CHAPTER 8

"Ciao Amico! Welcome to our humble home." Sammy greeted Antonio with a grin.

"Where am I?" Antonio rubbed the knot on the back of his head. "I— don't know you. This must be some mistake."

"True, we've not met personally, but I assure you, this is no mistake." Sammy nodded to the two men standing directly behind Antonio. "Show our friend to the study. Maybe he'd like a drink—some whiskey, perhaps."

The two men, each with one of Antonio's arms, escorted him to the next room and shoved him unceremoniously into a chair.

"Hey, take it easy. One of you goons already put a goose egg on my head." Antonio mustered a fresh shot of macho. "Watch how you handle the merchandise, okay? I know people —" His voice trailed off as one of the guys put his face close to his.

Sammy poured three glasses of whiskey, handed one to Antonio, set one on the desk, and kept the other. "So, you know people. Care to enlighten me on who these people are? Did you make a pact with your people, or is that not required by them?" Sammy swirled the brown liquor around and around, then smiled and took a drink. "My employer believes in pacts but also believes they can be broken."

Antonio threw back the whiskey and looked around the mahogany study with its fine pieces of Italian art. Sweat beads popped up across his forehead, and his stomach knotted. He recognized the picture of an Italian woman hanging on the wall.

Sammy enjoyed watching Antonio squirm. It had been a while since he'd had the opportunity to watch someone sweat. He poured another whiskey and handed it to him. "Antonio, you've been very bad. My employer has turned a blind eye to your, shall we say, seedy business until tonight."

"Whoa! You've got this all wrong. It's not my business. I'm just at the bottom of the food chain. Cleaning up the streets, so to speak."

"So, my friend, you are in the janitorial business!" The voice spoke from across the room. Antonio had not heard anyone enter, and his head snapped around. His eyes met the familiar dark eyes of Frank Divito.

"Frankie, it's so good to see you. Tell these guys they made a mistake."

"Cut the crap, Antonio. You messed up, big time."

"Messed up? It was a minor mistake."

Frank crossed the room and sat in the leather chair behind the desk. "A mistake? Hmmm- and whose mistake was it?" He picked up the glass Sammy had left him.

"I — I was just following orders. You know how that is, right?" Antonio felt the heat rising around his shirt collar as he wiped his brow. "Frankie, you, me, we're paisanos. We go back in the day, remember?"

"I do remember, Antonio, but your janitor crew has crossed the line. This woman you took tonight — correct me if I'm mistaken — didn't work the streets, did she?

Antonio gulped, stressing to find a way out. "She — she did, Frankie. She was working the crowd at Tipsy's Tavern the other night."

"You're slipping, Ant. You know, and I know that she's a cop."

"No! No! You're wrong. I didn't know she was a cop. Why would I kill a cop?" Antonio slugged back the remaining whiskey.

"Pour him another, Sammy. He's going to need it."

Antonio's eyes widened as they darted from Frankie to Sammy and then to the two muscle guys standing near the bookcase. He needed to think fast. "I'll leave town. You'll never see me again, I promise."

Frankie nodded, "That's a good idea, but first, I need you to tell me about this little business. Then you'll call your boss, the guy who ordered you to do a clean-up job on Alyssa."

"I — I can't."

"Sure, you can."

"They'll kill me." From the corner of his eye, Antonio saw the two men walking toward him. "Frankie, we're friends, remember? And the pact, sticking together."

He felt the cold steel barrel against the back of his head. "Frankie," he said, rubbing the cross on his hand. "Remember the tattoo?"

"You're a low-life, Antonio. You stalk prostitutes and kill them. At least they are out of their misery. What interests me is the ones who disappear. Who's taking them, and where are they going? The FBI is sniffing around and shifting the blame in my direction. I'm no angel, but I'm not in the business of selling women."

"Neither am I. Honest!" The gun against his head sent chills down his spine. "It's not me."

"Aaahh! But you know who is, don't you?"

"No! You gotta believe me —"

Frankie stood and stared across the desk at the desperate man sitting there. "Get rid of him."

"Nooooo! Frankie!" Antonio screamed and tried to stand, but two huge hands on his shoulders forced him back into the chair.

"Start talking."

"I'm on a need-to-know, so I deal with just one guy. He tells me who to knock off and which to deliver to the warehouse. What happens after that's not my business." He shook his head and shrugged. "I don't know, and I don't ask."

"The man's name?"

"It's Tommy — Tommy Yankovich."

Frankie picked up the phone from his desk and handed it to Antonio. "Now, listen closely. You'll call this Tommy guy and tell him the girl got away. You'll tell him you saw her enter St. Peter's Church."

"With Father Williams?"

"Aah! Do you and Terry keep in touch?" Frankie laughed. "Or do you go there to confess your evil doings?"

"I just know it's his church."

"It doesn't matter. I'll tell him you said hello. Now make the call."

*****

The United flight arrived on time, and Layla's exit from the airport was smooth and uneventful. She'd dozed off once or twice during the two-and-a-half-hour trip but still didn't relish the drive to Rockford. Her rental car was waiting, and the helpful attendant had set the GPS after she provided Alyssa's address. She put her suitcase in the trunk, slid behind the wheel, and exited the airport.

From a safe distance, an unmarked car followed her out of the airport onto I-90.

