He’d caught on to the concept of presents at his last birthday and was using that word and the word candy more and more as we closed in on the twenty-fifth of the month.

  Maria had officially started her maternity leave and wasn’t sleeping well, which meant I wasn’t sleeping well either. But I was still getting up to take care of Damon while she rested.

  I was yawning and drinking a strong cup of coffee at my desk downtown on December 23 when John Sampson plopped another stack of files in front of me.

  “More evidence against Diggs and Beech,” he said.

  Chief George Pittman had made his way into the squad room. “It’s a slam dunk now. Diggs is going to fry, and Beech? Who knows?”

  “Chief—” I began.

  “That’s over for now, Cross. I have a new case for you and Sampson.”

  Pittman said he’d been contacted by the chief of homicide for NYPD in Brooklyn.

  “They’re dealing with a gangland slaying up there, an Italian Mob hit that might have ties down here,” the chief said, putting a piece of paper with a phone number on it on my desk. “Detective’s name is Slattery. He’s waiting for your call.”

  I could tell it was an order, so I nodded, told Sampson to get on the same line, and punched in the NYPD detective’s number on my desk phone.

  “Damian Slattery, Homicide,” said a harried voice.

  “Alex Cross and John Sampson, DC Homicide,” I said. “Our bosses thought we should talk.”

  “Yeah, that’s affirmative, Detectives, and I appreciate the call back,” Slattery said, and he gave us a brief intro to his case.

  Late the afternoon before, Aldo Ricci, a lieutenant in the Capula crime family, had been found dead—beaten and skinned in places—near the back of a junkyard. The consensus among investigators was that the murder was the work of the rival Maggione syndicate.

  “But no one’s talking on either side, Capula or Maggione. Least of all to me, a mick.”

  Sampson said, “That’s how it still goes up there?”

  “Being Italian helps in certain circles; being Irish helps in others,” he said matter-of-factly. “Which is why I don’t think the killer was a Maggione soldier.”

  “Contract killer?” I said.

  “A very specific one,” Slattery said. “His name is Michael Sullivan, but he goes by a dozen aliases. In Ireland and at Scotland Yard, they call him ‘the Butcher of Sligo.’ Likes to leave a calling card like flaying skin off his victims before and after death.”

  Slattery said Sullivan was last known to be working in Europe, but the way Aldo Ricci was beaten and his skin taken off his back, the NYPD detective was fairly sure they were dealing with the Butcher.

  “But you could help me nail that down by visiting Aldo’s brother Emilio,” Slattery said. “He lives in DC. He does not know that his brother is dead. We have not announced the killing yet.”

  “Give us an address,” Sampson said, “and we’re on our way.”

  CHAPTER 89

  EMILIO FAZIO, A LEAN, intense man in his late thirties, lived by himself in a small condo complex near the Bethesda line. We caught him exiting his place dressed in running gear.

  When he saw our badges, Fazio was initially hostile. “Whatever’s going on, I had nothing to do with it and I intend to keep it that way.”

  “We’re not here because of you, Mr. Fazio,” I said. “It’s your brother Aldo.”

  Fazio turned stony. “Aldo’s my stepbrother, and I am not involved. Whatever Aldo’s done now, I am not involved.”

  “I’m sorry to say that Aldo’s dead, Mr. Fazio,” Sampson said.

  The news hit Fazio hard. He looked at the ground, shaking his head at the injustice.

  “When?” he asked finally.

  “He was found yesterday afternoon,” I said. “We’re waiting on time of death.”

  Fazio bobbed his head slowly. “How? Where?”

  Sampson and I exchanged glances.

  I said, “In a Brooklyn junkyard. Beaten to death.”

  The dead man’s stepbrother took a long breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry to hear that. Aldo deserved something more … merciful. Just glad my mom’s not around to know.”

  “Some skin was cut off his back,” Sampson told him.

  “His upper back?”

  We nodded.

  “The tattoo,” Fazio said.

  “He had a tattoo on his upper back?”

