“Shit,” I said, eyes glued to the rearview mirror. “I think he saw me.”
Zachary caught his breath. “Dammit, Gina?—”
The truck reversed back up the road toward me, and I sank down in my seat. “He definitely saw me. He’s reversing. He’s stopping?—”
“I’m on my way,” Zachary said grimly. “Just hang on.”
I hung on. It was all I could do as I watched the truck idle on the road directly behind my car. After a moment, the driver’s window turned down—I saw Sal’s face—and then something flashed.
A second later the truck had accelerated again, and a second after that it was gone.
I breathed out. “He took a picture of my car—the license plate, I guess—but then he left. I guess he didn’t realize I was sitting here. Abort the mission.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I said. “All I need is a few seconds to get out of here. Or actually?—”
“Yes?”
“Drive past—past me; you’ll see me parked to the left of the road—and then go all the way down to the end of the road and turn around. Don’t draw attention to yourself by stopping or slowing down, but see what he’s doing.”
Zachary made an agreeable little noise. A moment later I saw him zip past where I was parked.
“I’m going now,” I said, “but tell me what you see.”
There was a pause, just a few seconds, and then, “The gate’s open. Sal’s truck is on its way up the driveway to the house.”
Another few seconds passed, and he added, “I’m past the property. I’ll find somewhere to turn around and come back the other way.”
“It’s not far to the end of the road,” I told him. “I’m on my way out now. I’ll head for the interstate and then the office. We’ll reconvene there.”
“Just stay on the line until I’ve gone past again,” Zachary answered. “Just in case. I’m getting close to the end of the road where I can turn around.”
I said I would, and then I drove while I kept the phone next to me and the connection open. A couple of minutes later Zachary was talking again. “I’m approaching the property from the other direction. Sal’s truck is parked in front of the garage. The gates are closed and there are two dogs running around in the yard. Or one of them is running, the other is sniffing the trash cans. Two big German Shepherds, or maybe they’re Malinois. Scary brutes, whatever they are.”
Definitely. “Any sign of Sal?”
“He must be inside, or somewhere in the back. I don’t see him, and the front door is closed.” He waited a beat. “Can I please leave now?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Drive carefully. I’ll see you at the office.”
* * *
I got there a few minutes before he did, just enough time to read Rachel’s text from earlier and confront her about it. “Costanza? Really? Coco Miller’s name is Costanza?”
“Her first name,” Rachel confirmed. “Her maiden name was Peruzza, so she’s definitely Italian, but there’s no connection that I could find to the Gomorras, or the Spataros or Abruzzis. That doesn’t mean there isn’t one?—”
No, of course not. Absence of evidence, etcetera.
“But her first name is Costanza?” The same as Nick’s last name. “That can’t be a coincidence.”
“One wouldn’t think so,” Rachel agreed.
“She must be at least seventy, though. And he’s—what, twenty-seven? Twenty-eight at the most? She would have been in her early to mid-forties when he was born.”
“It does happen,” Rachel said. “And if he wasn’t Henry’s son, there would have been more incentive to get rid of him.”
“I’m surprised she carried him to term.”
