“Catholic,” Rachel said. “Most Italians are. Can’t have an abortion.”
No, of course not. “So Nick might be Coco Miller’s son. She told me she and Henry didn’t have any children, but that doesn’t mean she might not have had one she gave up for adoption.” Or into foster care.
“It would take a DNA test to find out for sure,” Rachel said, “but I contacted Jaime and let him know. He didn’t sound surprised, so they may have dug up that bit of speculation on their own.”
The door opened and Zachary walked through in time to hear that last. “What speculation?” he wanted to know.
Edwina, who had wagged her tail politely when I came in, went into transports of ecstasy at the sight of Zach. He scooped her up mid-jump and dropped onto the sofa with her. “Yes, it’s good to see you, too. Such a pretty girl. Not like those big monsters I just saw. They’d take your head right off. Yes, they would.”
A trickle of dread went down my back, but I forgot it when he prompted, “What coincidence?”
“Coco Miller’s first name is Costanza. The same as Nick’s last name.”
“Oho!” Zach said. “So Mrs. Miller might be Nick’s… what, grandmother?”
“We were thinking mother,” Rachel said, “although I suppose grandmother isn’t out of the question.”
She glanced at me. “Maybe she had a teenage pregnancy—before she married Henry—and gave the baby up for adoption. And then that baby, probably a girl, became Nick’s mother.”
I nodded. Either way, Mrs. Miller would have been able to claim, without outright lying—which was probably also frowned upon if you were Catholic—that she and Henry hadn’t had children.
“That’s interesting,” Zachary said and turned to me, “but what I want to know is what you discovered at Sal’s house. He was off like a shot when he realized someone was on his property, so he’s either got privacy issues, or he has something to hide.”
“If he does, I didn’t find any of it,” I admitted. “The dogs were roaming the house, so I couldn’t go inside. There’s what looks like red paint in his garage, and a gun cabinet in the great room, in full view of anyone coming in there. If I could see it from the backyard, Lieutenant Copeland must have seen it when she was there the other day.”
“It’s not illegal to have a gun cabinet,” Rachel pointed out. “Nor red paint, either.”
No, it wasn’t. “The only other thing I discovered is that he hasn’t paid his life insurance bill recently. There was a ‘second notice’ envelope in the recycling bin, and a ‘final notice’ one in the mailbox.”
“With the mob taking over his business for their own purposes,” Rachel said, “it wouldn’t be surprising if money is tight.”
No, it wouldn’t. “I thought maybe the policy might be on Nick. Is there any way to find out?”
“I doubt they’ll tell me,” Rachel said, “but it’s worth a try.” She turned to the computer. “What did you say the company was called?”
I told her, and she looked it up. Then she picked up the phone and dialed. “This is Rachel from Fidelity Investigations in Tennessee. I’m calling about a policy in the name of Dominic Costanza.”
A voice on the other end quacked, and Rachel said, “We’re a private investigative firm contracted by Mr. Costanza’s significant other. Mr. Costanza passed away this weekend.”
The voice quacked again, higher pitched this time, and Rachel said, resignedly, “Thank you very much. I’ll do that.”
She disconnected. “They want to see the death certificate, and proof that we’re entitled to the information, before they’ll tell us anything. Do you think we can swing that?”
“I doubt it. But like you said, it was worth a try. And they didn’t deny that there’s a policy with his name on it.”
“I don’t think you can assume anything from that,” Rachel said. “They didn’t confirm it, either.”
“But at least we know that there’s some sort of life insurance policy,” Zachary added. “And that Sal doesn’t have the money to pay the premium.”
We sat in silence for few seconds, chewing on that.
“Not sure why that would be,” I said. “The Body Shop should be doing the same amount of business as before the mob got involved. As long as Sal’s just funneling mob money through his own business accounts, I don’t know why his own bottom line should be suffering.”
“Unless they take a cut,” Zachary said, “and they might.”
“And then there’s the stress,” Rachel nodded. “I can’t imagine mob involvement is good for the psyche.”
No, I couldn’t, either.
