond of Mrs. Grainger,” I went on. “They’d formed quite a bond. She had a respect for my mother’s talent, and I know for a fact my mother appreciated the business Mrs. Grainger threw her way.”

“My late wife had a definite talent with details such as that.” Kevin Grainger’s tone took on a wistful note. “When it came to that particular function, I was more than happy to turn the reins over to her. She had a knack for knowing just how to put an event together.”

“Ms. Simmons seemed to have the same quality,” I ventured. “Or at least, that’s the impression I got when we spoke earlier in the week.”

One brow lifted. “You think so? Well, so far you’re the only one to offer any positive feedback on her. We received many complaints on her brusque manner—at least, that’s what Marshall reported back to me.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to speak ill of the deceased, particularly someone who was such an asset to the company. Patti’s manner was excellent for getting reports and presentations in on time, but dealing with the public wasn’t her forte. She wouldn’t have been left in charge, had she lived. Quite honestly, I’m not certain who’ll take it over. Marshall has an eye for detail, but he feels such a function is beneath his stature, and he’s probably right. The catering position should most likely fall to a woman, but for the moment, I’ve got no one qualified.”

“It sounds like a very interesting job.”

His lips twitched. “Would you like to apply?”

I laughed. “Sorry. I gave up a nine-to-five grind in Chicago to come back and be my own boss. Been there, done that.”

“Ah, yes. Chicago.” He let out a long sigh, and as I stared at him, a niggling sense of familiarity crept through me. There was just something about the way he looked that struck a chord, an elusive memory, but for the moment I couldn’t quite grasp it.

“Have you ever been there?” I asked. “It’s a great city.”

“Once or twice,” he murmured. Then he added, so softly I had to strain to catch the words, “Long ago.”

“Perhaps you’ve sailed the
Lady L
there? That would be quite a journey from here, but rather a nice one, I imagine,” I ventured.

His head jerked up. “I confess, since my wife’s death, I can count on one hand the times I’ve been back on the
Lady L
. I plan to sell it, once all this is over,” he said shortly. “Too many memories—I’m certain you understand.”

“Of course.” I nodded sympathetically. “Between your wife’s accident and Patti’s shooting, I imagine it would be hard for you to look at the boat in quite the same way again.”

He gave me an odd stare and suddenly his hand shot out, encircled my wrist in a grip of steel. “How did you know Patti’d been shot?” he demanded. “The newspaper accounts hinted at foul play, but none of them described the manner of death. How could you possibly know, unless . . .” His fingers bit into my wrist, harder. “Good God. What did you do back in Chicago? Is it possible—you can’t be—”

“You’re hurting me,” I cried, and he released me, took a step backward. His face darkened like a thundercloud.

“Charles. Nora Charles. I seem to recall Lola telling me the Charles woman’s daughter was a writer. A reporter, to be precise. You wouldn’t happen to be the one who’s been snooping around, asking questions, claiming my wife was a victim of foul play?” he hissed. “Because if you are—”

The unspoken threat hung in the air like a cloud of smoke as the door suddenly eased open again, and Kristi stood on the threshold. She looked at both of us, cleared her throat nervously.