  “Eagle wings,” he said. “Got them when he was fifteen. Drove my mom nuts.”

  Fazio talked to us for an hour, describing how his widowed mother had married Aldo’s divorced father. His stepfather had operated on the fringes of the Maggione family, running small bookie operations.

  “Aldo and I, we were almost the same age,” Fazio said. “At first, like when we were ten, it was good between us. But I did everything to stay out of the crime thing. And then Aldo got that tattoo and started hanging with guys from the Capula family just to piss his dad off.”

  Fazio said his life and Aldo’s life had gone in separate directions.

  “I went to Fordham at eighteen,” he said. “Aldo boosted seven cars at eighteen, got caught, and went to Sing Sing for grand theft auto.”

  By the time his stepbrother was released, Emilio Fazio had a whole new life.

  “I have a law degree and work for the Commerce Department, cover international trade issues,” he said. “I’ve had nothing to do with Aldo for years.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” I said.

  Fazio looked uncomfortable. “Two Thanksgivings ago. So, a little over a year? My mom was sick, and she insisted we both come to her place in Queens.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Bad,” Fazio said. “Aldo got drunk and started talking about all the women he was seeing, the money he was making, and the people who had it out for him.”

  “He mention any names?”

  “Just that they were all with the Maggione family,” he said, and frowned at some distant memory. “No, that’s not true. He did mention someone specifically and seemed very unnerved when he did.”

  My pager buzzed. I took it out and saw it was my grandmother calling, which she never did when I was at work.

  I walked away from Sampson and Fazio, found a pay phone, and called her. “Nana? Something wrong?”

  “Everything’s right,” my grandmother said. “Maria’s gone into labor. I’ve just come back from taking her to St. Anthony’s. Go meet her there, and I’ll stay here with Damon.”

  CHAPTER 90

  MARIA’S FIRST DELIVERY HAD been slow, with Damon coming into our lives after fourteen hours of labor. But she’d dilated fast after her water broke at Nana Mama’s house, and I almost missed this birth.

  I literally skidded into Maria’s room to find her sweating from head to toe, tended by two nurses and her obstetrician, Dr. Barbara Holmes, and very happy to see me.

  “You made it for the grand finale,” she said, grinning.

  “Just made it,” said Dr. Holmes. “We’re going to push at the next contraction, okay?”

  I took my wife’s hand, and when the contraction came, Maria strained and screamed. At the end a nurse said, “Already starting to crown. Your baby’s at the finish line!”

  Twenty-five minutes later, the miracle that was Janelle “Jannie” Cross slid from her mother. She immediately began taking heaving breaths of air that she expelled in cries and squawks. Maria and I broke down, grinning with joy through our tears.

  “She’s a big girl, got all her fingers and toes,” Dr. Holmes announced, examining her. “Look at those legs. And listen to the set of lungs she’s got!”

  Indeed, Janelle squawked and wiggled and sputtered between deep breaths that visibly expanded her rib cage. We started laughing.

  “No wonder it felt like she was fighting to get out,” Maria said.

  I said, “My little Janelle, my little Jannie, was ready for life. She is ready for life!”

  I gazed at my daughter. Even though she was full of what Nana Mama would call piss and vinegar, it was love at first sight. The nurse laid Jannie on her mama’s chest.

  Jannie almost instantly stopped squawking, and Maria cooed. “Look at you, little one. Welcome to the world, Janelle.”

  I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sight or had a better moment. I started tearing up again. The nurse took Jannie to check her vital signs, and the baby squawked again.

  “You’ll be right back, young lady, I promise,” the nurse said.

  She weighed and measured Jannie, then brought her back to Maria, who was being cleaned up, and laid our baby on her chest again, skin to skin. “Eight pounds and two ounces, twenty inches,” she said. “Perfect APGAR score.”

  “Yay,” Maria said softly, tiredly, stroking Jannie’s back while the other nurse put a warm blanket over her little body.

  I put my hand by Maria’s on Janelle’s back, and we basked in the grace of that for several minutes before Maria said, “You should make some calls, tell Damon he’s got a baby sister.”

