Page 86 of Possession

Istared at the photos on my screen, pulled from more diary pages on the thumb drive. These had been scanned so the original text was in Annabelle’s looping script, with notes in the margins flowing around the photos.

This particular one contained Annabelle, Philomena, and my father.

They were laughing, arms around each other’s waists. Clearly, it had been taken some time ago, as they were all much younger. But even with their smiles, tension lurked in their eyes. In Annabelle’s, especially. The undercurrents in the photo were much stronger than the feigned friendship.

Coincidentally, the diary pages in this section had a symbol sprinkled every few lines. There was talk about investments “overseas” so maybe someone with an untrained eye might not be aware of the deeper meaning of that cute little dolphin drawn in the margins. Except it wasn’t a dolphin, it was a whale, and that meant they likely had a very big one on the hook.

My father had used the same term in some of his dealings. I’d paid attention to the bits of conversation I’d overheard during our infrequent outings during my childhood when he was talking to one of his associates, because at first, I’d been naïve enough to think a mammal was just a mammal. Whales in their parlance weren’t just something to save. They indicated someone, usually a very wealthy someone, who’d been earmarked to either take the fall for a crime or who would soon be their cash cow.

Whether or not the “whale” was willing mattered very little to those who set the marks.

Another small drawing in the corner of the page caught my eye. Just a doodle or was it more? A tall building. Nothing stood out about it. Just a high-rise, lots of windows.

The typical steel and chrome empire?—

The word clicked in my brain, and I crosschecked against the list of shell companies and tax shelters we’d unearthed in Brooklyn. Empire Design Company.

Coincidentally, it had an address both in Brooklyn, and an equally phony address in Marblehead, listed on the same street as the gallery. Except the block’s numbers didn’t go that high.

So many coincidences. Too bad I didn’t believe in them.

Ever.

Before I could question the impulse, I called someone I’d never thought I would—Silas, my father’s right-hand man.

The conversation was about as terse as expected. As was the admission that Vincente Costas, my father’s best friend, had been killed not long ago. Shot by his own son.

I should’ve been horrified, and yet in the world I’d lived in, it wasn’t all that surprising. The breech of loyalty was, of course. But that a son would go that far—not so much. That he’d killed his own father to protect his brother’s woman intrigued me, however. Perhaps it was time I meet with Dante Costas again. It had been so long since I’d seen that watchful, mistrustful-eyed boy. I’d never wanted to see any of them again, but now there were things happening in Brooklyn, things that had involved my father and potentially the mob—because where Robert went, his cronies were never far behind. I needed intel.

So, it looked like I might need Dante, as well.

Silas gave me Dante’s number, albeit not willingly, and I called to make an appointment to see him through his personal assistant. Made men had more layers between them and the public than I had layers of glass surrounding me, and that was saying plenty.

When the assistant asked my relationship to Dante and I mentioned my father’s name, I was immediately put on hold. Darlene sounded a lot friendlier when she returned.

“Mr. Costas is available to see you in Brooklyn this evening, if you are able to meet him at his place of business. He’s traveling back to the west coast tomorrow, so time is of the essence.”

My eyebrow rose. Dante’s family had sidelines in commerce and casinos and more recently, in mixed martial arts fighting. I had no desire to meet him at a gym or worse, some warehouse.

“What exactly is his place of business?”

I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what Darlene offered. “He would like to book you a private table for two at La Cucina. Are you familiar with his restaurant?”

My eyebrow was in danger of vaulting up my forehead at this rate. “No, I am not. Is this a new thing?”

“Just the past few months. It’s been getting rave reviews. You will enjoy your meal.” She clucked and named a few times, and I took the latest reservation offered, then I thanked her and hung up.

Only afterward did I realize that I couldn’t just up and go to New York, not anymore. I had to tell Grace what was going on.

Yeah, tell her your father was hooked up with the mob, and you’re beginning to think her grandmother and possibly Philomena are too. She’ll love that.

I flipped a pen through my fingers and contemplated the rows of screens before me. Some running financials, some searching for certain words and codes in the text on the thumb drive. Still others contained maps, as I tried to peg connections where all I could see were more dead ends. A lot of roads to nowhere.

Mostly, I was running on a bunch of wild goose chases, led by a woman with a flair from the dramatic who just happened to be dead.

I pulled up my instant messaging window.

Busy tonight?

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