“Where did you hear such a thing, Bernie?”
“Oh honey, I wasn’t born yesterday.” She chuckled, a sound Nico had never heard from the woman before. “I’ve heard of your shenanigans, Mr. Lothario. You love‘em and leave‘em.”
He put his free hand over his heart, “Bernadette, you wound me.”
Bernadette rolled her eyes, “Uh-huh. Now get out of here before I have someone arrest you for being an ambulance chaser.”
Nico chuckled and waved back, “Grazie signora.”
Nico headed out of the police station and dialed his private investigator. “Hey, do me a favor. Look up someone named Autumn Taylor… It might have something to do with Catarina’s death… Thanks.” Putting his phone back, he ran to his car parked down the road and drove to his uncle’s establishment, The Racebook, which was a front for Arturo’s operations.
Nico parked his vehicle in the underground garage and walked on street level. He smirked as he looked at the nondescript white van parked half a block away.
The FBI’s continuous surveillance of the Big Three didn’t fool anyone, least of all Nico. The plainclothes agents that hung around The Racebook needed to be more discreet. Everyone knew what they were doing there.
Thick cigar smoke assailed Nico as he walked inside the building. He nodded to the regulars sitting in the oversized velvet chairs watching horse races on the fifty-inch televisions scattered along the room's perimeter. Two servers passed by with tired smiles, holding trays of alcohol above their heads.
Nico kept moving to the partially closed door at the end of the room. He put his hand up to knock when his uncle beckoned him inside. When Nico sat, Arturo held a finger up as the rapid Italian continued to flow from the older man’s mouth. Nico inclined his head, turned to the other individual, and slumped in the opposite chair.
“Come stai, Matteo?”
His younger cousin, Matteo, shrugged one shoulder. “Così, così.” He tapped his fingers on the end of the chair arm. “Ma still doesn’t know what to do with herself. And with Catarina still…” His voice broke on the last word, and he cleared his throat, “Things still aren’t good, cuz.”
Nico couldn’t express any words of comfort to his cousin. He knew from experience words were meaningless, especially when the loved one died before their time. Nico reached over and squeezed Matteo’s shoulder.
By this time, Arturo had finished with his phone call and put the receiver back in the cradle. He flapped his hand at Matteo, “Vattene da qui. Fuori! Go!”
Matteo stood and saluted his father. On his way out, he waved to Nico, “Ciao, cugino.”
“Ciao, Matteo.”
After Arturo’s son shut the door, his uncle looked at Nico with his chin lifted and eyebrows up to his hairline, “What happened? Tell me everything.”
“Well,” Nico drawled as he leaned back in the chair. He rested one ankle on top of his knee. “Not a damn thing.” He pulled the folder out, “I was able to get this for you.”
Frown lines bracketed around the older man’s eyes as he laced his fingers on top of the desk, “Che c’e?” With furrowed brows, Arturo read through the file. His breathing wheezed out his lungs, “Her eyes…” The man’s cheeks turned a rosy, red as his anger mounted, “Fungulo!” A fist pounded down on the heavy desk. “And there is no suspect yet!”
“It’s an ongoing investigation,Zio.” Nico’s voice was low as he tried to calm his uncle’s anger. “They’re still looking for a suspect.”
“I want my daughter’s body, Nico.” Arturo made a fist and slammed it on the desk again, punctuating his words. “Do I have to go down there myself to steal her from them?”
Nico leaned forward and righted the pictures on the desk that fell face down. He turned one of the frames toward him and looked at Catarina’s smiling face. She stood proud in her NYU cap and gown, holding a bouquet of roses and her proud father’s arm around one of her shoulders.
“You do that, and you wouldn’t see the light of day,” Nico said smoothly as he leaned back in his chair.
Arturo was still reading the file, “Who is this criminal analyst? A clown?” Arturo closed his eyes, muttered Italian, and rubbed the space between his eyebrows.
“Not exactly,” Nico murmured. He scratched at the four o’clock shadow surfacing beneath his chin.
“Che?” Arturo’s eyes lasered in on him.
“Autumn Taylor. She’s the lead criminal analyst.”
“A woman?” Arturo made a face, “What would she possibly know?”
Arturo Casale was from the old school where women stayed home and tended to their husbands.
“Why the murderer chose Catarina, for one.” Nico shrugged his shoulder, “And if I can get close enough, possibly where to find him.”
