So I hoofed it out of sight, back towards the garage, even as I congratulated myself on spotting what was clearly a gun cabinet—dark wood, glass front, holding at least a couple of rifles and what looked like a pistol or two.
Lieutenant Copeland must have noticed that when she was here on Saturday, surely? She’d gone here to notify Sal of Nick’s death, not to investigate him for murder—or so I assumed—but she must have noticed, right?
I’d just mention it, sort of casually, to Mendoza, I decided, as I gave the garage door a wide berth.
But before I could leg it down the driveway to safety, I was brought up short by the sight of the trash and recycling bins. They were in a little enclosure next to the garage, and I eyed them, and eyed the road, as well as the house, where the dogs were, as I weighed the risks.
Anyone driving by down on the road would be able to see me if I started digging around. Not that there was much traffic, but that could change. And opening the trash bags would also make it obvious that someone had been snooping the next time Sal came out to throw something in one of the cans. Bagging is required in Nashville; the trash companies won’t pick up unbagged trash.
Not to mention that it’s, you know, illegal to snoop through other people’s discards. At least until the trash is off the property, on the public road, which this decidedly wasn’t.
The recycling, though... that was illegal too, of course. But it was just loose items in a bin. No one would know if I just took a quick look.
The dogs had gone quiet, and that helped with my decision. Had they kept barking, I think I would have just hightailed it out of there as quick as I could.
As it was, I lifted the lid of the recycling bin as quietly as I could and peered in. For just a second, I told myself.
The first thing I saw were the beer cans. So many beer cans. Bud Light mostly, with some Miller High Life mixed in. Sal apparently drank a lot of beer, or he’d had a party. Given that he lived alone—or seemed to—I was betting on the former.
Under and between the cans were newspapers, flattened cardboard boxes, and a stack of what looked like circulars and the like. I pulled out a handful, trying not to rustle anything.
It turned out to be junk mail, mostly. Fliers from Home Depot and Lowe’s. A credit card offer ripped in half. Solicitations from St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital and the Shriners. They were unopened, so either Sal wasn’t feeling generous, or he had other things to spend his money on.
There were a couple of envelopes with the celluloid windows that let you see the address through the plastic, the kind that bills come in. They were all slit open at the top and empty of their contents. Sal must have taken the bills out and paid them, and decided to recycle the envelopes.
I peered into the bin to see whether the bills themselves were there too, but no such luck.
The envelopes—and the logos in the corners—told their own story. Comcast—phone bill, or maybe internet, or both. Metro Water—self-explanatory. Nashville Electric Service—ditto. Regions Bank—probably a statement. Sal was old school, it seemed, and received his bills via snail mail.
One of the envelopes was from something called Titan Insurance Group. I turned it over to peer at it.
The envelope was empty, like all the others. Sal must have kept the bill, or thrown it away, or shredded it. But the envelope itself was marked with a red stamp: SECOND NOTICE.
I stared at it for a moment, then put it back where I’d found it and lowered the lid.
Insurance companies didn’t send second notices unless you’d missed the first payment. And they didn’t use red stamps unless they wanted to get your attention.
I wasn’t familiar with Titan. It was something I’d have to ask Rachel to look into, whether it was home or auto insurance, or perhaps life or health. Could be business, even. But either way, Sal was slow to pay the bill. Which probably meant that he was having money trouble. And that wouldn’t be surprising, given that the mob had muscled in on his business. Somehow I doubted the Cosa Nostra was known for their generous profit-sharing arrangements.
The dogs started barking again, set off by the lid closing, and I realized I’d been standing there too long. I hurried down along the edge of the driveway, trying not to look like I was fleeing.
The mailbox sat at the end of the driveway, just outside the gate. I scrambled over the fence and approached it. Messing with the federal mail is more illegal than anything else I’d just done, of course. Nonetheless, I opened it. Just for a quick look, I told myself, and then I’d leave.
More junk mail—pizza coupons, solicitations, a window replacement company. The log cabin hadn’t looked to me like it needed new windows, but what did I know? A utility bill. Piedmont Natural Gas this time. And another envelope from Titan Insurance Group.
This one was stamped FINAL NOTICE in angry red letters.
I pulled it out and looked at the address window. Salvatore Gomorra, this address. And in the corner, printed in small letters: Life Insurance.
So it wasn’t his car insurance or his homeowner’s policy that he wasn’t paying. It wasn’t even the Body Shop’s liability insurance that was in arrears, and I could have made a case for that. Why bother to try to keep a business afloat that the mob was busily driving into the ground?
But no, it was life insurance.
Was it his own life he had insured? Or someone else’s?
Was it Nick’s? Because that would explain a few things, if so.
I felt around for my phone (to take a picture of it) before I remembered that I had left it in the car. All I could do was memorize the logo before I stuffed everything back in the mailbox and headed down the road to my car.
