Page 40 of King

I nod.“Get out of my office.From this day forward, you and Tommy aren’t welcome at the warehouse.You can work out of the Brooklyn dock offices.I’m going to do what you wanted and split the business up.Now, go.As far as I’m concerned, we’re no longer family.”

Ryan remains seated for a moment as if he can’t believe what he’s just heard, but then he does get up and goes to the door.He pauses for a moment and looks back at me, but I refuse to meet his eyes.

“Harrison, I’m truly sorry.I wish I had intervened to stop Tommy, but I didn’t.That’s on me.If I could take it back, I would.”

Then he leaves.

I sit in silence for a few moments, trying to calm myself down.I’ve got a lot of work in front of me to accomplish if I hope to follow through on my plan to divide the business and take part of it legitimate.

ChapterEighteen

Natalia

I don’t have to work until later in the evening, so instead of moping around the apartment, wondering and worrying about the whole mess, I decide to do something.

I decide to find Giordano’s supervisor.

I research the FBI Field Office once more and check the administration chart to see who is who and, more importantly, who’s in charge of the maintenance division.

Martin.Fred W.Martin.

Martin is in charge of all staff in maintenance for the FBI field office.

He must be the man who told Deluca to do the deed.To tamper with the brakes on the vehicle my father took.

Why was my father driving a company car on the day of the accident?Even I know it’s against company policy for an employee to use a company vehicle for personal reasons.My mother should never have been in the car with my stepfather on the day of the accident.Why would he break company rules and risk censure?

Something doesn’t make sense.

Was he running some operation involving my mother, and that was why she was with him?

I intend to find out, one way or another.

I dosome more sleuthing and discover that Martin has a Facebook page, and while it’s not very active, which makes sense for an FBI employee, his wife Serena has a very busy family Facebook page that, for the most part, is public.

I spend some time reading her posts and learn that Fred has a favourite watering hole in the borough, The Yard Arm, which Serena mentions as a frequent check-in, and I decide to head there.It’s located a few blocks away from the field office, and I imagine Martin and his fellow maintenance workers spend their time there on lunch breaks or after work because it has a pretty nice tavern and even a small patio where people eat their meals.The atmosphere is nice, and the waitresses are busy but friendly.I go inside and sit alone at the bar, glancing around, hoping to catch a view of Martin or at least some of his staff.

I see him arrive at around half-past five, and he’s with a couple of younger men who are dressed in what look like work clothes, a bit dirty, with smears of oil on the sleeves and pant legs.Yes, it’s Martin and his workers, come to get a beer after work, just as Serena wrote.

He sits at a table with the three others, and I watch as a waitress goes over to speak with them.They all laugh and talk like they’re old friends.

I want to confront him, but of course, I’m smart enough to know that would screw things up completely.Instead, I sip my drink and watch them in the mirror behind the bar.It gives me a good perspective, and I can see what kind of man and boss Martin is.He looks to be a very nice boss, buying his workers a round of drinks after their shift.

He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would cooperate with the mafia to kill an FBI Special Agent and his wife…

Did he get an order from above, and was he simply doing his job?

I can’t imagine that a manager in the FBI would do something like that.

Before I can leave, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see a young man with glasses and a briefcase standing at the bar beside me.

“Hi, Natalia,” he says, smiling guiltily.“I hoped I’d be able to talk with you for a moment.Maybe in one of the booths?”

He hands me a card, and I check it out and see that it says his name is Vincent Leonard, a freelance reporter with theManhattan Chronicle.

Has he been following me?

I glance around and look to see if there’s a man with a red pin on his lapel anywhere in sight, but seeing none, I hesitate.There’s no harm in sitting with this young reporter for a while, in public, so I nod my head.