*****

Layla parked her car in a lot across the street, paid the attendant, and retrieved her suitcase from the trunk. Traffic was minimal as she crossed over and stood in front of Alyssa's apartment. She'd laughed at her sister when she'd given her the spare key since they were miles apart, but now she was grateful.

Her nerves heightened as she climbed the stairs and opened the front door, putting her suitcase inside. She shivered as her eyes scanned the room. Everything seemed in place just like the police had told Tyler. There didn't appear to be any sign of a struggle.

"It can't be! I know what I saw. I know you, Allie. You would have fought."

Layla stopped and touched the picture on the desk. It was one of her favorites of her and Allie on a beach vacation. She sighed and moved toward the bedroom.

"Come on, Allie. Give me something. There must be a clue telling me who did this."

She checked the nightstand drawers but found nothing unusual. Just lotions, a candy bar, and a James Paterson book. Layla picked it up and opened the pages. She laughed, "I doubt you've turned a page, Sis. Crooks and crime wouldn't suit you."

Replacing the items in the drawer, she moved to the closet. "Okay, Allie, I know there won't be any designer outfits, but please tell me you wear professional business suits to work, something other than those holey jeans."

She swung open the doors and gasped at the row of evening gowns and silk see-thru blouses hanging inside. Lifting out a sexy red satin gown, she mumbled, "Oh, my God, Allie, what have you gotten yourself into?" Collapsing on the bed, Layla buried her face into the dress, terrified.

*****

Richard Harrison parked his squad car in a no-parking zone, turned on his lights, and climbed the steps to Alyssa's apartment. The tail he'd had waiting at the airport had notified him of her arrival. His irritation with Layla's decision to come to Rockford showed as he knocked on the door.

Startled, Layla tossed the dress aside and returned to the front room. She peered through the peephole. All she could see was a man's suit.

He knocked again.

Layla opened the door. "Can I help you?"

"Detective Harrison, ma'am. Well, as of a few weeks ago, I'm the Chief of Police." He stepped across the threshold, hoping to intimidate her. She moved aside and let him enter.

Layla glared at him. "Detective — Chief — whatever your title, what can I do for you? Have you found my sister or know what happened to her?"

"No. The neighbors reported suspicious activity, and I was in the vicinity. Are you aware this is a crime scene?"

"I'm Layla Saladino, and this is my sister's apartment."

"I know who you are, Ms. Saladino. You're a friend of Detective Tyler Chadwick, who asked us to investigate a missing person's case."

Exhausted from the events in the last twenty-four hours, the flight and discovering her sister's closet lined with evening dresses, Layla snapped, "MISSING PERSON? I saw a man place his hand over my sister's mouth and drag her away from the phone. She was terrified and screaming that he was going to kill her. Sounds more like attempted murder — or worse to me."

"We've not found any evidence of foul play. Nothing was found here, nor anywhere else, I am afraid. Look around. Do you see any sign of a struggle?"

"What kind of police department are you running?"

"A good one, ma'am. Our evidence consists of your version of a phone conversation. No friends or business acquaintances have reported her missing. As far as we know, she took a vacation. There's nothing else unless you have more to add."

Layla stares past Harrison in thought. "No — No, I don't."

"Tyler's a good friend, and I don't mean to insult you or your family, but if you check your sister's closets, you might learn a few things. Her clothes led me to believe she was living on the wrong side of the tracks if you get my meaning."

"I saw the clothes. If you are insinuating my sister was a prostitute, you are crazy. She was a reporter, working undercover."

"Hmmm.... I'm sorry, but we haven't found anyone who will collaborate on that story either. Is it possible your sister was lying to you?"

"Lying to me? How dare you! You need to leave my home. My sister is not a prostitute. If you can't find her, I will!"

"For your safety and your sister's, you need to go home and let the police handle the investigation. You're a fashion designer, not a detective."

"Investigation? It doesn't sound like an investigation to me. In case you haven't noticed, I can take care of myself without your advice."

Layla opened the door and leaned against it. "Well, Mr. Harrison, maybe it takes a woman to show you how to do your job! Thank you for stopping by, but I've just traveled from New York and would like to rest. Please call me if you stumble across any information on Allie. Goodbye."

*****

"Who does that bitch think she is? Maybe that's how they talk to law enforcement in New York, but I'm not taking any of her guff."

Richard Harrison walked toward his car, stopped to look toward the apartment, and then slid behind the wheel, making a phone call.

"Meet me at Lenny's Cafe in fifteen."

*****

Antonio took the phone from Frankie and dialed Tommy's number.

"Don't mess it up, Antonio,"

"I won't. Frankie."

"Keep the gun on him." Frankie chuckled, "Just insurance, Antonio, you know how it is in business. Can't trust anyone like we did in the old days."

Tommy answered on the fourth ring. "Hello."

"Tommy, it's Antonio."

"It's about time."

"I ran into a little problem."

"PROBLEM! I send you to do a job, and you're going to tell me you ran into a little problem. Did you pop the girl or not?"

"No, but listen, I know where she is." Antonio shifted his eyes up to meet Frank's. "She ran inside St. Peter's, the church on Jefferson and Main. You want me to go after her?"

"No! I'll take care of it myself. You know the boss isn't going to like this. If I was you, I think I'd disappear, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, sure thing, Tommy."

Frankie took the phone from Antonio, placed it on the desk, and walked toward the door. "Be seeing you, Antonio."

"But what about me?"

His answer was the crack of a bullet into his head.