There are documents, as I expected—photographs, letters, contracts. All of them will be useful to me, I can see that with a mere glance, my heart leaping as I consider how much potential they symbolize. Underneath them all, though, there is a letter postmarked from Boston, without a return address on the back. The letter inside is nothing but a brief note addressed to Tino, and a series of numbers at the bottom.
But I believe I recognize the handwriting.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
LUCA
Itake the time to replace the tile and the table, and then I leave the conservatory, clutching my prizes in one hand, and return to where Finch and Vitali are waiting. “You say nothing about this,” I tell Vitali.
“Of course not, Boss.”
“Go find a large envelope or something to put these in.” I wait until I hear him go upstairs. Finch is watching me closely, and I sit next to him, pleased to see his color has returned. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. What did you find?”
“Useful things. And—this.” I hand him the letter and by the way his eyes widen, I know I was right about the handwriting.
“This is—Momwrote this,” he says, skimming the document inside the envelope, and then staring up at me.
“Yes. I thought so, too.” I’ve seen Finch pore over his mother’s journal enough times for her handwriting to be familiar to me.
He reads the note again, eyes lingering on each word. “But what does itmean?”
“Put it away for now,” I murmur, hearing Vitali’s footsteps returning. “We’ll discuss it at home.”
It’s not that I don’t trust Vitali. It’s just that I will never trust anyone else in this world like I do my husband. And besides, it’s a note fromhismother. He deserves privacy around any discussions.
Finch puts the note back into its envelope and I slip it into my inside jacket pocket just as Vitali arrives back. “Can you wait for me in the kitchen with Vitali?” I ask Finch once I’ve put all the documents into the envelope. Vitali must have gotten it from Tino’s study, I think; the large Morelli crest in the corner shows it came from Tino’s personal stationery.
“Where are you going?” Finch asks.
“I just want to check the library.” It’s partly the truth.
“You’re still not supposed to go up or down stairs on your own—”
“I’ll take it slow. Promise.”
And itisthe library I go to first, after I climb the staircase, a million memories crowding my mind as I step up them as slowly as I promised Finch. At the top I turn right, walk past several doors, and enter the library room.
The scent of leather and old paper fills me with nostalgia again, although my temper rises when I think of my own library in the townhouse, all those books put there with purpose by Tino Morelli as part of my wedding gift, now nothing but ash and pulp.
But as I glance around the shelves, I see many familiar titles, and several that I did not own myself.Learn from those who taught me, Tino told me when he showed me the books he’d collected for me: everything from ancient philosophers and memoirs, to battle tactics and modern warfare. I put those books to good use. Yes, once the Fifth Avenue townhouse is rebuilt and I am confident in its security, I’ll have Tino’s books removed from here and taken into my own library.
I turn to the left bookshelf and trail my hand along worn spines until I find the book I want, and pull it. The whole bookshelf slides smoothly inward, and I smile as I look through the hidden doorway to Tino’s study.
The only time Tino showed me that trick, I was just a boy. But it made an indelible mark on my memory. It still appeals to the kid in me. I’ll show Finch one day soon. Tell him my own memories of Tino, in the hopes that it will bring him some comfort.
I step through into the study. On the other side of the bookshelf, the secret door is masked with a full-length mirror, and I pull it to behind me. I wonder how many other secrets Tino’s house might give up before the renovations are done—Vitali probably knows of this one, although based on the open door to the study he came in via the hallway rather than the library.
Tino’s study is just as I remember, and I stand in the center for a moment just to breathe it in. The furniture here—his desk, the Italian leather sofa—they can come to the townhouse once it’s ready. But I didn’t leave Finch waiting just so I could consider interior decoration. Tino’s study and library were the places I wanted to visit to remember him by. But now there’s one more place in this house that I need to see, although I wish I could avoid it.
I go back to the lower floor as quietly as I can, come around the side of the staircase, and softly open the door that leads to the cellar.
* * *
After the crimescene cleaners and the repeatedly-engaged painters, the stark white wall should not surprise me like it does. But still, in my mind, I see the photographs the Feds made me look at after the attack, when all of us were pulled in and questioned. I see the blood and Tino’s body lying there against the wall, almost unrecognizable in death. He was surrounded by several dead Fuscone and Clemenza soldiers, which gave me so much satisfaction that I actually caught myself smiling during the FBI interrogation. It didn’t go down well, that smile, but I was released soon afterward, thanks to Carlo Bianchi.
Now, in this pristine basement, it takes me a moment to orient myself, to turn and face where I know Tino’s death occurred, and then I take out my phone and replay once more his final moments.