  “When do you think I can bring him in?” I asked Dr. Holmes.

  “I think mom and baby will be ready to greet visitors in a few hours or so,” she said. “Give Maria and Janelle time to rest.”

  I got home about two hours later. Damon was just waking up from his nap.

  I went into his bedroom and said, “Santa brought you an early Christmas present.”

  That got him alert pronto. “Present?”

  “Your baby sister was born!”

  He seemed confused until I said that Janelle was the present, at which point he looked a little disappointed, but he cheered up when I asked him if he wanted to go with me and Nana to meet Jannie and see his mother.

  We walked into Maria’s hospital room soon after, with Nana Mama leading the way. Jannie was swaddled in Maria’s arms and sound asleep.

  “She’s beautiful, Maria,” my grandmother whispered.

  “Isn’t she?”

  I carried Damon over to the bed. At first he frowned, as if he were unsure about this new thing taking his spot in his mother’s arms.

  “Isn’t she pretty, Damon?” Maria asked.

  Damon shrugged and held out his arms, whining, “Mommy.”

  “Mommy can’t hold you right now. I have to hold your sister for a bit, just like I held you when you were born. But do you want a kiss?”

  He nodded with a pout, and I lowered him until she could kiss him on the cheek. He laughed and said, “Kiss Jannie?”

  “You want to?” Maria asked.

  Damon nodded. We moved them close, and he kissed her forehead, which set off Ahhs in the room from the nurses on duty.

  “Jannie pretty,” Damon said when I shifted him to my hip.

  “She’s more than that, bud,” I said and rubbed his head. “She’s your little sister, and you always need to help and take care of her. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, and laid his head on my shoulder, and suddenly everything was perfect in my life.

  CHAPTER 91

  GARY SONEJI HAD TO admit it: Missy was right about the tuxedo. It fit him well and made him feel different, empowered even.

  And her mother, Christiana, had been absolutely correct about her brother’s heated barn being a wonderful venue for a wedding and reception, especially when it was lavishly decorated for Christmas Eve.

  Fresh holly, laurel, and evergreen garlands wrapped the old posts, lower beams, and railings inside the barn. A string trio was softly playing Christmas tunes. The air was scented with spice from pots bubbling atop woodstoves burning in the corners.

  Three large wood and electric-candle chandeliers were suspended over the central space, throwing a warm glow on the crowd of one hundred, all busily gabbing or drinking or nibbling cheese or finding assigned dinner seats at one of the long tables on the floor or up in one of the old haylofts.

  It was all so wonderful that it unnerved Soneji a little as he moved through the crowd, sipping from his champagne glass, accepting congratulations, and feigning interest in the names of the perfect strangers who’d come at him in waves since Roni had toddled down the aisle with flowers, and he and Missy had exchanged their vows. By the time he crossed the room a second time, he was getting upset. How was he supposed to remember all these names?

  “Gary!”

  Soneji would not have turned if the call had come from behind him, but Missy’s older brother, Marty, was coming right at him, his bow tie already undone and his collar open. A glass of whiskey neat was nestled in his paw of a hand.

  “Marty,” Soneji said, and prepared for the man-hug he knew was coming.

  Built like a Greco-Roman wrestler, Marty Kasajian had huge, long arms that he wrapped around Soneji as he rubbed his dense, dark beard against Soneji’s cheek. His breath stank of cigar smoke and liquor.

  “You’re true family now, Murph,” Marty said when he broke the embrace. “A brother to me and to all who are gathered here for you and my baby sister and that precious Roni.”

  “That’s kind and great,” Soneji said, trying to sound pleased. “So great. Thank you, Marty.”

  “A drink!” Marty cried. “We must drink to this union, Gar, with a great bourbon!”

  Soneji hated it when Marty called him Gar.

  “I promise I’ll share one with you later,” he said. “I don’t think Missy would want me sloppy drunk this early in the night.”

