Storm's Cage by Mary Stone (most inspirational books of all time txt) 📗

With an expression of pure sugary sweetness, Amelia rose to her feet. “I’m with the FBI, and we have our ways. Now, do us both a favor and tell these detectives that you were downtown dressed up like a raccoon when Ian Strausbaugh was killed.”

Gabriel wrinkled his nose, but Amelia pretended not to notice as she made her way back to the camera in the corner.

Even once the charges against Gabriel were dropped, Detectives Reyman and Yoell would only be at the tip of the iceberg.

One of their own had pilfered a Glock from the evidence locker and passed the weapon on to a person—more than likely a Leóne soldier—who’d put a bullet in Detective Ian Strausbaugh’s head.

All the while, the man or woman who’d stolen the nine-mil would be lurking in the background.

Watching for someone to get too close to their secret.

Waiting.

23

I’d lingered at the precinct for a few hours after my run-in with the Fed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the agent’s visit was a harbinger of impending doom. The reason for her visit had made sense, and Natasha had told me that she’d previously worked with the woman—part of the Bureau’s Organized Crime Division—on a Leóne-related case.

Rather than stick around for long after Detectives Reyman and Yoell had interviewed Gabriel Badoni, I advised my sergeant that I wasn’t feeling well, and I was headed home for the day. With Ian’s murder and subsequent funeral still so fresh in all our minds, he didn’t question my request.

As I stepped into the modest foyer of my apartment and flicked the deadbolt into place, I turned to face the short hall as I rested my back against the door.

My head was still a mess, but I needed to act. I couldn’t stand idly by and cross my fingers for the best possible outcome. I had to prepare for the worst.

No matter how certain I was that I hadn’t left behind a trace of evidence when I’d killed Ian, I had to prepare for the very real possibility that I’d missed something.

A hair, a fingerprint, a witness who’d seen me slip in through the kitchen door while Ian was asleep.

Something.

Only fools convinced themselves they’d committed the perfect crime.

Rubbing my tired eyes, I kicked off my dress shoes and made my way to the sunlit dining area. Though the last thing I needed was more jitters, I prepared a pot of coffee as I signed onto my laptop.

Before leaving the precinct, I’d swung by Natasha Reyman’s desk to ask her what, if anything, they’d learned from the interview with Gabriel Badoni. Her body language had been relaxed, her tone amiable and friendly, but I couldn’t help wondering if she knew.

Apparently, Badoni had changed his alibi. I’d relied on the late hour to ensure the man would be home and that his spouse would be his only corroboration. Until today, the plan had worked.

Now, however, Badoni had admitted to attending a swinger’s party in downtown Chicago. According to the story he’d given Natasha, his wife had felt ill that night, so she hadn’t accompanied him to the venue. Normally, swinger’s parties didn’t permit men or women without their spouse, but Gabriel claimed he and his wife were regulars. The hosts already knew him, so he’d been allowed to join even though he was solo.

Naturally, Natasha’s first reaction was to ask Gabriel why he’d waited until the eve of the grand jury hearing to tell them the truth about his whereabouts. That had been my first question too.

Apparently, Gabriel had been concerned for the negative fallback he and his wife might face if word got out about their extracurricular activities.

Mrs. Badoni was a ballet instructor at a renowned dance academy, and the Badoni’s two children attended a nonreligious private school. Coupled with Gabriel’s recent promotion at the construction firm where he worked and the fact that his boss’s views trended in a more conservative direction, the upheaval to their lives, personally and financially, would be borderline disastrous.

How, exactly, had he thought a murder charge was less embarrassing than a swinging lifestyle, I wasn’t sure.

I also wasn’t sure that I believed Gabriel Badoni’s newest alibi, but I had to admit that his secrecy made a sick kind of sense.

He wasn’t the only one whose source of sexual pleasure was taboo.

Even though I was certain that Badoni’s job at the D’Amato-run construction and manufacturing business was a front, that didn’t mean his real boss—Alex Passarelli, and above him, Salvatore D’Amato—would approve. As progressive as the D’Amato family liked to think they were, sexual deviancy could taint a mafioso’s reputation for the rest of his life.

I poured myself a cup of coffee. If Gabriel’s alibi exonerated him, I’d need all my mental clarity to prepare for the worst.

Mug in hand, I returned to the counter-height dining table. I rarely sat there, but today, I didn’t need the cushioned comfort of the couch in the next room. I couldn’t relax. I wanted my mind sharp as I mapped out my next move.

My go-bag was up to date with cash, fake identification cards, and a counterfeit passport. Aside from the cash I kept stored in the ceiling of my bathroom, I’d stashed money away in a couple different offshore accounts.

All I needed was a plane ticket, and I could disappear to Panama or to any country that didn’t have extradition agreements with the United States.

Was I overreacting?

Carlo Enrico was dead. Other than Carlo, only Alton Dalessio and Matteo Ricci could place me at the Kankakee farm. Both of those men were also burning in hell.

Of course, I’d been in my fair share of videos from the warehouse basement—the footage was my payment to Alton for allowing me to visit the girls they’d kept on hand. But each time, I’d gone through precautions to conceal my identity. In addition to a mask, I’d used concealer to cover up an old surgical scar on my abdomen.

There was no