A time for reckoning, p.11
A Time for Reckoning, page 11
“Any luck?”
“A couple seem to be good possibilities, but she’s run into a bit of a wild card that disturbs her.”
“What’s that?”
“The sheriff in Douglas. Some of these women are afraid of retaliation from both the Lewis family and the sheriff. I’d like to take depositions from a few of them before we file the divorce papers.”
“I can do that. I’ve been there once already.”
Penelope shakes her head. “You’re not going back.”
“I’m certainly not going to let you go,” I argue.
She stares at me for a long moment. “Not that you’re gonna tell me what I can and can’t do, partner, but I wasn’t going to suggest it.”
“Then what?”
“If you’re agreeable to the expense, I’m thinking we’ll do the depositions in Denver. A couple of possible witnesses live there, and we can pay to bring any others in. With luck, Lewis won’t even know it’s happening.”
“Good thinking.”
She smiles. “I thought so.”
We spend the next fifteen minutes reviewing some of our other cases. We’re in the middle of puzzling over a particularly hopeless repeat DUI when Joan pokes her head in the door.
“Peter Zaluski is on the phone,” she says gravely. “He needs to speak with you.”
“Did he say why?” Penelope asks.
“Something about Grazyna’s husband calling and making threats. Peter sounds frightened.”
“Put him through.”
Penelope puts the call on speaker. “Hello, Mr. Zaluski. Tony is with me.”
“Hi, Peter,” I say. He doesn’t return the greeting.
“We need to see you right away,” he blurts in a strained voice.
Penelope shoots me a look of concern as she says, “I understand Mark Lewis called.”
Peter sounds shaken when he replies, “Yes.”
“Do you want to tell us about it?”
“In person.”
“Let me check my calendar,” Penelope says while meeting my gaze.
I take the hint and pull up the calendar on my iPhone. I have some trial prep to do but no appointments.
Penelope scribbles 11:00? on a memo pad and spins it toward me. I nod.
“Can you be here at eleven this morning,” she asks Peter.
“Yes,” he says with a sigh of relief.
“You’ll bring Grazyna?”
“We’ll both be there. Thank you.”
“No worries,” Penelope says. “See you soon.”
Apparently, things are hopping a little sooner than I expected.
When Peter and Grazyna arrive an hour later, she appears far more frazzled than Peter had sounded on the phone, and he sounded plenty frazzled. Penelope ushers them into the conference room. Joan delivers a plate of home-baked comfort food, plus tea and coffee, then closes the door softly on her way out.
“Are you okay?” Penelope asks Grazyna, who is nervously wringing her hands and bouncing a leg.
“Not really.”
I meet Peter’s gaze. “Who wants to tell us what happened?”
Grazyna sits forward. “Mark has called the house several times and left messages. Rude messages,” she adds with an apologetic glance at her uncle. She’s moved on from wringing her hands and is systematically picking a muffin to pieces on the plate in front of her. I’m not sure she’s even aware of what she’s doing.
“We don’t usually pick up when he calls,” Peter continues. “I’m getting tired of the messages, so I answered when he called this morning.”
“Go on,” Penelope says.
“Excuse the language,” he says with a grimace. “He told me to put Grazyna on the line. When I wouldn’t, he started shouting fuck this, fuck that. I imagine he hoped she was close enough to hear.”
“I was,” Grazyna murmurs. “I am surprised you did not hear him all the way over here.”
“What did he say?” Penelope prompts.
“He demanded to know when ‘the bitch’ was coming home where she belonged,’” Peter replies with distaste.
“And that there was a world of hurt waiting for me when he gets his hands on me,” Grazyna adds angrily.
“Right,” Peter says.
“Anything else?” I ask. While I’m sure the call was upsetting, I can’t imagine they hurried here just to tell us that.
I’m right.
“When I told him to quit calling and not to threaten her again, he blew up,” Peter says. “He told me he has our address in Cedar Heights and that if we thought we were going to keep his wife away from him, we had another think coming.”