  Marty Kasajian closed one eye, pursed his lips, and nodded as he held out his glass. “And my sister would be right. She’s always right. That’s the thing about wives and sisters—they have a sixth sense about what’s right, don’t they?”

  Soneji spotted Missy waving him to their table. “I’m learning that,” he said. He left his brother-in-law and went to his bride’s side.

  “You look stunning in that dress,” he said. “Really.”

  “Aww,” Missy said. “Thank you. Mama says I got lucky.”

  “No, I’m the one who got lucky.”

  Beside Missy, Roni started clinking a glass with her spoon. Soon many in the barn were clinking. Soneji leaned in and kissed Missy and then Roni, which got a roar of approval.

  Soneji raised his glass to the crowd, feeling once again that this was all happening to someone else. The sense of being an impostor in the constant center of attention intensified during dinner and with every spoon-clinking and kiss.

  Halfway through his roast duck, claustrophobia began to set in. He needed air. He needed a few moments alone.

  He excused himself and told Missy he’d be right back, then he went to the stall that served as a cloakroom and found his overcoat.

  Soneji went outside. He walked away from the barn into the darkness, glad for the clear, cold night, glad to be free of the incessant chatter that constantly boiled out of his wife and everyone at the event. Couldn’t they all just shut up once in a while?

  He wasn’t sure how long he stood there looking up at the night sky, but it was long enough that his fingers and toes felt numb when he turned back toward the barn and his future. He was confronted at the door by Missy, who whispered furiously, “I’ve been looking for you. We’ve all been looking for you.”

  “But Missy—” he began.

  “Don’t ‘But Missy’ me,” she hissed. “You’re embarrassing me. We were supposed to cut the cake with Roni, and you were nowhere to be found! And the band kept playing and saying, ‘Where’s the groom? Do we have a runner?’”

  “I was looking at the stars on Christmas Eve at my wedding reception,” he said wearily. “I suppose I could get angry at you for not being there. But I’m not.”

  “Let’s cut the cake, shall we?” she said after a long pause. She took him by the hand and led him back into the barn. “He was out there freezing and looking at stars,” Missy said in a voice loud and exasperated enough to make the crowd laugh. But he could see she wasn’t amused as they cut the cake.

  Soneji kept smiling as they pushed pieces of cake into each other’s mouths, but Missy shoved a little too hard for his liking.

  He kept smiling. He would let her get away with this kind of thing tonight, but not in the future. Missy would have to be taught not to diminish him in public. She would have to learn there were punishments for that.

  The harsh fantasies that sparked in his brain then should have been enough to calm his anger. But when it was time for their first dance and Missy warned him against stepping on her hem and ruining everything, he had had enough.

  As they danced, Soneji kept looking at his twice-bride’s eyes and then down at her neck, thinking once again how satisfying it would be to strangle Missy with his bare hands and how perfect it would be when Cheryl Lynn Wise finally took her rightful place in his cruel loving arms.

  CHAPTER 92

  LATE CHRISTMAS AFTERNOON FOUND our family at Nana Mama’s, where we’d spent the previous day and evening after Maria and Jannie’s release from St. Anthony’s.

  Mom and newborn were upstairs nursing. My grandmother was baking a ham and making garlic potato pancakes, the delicious smell of which competed with the odor of the Fraser fir tree in the front room. On the TV was a football game.

  I was on the floor with my back to the Christmas tree and the opened presents, paying little attention to the game and playing with Damon, his new Tonka dump truck, and the little figurines from his Lego set. He had a grandma in the cab at the wheel of the truck and the other five figures seated in the dump bed with a stuffed little Saint Bernard he was calling Tilly for reasons that were unclear.

  “Tilly nice dog,” Damon said.

  “I can see that,” I said. “Why is she named Tilly?”

  Damon shrugged. “She Tilly, Dad.”

  That was about as logical as toddlers got, so I decided not to probe further. He got on his knees and began to push the toy truck around, making vroom-vroom noises. The doorbell rang.

  The door opened and shut, and John Sampson peeked his head into the front room. “Merry Christmas!”

 

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