Page 92 of Hanging and Burning

Again, silence.

“Arman.”

Ilsa Lund said something in the background that I couldn’t make out and that Arman didn’t respond to.

“Arman,” I said again.

“What?”

“When I told Paulie Jr. about you, the first thing he asked was, ‘Is he dead?’ When I said no, he asked, why was I there then? So one has to wonder, why would your godson be interested in your death?”

After a long pause, my client said, “Paulie Jr. thought that I knew something about his father’s murder.”

“Do you?”

For me to even ask that question was the indicator of my deep involvement with the case. You never ask questions like that. You never want somebody who has knowledge about a murder, no matter how peripherally, to spill their guts about the crime. But I liked the women in Arman’s life and somehow felt a debt, maybe not to them but to my own long-suffering mother.

“Do you?” I asked again.

“Um.”

“Yes?”

“None of that has anything to do with my—with my daughter.”

I was pretty sure that this was the first time, in many long years, that the dying man had admitted to the bond between him and his child.

“Just tell me what you know,” I pressed.

Arman understood that something about his life long ago had put Twyla in danger. He wanted to save her and, I believe, he would take any action possible to make that desire a reality. But he was over eighty and sick. For the first time in a long time, he was not the master of his ship.

“How can I trust you?” he asked.

“I have your daughter, her mother, and Mara hidden away and protected. Nobody can get to them. That’s a damn sight better than trust.”

“It is, if it’s true.”

I understood. For men like me and Arman, even a simple conversation was akin to a contest of life and death. There you were doing a simple thing like walking, and you had to be aware of every sound, every disturbed piece of turf. Someone can call for help and then shoot you in the face, smile pleasingly while shoving the knife into your gut.

I told Arman that his people were safe. But that wasn’t nearly enough.

“I’ll call you back in a quarter hour,” I said.

My next call was to Mel, down in the bowels of the deconsecrated basilica.

“You call me when you’re in my own house?” he asked.

“Didn’t want to walk in on something delicate down there.”

Mel laughed.

“Oliya’s made a new man outta me, Joe. I don’t go in for the rough stuff anymore, not unless it’s personal.”

“Which room is Aurilia in?”

“Why?”

“I need her to convince my client to come clean with me.”