“He said he is coming to get me and that he would drag me home by the hair if he had to,” Grazyna says indignantly, but with an undercurrent of fear.
Peter’s lips tighten into a straight line. “And that he’d beat the shit out of her if she embarrassed him like this again.”
“You think he’ll really come?” Penelope asks Grazyna.
She nods.
My partner meets my eyes. “Think that’s enough to get an injunction?”
“With affidavits from Peter and Grazyna, I’d say so.”
“Maybe you can have a chat with Jake Plummer as well?” she suggests.
Grazyna and Peter are watching our conversation with interest. Peter knows who Plummer is; Grazyna looks confused.
“Jake Plummer is the police chief in Cedar Heights,” I explain. “We’ll give him a heads up to keep an eye out for Mark.”
She nods, although I can see that she doubts it will offer much protection.
“You don’t know Jake,” I say. “When he hears about threats of abuse, his ears will perk up and he’ll ask his people to keep an eye out for Mark.”
“I imagine Jake can have his people monitor passenger manifests for flights into Chicago and flag Mark if he is on a flight landing in Chicago,” Penelope adds.
Peter nods as if he thinks this is a good idea.
Grazyna looks unconvinced. “He will charter a flight or talk his father into letting him use the company jet.”
“We’ll cover whatever bases we can,” I say to give her some reassurance. Her skittish expression suggests my effort didn’t work.
“The Sandwich Emporium is only four blocks away,” Penelope says. “Why don’t you and Grazyna go grab some lunch and I’ll set the wheels in motion to apply for a restraining order while you eat. We’ll do affidavits after lunch, and I’ll file the order this afternoon or first thing in the morning.”
I’m about to ask Penelope how she plans to serve Mark Lewis, but clamp my lips shut. I’m sure she’s already thought of that. She’s always a step or two—sometimes three or more—ahead of me.
Penelope returns to the conference room after she shows them out and drops into her chair with a heavy sigh. “We seem to have a lot of loose cannons loaded and careening around us these days, don’t we?”
I nod.
“I hope none go off.”
“Especially while I’m on vacation, huh?” I ask.
She smiles. “We’ll somehow scrape through in your absence, big boy. Go and enjoy the UK with Trish.”
17
“I don’t believe there’s a Valenti family coat of arms or a village in Calabria named in honor of our family,” I say with a laugh. Trish and I are watching the River Thames roll past a few feet away from the terrace of The Swan, a seventeenth-century “Listed Building” in the quaint little English village that is her family’s ancestral home. We’ve come here a month after the topic of visiting her relatives first came up. I had an ulterior motive for suggesting the trip, but the journey would have been worthwhile even without the side trip I have planned for tomorrow.
Trish’s Uncle Thomas chuckles. Other than a brief stint in the Royal Navy, Thomas Pangborne has spent his entire life right here in Pangbourne, where he is a longstanding member of the Parish Council. He also plays first trombone in the Pangbourne and District Silver Band, a brass band of some local renown.
“I don’t believe the Italians, by and large, are quite as caught up in pretensions as we English are,” he says with a smile. “To be perfectly frank, I’m not sure if that is a good or a bad thing.”
Thomas is a charming man who, along with his wife, Margaret, has been hosting Trish and me for the past two days. We began our visit to England last weekend with a few days in London, seeing a West End show and playing tourist. We hopped on a train Thursday morning in Paddington Station for the one-hour ride to Pangbourne. Tonight, Saturday, the local branch of the Pangborne clan is hosting a dinner in Trish’s honor in The Swan’s private dining room, which is located in the pub’s old coal bunker. It’s a beautiful summer evening, so we’ve drifted back and forth between the dining room and the lovely stone terrace separated from the famous river by a black wrought iron railing. Dipping our toes in the water from where we stand would be a piece of cake.
England is playing against type this week. The weather has been gorgeous every day, with nary a cloud in the sky and temperatures in the mid-seventies. Even the food has been consistently good. The food at The Swan—pub fare, as they call it here—is terrific. Our fish-and-chip dinners this evening were a case in point.
