It turned out that her two-hour estimate was off-they were back in East End Harbor in a little over an hour. Justin took twelve stitches in his cheek and four stitches to close a small gash over his left eye. He did have a broken rib, and the doctor in the emergency room wrapped him in a bandage that left him feeling mummified. Burn ointment was lathered on his hand and that was wrapped also. He was given a solid dose of painkillers and told to take them whenever he needed them. Justin didn't speak much during his treatment. He answered the doctors' questions with one- or two-word answers, and Reggie made it clear that the doctors were not to ask too many questions.
When they arrived back at Justin's house, both Justin and Reggie were surprised to find out it wasn't yet 8 p.m.
"I think the plane should take you both back tonight," she said to Jonathan Westwood. "I called the pilot from the hospital. He's waiting at the airport. Gary or Mike can take you."
They were all surprised when Justin said, "We're going with them."
She turned to him and said, "Jay, that's not a good idea."
"Doesn't matter if it's good or not. And if you don't want to go, that's fine. But I'm going up there now." She said nothing, simply tilted her head-that was the way she asked the question-and he said, "I think I'm beginning to understand what's going on. And if I'm right, we need to see Lenny Rube. In person. I don't think he'll be taking my calls."
Jonathan started to argue, to say that they could all go up the next morning, but Justin waved him off. Looking at Reggie, he said, "We can see him and come straight back. But we need to see him tonight."
She looked at Jonathan and shrugged.
Ten minutes later they were on their way to the East Hampton Airport.
The airplane ride was short and relatively quiet. Roger had recovered enough to go over some of the fine points of the various stock deals he'd uncovered. Talking about it seemed to help him regain his strength. Reggie was hearing most of this for the first time, but she caught on quickly-asked a few questions for clarification, mostly kept quiet and absorbed what she was listening to.
When they landed in Providence and were disembarking, Jonathan handed the pilot a thousand dollars and asked him how long he could wait to take Justin and Reggie back that night. The pilot said, "As long as you'd like, Mr. Westwood."
On the ground, Justin touched his father on the shoulder, said, "I'm sorry you had to see that tonight. I'm sorry you had to be there. I would never have put you in danger like that if I had known."
Jonathan only said, "Thank you for saving our lives." And then: "I love you."
They smiled at each other. When Roger shook Justin's hand he, too, said, "Thank you." Then he did his best to grin and said, "I'm hittin' your dad up for one major bonus."
Jonathan had arranged for two cars. One for him and Roger. One for Justin and Reggie. Justin and Reggie's car took them about thirty minutes from the airport, into an area of Providence called College Hill. It was a clean, suburban-looking neighborhood with expensive, colonial-style houses.
"Looks like a place where wealthy businessmen should live," Reggie said as the car pulled into a gated driveway.
"They do," Justin said solemnly. "You're about to meet one of the wealthiest."
"How do you know where he lives?" Reggie asked.
"Every cop in Rhode Island knows where Lenny Rube lives," he said. "They've all been here for dinner."
The driver stopped at the intercom before the gate and dialed up to the house. When a man's voice at the other end said, "Who is it?" Justin leaned over and said his name. There was a fairly long silence, then a woman's voice said, "We're having a dinner party, Mr. Westwood. I'm afraid this isn't a good time. We're just starting our dessert."
"Is this Mrs. Rubenelli?" he asked.
"Yes, it is."
"Ask your husband if he'd rather talk to me in private right now or if he'd like me to drag him out of your dinner party by his hair and arrest him in front of all your guests."
There was another silence. Then the gate slowly began to open. The car drove up the long driveway, dropped them off in front of the house, and Justin asked the driver to please wait. He said they wouldn't be long.
They were ushered into the Rubenelli house-the parlor was nearly as big as Justin's house in East End-and asked to wait in a den off to the right. As they were led to the smaller room, they could make out the dining room and a large table with perhaps twelve guests seated around it. There was lots of laughter and good cheer emanating from the room. Justin was willing to wait exactly five minutes before going into the dining room and putting a damper on all the fun. But with thirty seconds to go, Leonardo Rubenelli joined them in the den.
"You were always a rude bastard," Lenny Rube said. He looked at Justin and said, "Jesus Christ. What the hell happened to you?" Justin didn't bother to respond. Lenny Rube raised his eyes, a look that said, Okay, if that's the way you want to play it, then he saw Reggie and said, "Excuse me. Leonard Rubenelli." He extended his hand, and she shook it.
"Agent Regina Bokkenheuser," she said. "FBI."
"What do you want?" Lenny Rube said.
It was Justin who answered. "I want Bruno."
"What, you don't know how to get in touch with him?"
"He seems to be out of touch at the moment."
Lenny said nothing for a minute, as if he was pondering the request, then he said, "You know, I never liked the fact that you and Bruno were so friendly. It's always made me uncomfortable. Other people, too."
"I wouldn't overestimate our friendship so much if I were you, Len. This isn't a social occasion. I want you to tell him to talk to me."
"I'll tell him when I see him. That it? That's what's so pressing? Can I go back to my guests now?"
"Not yet," Justin said. "You might want to sit down for this."
Rubenelli waited long enough to convey that it was his choice whether or not he was going to stay, but when the decision was made, he sat in a large, overstuffed chair with a multicolored, flower-patterned, quilted fabric. Justin began to talk. He told the Mafia boss almost all of the financial details he'd learned from Roger, down to the profits that Rubenelli's various red-named companies had been making-as well as their recent losses. He explained as much as he needed to about Evan Harmon's shorting scheme and financial sleight-of-hand artistry.
Rubenelli said nothing until Justin was finished. Then he pulled a pack of cigarettes from a drawer. To Reggie he said, "You mind if I smoke?" She shook her head and he said, "My wife, she don't like me to smoke in the house. But I think I need one-you know what I mean?" He offered one to Reggie and Justin; they each declined. "You always were a good cop," he said to Justin. He lit up, took a quick drag. "It's why you're so unpopular."
"I'll take that as a way of saying you're not disputing what I just told you."
"Take it however the fuck you want." Rubenelli took a deep drag. "I'm seventy years old and I smoked my whole life. Since I was ten. Probably live to be a hundred. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
"Not that much," Justin said.
"So what do you want from me?" Rubenelli asked.
"We want you to fill in some gaps."
"And I'm doin' this just out of the goodness of my heart?"
"You're doing it because I can make a really good case that you're responsible for the deaths of Evan Harmon, Ronald LaSalle, and Wanda Chinkle. It's good enough to take to court, and right now I'd say it's at least fifty-fifty it's winnable. And if that happens, you'll be smoking behind bars for those last thirty years of yours."
"What's stoppin' you from making your case?"