“Dinner was fabulous,” I tell Thomas.
He smiles. “Chuffed to hear you say so. Nothing fancy, but supper at The Swan works a treat every time.”
Translation: They serve a brilliant meal! I’m getting a kick out of the many new phrases I’m learning on “this side of the pond.”
“So, Tony, I hear you’re off to Southampton on Monday?” Thomas asks. “What will you be doing there?”
Deciding that honesty is definitely not the best policy at the moment, I refrain from sharing the truth with Thomas, as that would necessitate telling him about the rape and assault my brother inflicted on his niece. “Just looking up an old acquaintance from long ago. We’ll have lunch.”
Thomas shoots Trish a sideways glance. “I understand you’ll be staying here with us?”
“Auntie told me I can come to your band practice.”
Thomas’s face creases into a delighted smile. “Smashing! Our granddaughter is in the band now, you see.”
“So I hear. I’m looking forward to hearing you play.”
“I think I could live here quite happily,” Trish says wistfully an hour later as we take a post-dinner stroll around the village. Trish is walking close beside me. Her hands are wrapped around my arm and her head rests on my shoulder as we meander along the Thames Path beside the dark river. We’re nearing Thomas and Margaret’s quaint little home at the edge of the village.
I shoot her a sideways glance. Things between us have been good for the past month. Our London sojourn was a delight, or at least I thought it was. Now she wants to move an ocean away from me? I don’t respond, hoping it was a passing thought or even a little gentle teasing.
She slows to a stop and wraps her arms around my neck, leaning into me while she looks into my eyes. “It’s so peaceful here, Tony, and so far away from… you know. I haven’t felt this relaxed in months.”
Since before my brother attacked her. Something in my gaze must betray my inner thoughts.
“You’re the one who told me that a change of scenery might be good,” she whispers. “Maybe you were right.”
“I was thinking of a week or two away.”
She nestles her face into my chest. “I know. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy being here as much as I do.”
We stand quietly for a couple of minutes. I’m afraid to say something that might upset her. After all, I’m the guy who told her that I’ll support anything she chooses to do.
She tilts her face up and plants a soft kiss on my lips, then steps back to resume our stroll. The topic of her relocating here doesn’t come up again before we nestle together in the marvelously soft bed in Thomas and Margaret’s guest room.
“It was a wonderful evening, wasn’t it?” she asks softly as we spoon together.
“Yes,” I murmur in her ear as I wrap my arms around her and snuggle closer.
Things have been more comfortable between us since our Broadway in Chicago date night. I’d insisted that we forgo an attempt at lovemaking that night, opting instead for spending the night cuddling under the covers of her king-size bed. Without the pressure of trying to make the sex work, Trish had relaxed. So had I. We’ve spent many nights since this way, often with long bouts of necking and petting that haven’t progressed any further than that. I’d joked that it reminded me of my high school days with girls who didn’t want to go all the way. “Let’s just take it as it comes,” I told her. “When and if you want to go further, we can, but the ball is in your court, Trish.”
She’s happy with the arrangement but also worried about how long I’ll be satisfied with it—no matter how much I try to reassure her that it’s what I want, too.
We spend a few minutes talking quietly before she turns in my arms and gives me a long, languid kiss, which leads to other things. We do most everything short of intercourse, including me bringing her to a climax with my fingers before she lays her head on my chest with her arms around my neck and falls into a contented sleep.
I lie quietly well into the night, luxuriating in the feel of her in my arms while worrying about her earlier comment about decamping here. Is she serious? Am I invited? What will it mean for us if she decides to go through with it?
On Sunday morning, Margaret serves us a “right proper” full British breakfast of bacon, sausage, eggs, black pudding, baked beans, tomatoes, and mushrooms—a monstrosity that puts trucker’s breakfasts in America to shame. I’ve had four-course meals that weigh half as much! Margaret and Thomas then take us on a two-mile walk to Basildon Park, an estate run by the National Trust. We wander the grounds and the massive seventeenth century house, which has been restored to the splendor of its country estate days, complete with an impressive collection of old English and European paintings. We visit Beale Wildlife Park on the way back, where we spend another hour meandering through gardens and gawking at an eclectic collection of animals. By the time we return home four hours later, I suspect that I’ve worked off four or five percent of my breakfast calories.
As we drift off to sleep, my worries about Trish moving here are finally crowded out of my mind by my eagerness to get to Southampton in the morning to meet with a man who served with Frankie in the marines and later as a private security contractor.
18
Although we joked about renting something from one of Pangbourne’s high-end car dealers—an Aston Martin dealership as well as Lamborghini and Bentley stores—I end up borrowing Thomas’s red 1963 Triumph Spitfire for the one-hour drive to Southampton. The little two-seater is perfect for the English roads and has more than enough pep to hold its own on the six-lane M3 motorway. Once into town, I rely on my phone GPS to cover the final miles as my excitement grows at the prospect of learning something that might help locate my brother.
Locating Martin Thorne-Dalyrimple hadn’t been easy. Pat O’Toole had finally worked it out, starting with the name Marty Thorne that he used in the marines. It was the only name Jo knew him by. A Washington DC journalist Pat once worked with at the Chicago Tribune managed to talk a Pentagon source into coughing up the names of the marines Frankie served with during his tour of duty in Iraq. Thorne’s next of kin was his wife, listed as Trudy Thorne-Dalyrimple, who Jo told us is English. Following up on Jo’s idea that Trudy and Marty may have returned to the UK, Pat dug deeper, querying the full surname throughout the UK. After unearthing a few dozen T. Thorne-Dalyrimples, but no Trudy Thorne-Dalyrimple, Pat finally hit paydirt by searching for a Martin Thorne-Dalyrimple. I called the contact number Pat found in public records and confirmed that he was indeed the man who served with Frankie. I managed to talk him into seeing me by explaining that I’m Frankie’s brother, and that I wish to see him on a matter of urgency best discussed in person. Intimating that Jo and Carly are in danger cinched the deal. I don’t know what to expect when I arrive at the business address he’s given me. The bond between soldiers is strong, oftentimes stronger than family bonds. Even after falling out with him, it’s likely that Thorne-Dalyrimple will feel more loyalty to Frankie than to a stranger fishing for information.
I’m shown into his office at a manufacturing concern. He stays in his seat for a long moment and studies me with gray granite eyes before he gets up, comes around the desk, and shakes hands. He seems to be about my height and build, but I remember his bare torso from one of the pictures of him and Frankie with their marine buddies. He’s lithe and well-muscled. Something in his manner projects a hidden menace. Not a guy to mess with.
“Tony Valenti,” I say as we shake hands.
“Martin Thorne-Dalyrimple,” he replies.
“Aka Marty Thorne.”
There’s a hint of amusement in his eyes when he nods. “I’ve been called that—and worse.” He gestures at a pair of guest chairs. “Let’s sit down. Coffee? Tea?”
I glance at my watch. 11:03. “We’re still going for lunch?”
He nods. “Around eleven thirty.”
“I’ll pass and get something then.”
“Fair enough. Interested in the story behind the name?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“My parents are Brits. Dad worked in the US from time to time. I was born in New York and raised on both sides of the pond, depending on where Dad’s career took him. The kids at school in the US called me Pimple after they heard my full name, so I shortened things up to Marty Thorne when I enlisted. End of story.”
“That doesn’t explain going back to your proper name.”
He smiles. “No, it doesn’t.”
“You’re not going to tell me that part?”
He studies me, then shakes his head. “Tell me about yourself.”
I deliver a quick biography, touching on my abuse at Frankie’s hands, but holding back on recent events involving Frankie.
He nods and says, “That sounds about right. I thought back over what Frank told me about your family and did a little research on you.”
