“It doesn’t wash, Moretti.” Ellie shook her head, climbing out of bed. “I told you, I traced Liz’s gun. I know where it came from. A bust you were an agent on. What about this one? Was it stolen out of the Miami office, too?”
“Jesus,” the FBI man said, “you’re not actually thinking -”
“I’m totally thinking that, you slimy son of a bitch. I know! I know about you and Earl Anson. I know you ran him as a CI. It’s too late to bullshit your way out of this. I don’t have to go to Boston. Ned’s father – he already talked. He told Ned he knew you from your days up in Boston.” Moretti swallowed hard. “You had me under surveillance? So, where’s your backup, Moretti? Be my guest. Call them in.”
Tightness crept onto the FBI agent’s face. Then a shrug of resignation.
“Is this how you killed Tess McAuliffe?” Ellie picked up his gun. “Sneaking up on her in the bath, stuffing her head under?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Moretti said. “I didn’t kill Tess Mc-Auliffe. Stratton’s man did that.”
I tightened my fist on the gun. “But my friends, in Lake Worth…You did that, you sonuvabitch.”
“Anson did.” Moretti shrugged coolly. “Sorry, Neddie-boy, didn’t your mother ever tell you what happens when you take something that doesn’t belong to you?”
I started to move toward Moretti. Nothing would’ve made me happier than to break his jaw.
Ellie held me back. “You don’t get off that easily, Moretti. There were two guns used in Lake Worth. The.32 and a shotgun. One person didn’t do that killing.”
“Why?” I stared at him, my hand tightening on the gun. “Why did you have to kill them? We didn’t take the art.”
“No, you didn’t take the art. Stratton did that himself. In fact, he had the art sold before you ever heard of the job.”
“Sold?” I looked at Ellie. I was hoping she could make some sense of this.
Moretti smiled. “You had it pegged all the time, didn’t you, Ellie? Ned’s big score, it was just a cover. How does it feel, your buddies ending up getting killed for a scam?”
Moretti was grinning at me as if he knew the answer to the next question would hurt even more. “A scam for what? Why did you need to come after us – if the art was already sold? Why Dave?”
“You still don’t know, do you?” Moretti shook his head.
Tears were burning in my eyes.
“Something else got taken,” Moretti said. “Something that wasn’t part of the original deal.”
Ellie was staring at me now. “The Gaume,” she said.
Chapter 91
“CONGRATULATIONS,” Moretti clapped. “I knew if we stayed here long enough, somebody would say something smart.”
Ellie’s eyes drifted from Moretti to me. “The Gaume’s barely collectible. Nobody would kill for that.”
Moretti shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s lawyer time now, Ellie.” The FBI man’s haughty grin returned. “Nothing I said will be admissible. You’ll have to prove it all, if you can, which I doubt. The gun, Anson… everything you brought up before is circumstantial. Stratton will protect me. Sorry to ruin the bust, but I’ll be drinking margaritas and you’ll still be filling out case sheets for your pension.”
“How’s this for circumstantial, Moretti?” I nailed him as hard as I could in the mouth. He almost went down, blood flowing from his lip.
“That’s for Mickey and my friends,” I said. I hit Moretti again, and this time he did go down. “That one was for Dave.”
It took about five minutes for two police cars responding to the 911 to screech to a halt in front of the house. Four officers rushed in as Ellie explained who it was and what had happened. She was already on the phone to the FBI. Lights were whirling everywhere. The policemen led Moretti down the front steps. Such a sweet moment.
“Hey, Moretti,” Ellie called. He turned on the lawn. “Not half bad,” she said with a wink, “for an art agent, huh?”
I watched them take him away and I was thinking that the whole thing had to break now. It couldn’t hold together. Moretti would talk. He’d have to.
That’s when a whole new picture of horror began to unfold for me.
A man with a hand inside his jacket stepped out of a car down the street, walking onto Ellie’s lawn.
I saw what was happening. The man just walked past the flashing police cars; his hand came out of his sports jacket. He got close to Moretti, in the arms of the cops.
Two loud shots into the FBI man’s chest.
“No!” I screamed, starting to run. Then my voice got softer as I came to a horrified halt. “Pop, no…”
I had watched my father kill Special Agent in Charge George Moretti.
Part Six. ONE THING PENDING
Chapter 92
FBI SUPERVISOR Hank Cole stared out at the view of the Miami skyline from his office window. Behind it, nothing but gorgeous blue sea. Sure beat the hell out of Detroit, the ADIC reminded himself. Or Fairbanks! He wondered if they even had golf courses in Alaska. Cole knew he had to salvage something out of this mess. And fast. If he wanted to keep that fancy title in front of his name, if he wanted to keep seeing this delicious view every day.
First, his office had spearheaded an all-out, national manhunt for the wrong man. Okay, that happens. Anyone could see how Kelly fit the bill. But then the lead FBI investigator on the case accuses her own boss of trying to kill her in her home to cover up that he was the trigger man in the whole thing. Then Moretti gets gunned down as the cops are taking him away.
And by whom? Cole crumpled a piece of paper tightly in his fist. By the father of the original suspect!
Oh, he was going down! ADIC Cole clenched his teeth. The press was going to have a field day. There’d have to be an internal investigation. The Bureau would tear flesh out of his throat. Cole felt a pain in his chest, thought maybe it was a heart attack. A heart attack…I should be so lucky.
“Assistant Director Cole?”
Cole turned away from the window and back to the meeting in his office.
Sitting around his conference table were James Harpering, the Bureau’s chief local counsel; Mary Rappaport, Palm Beach County DA; and Art Ficke, the new agent in charge.
As well as his own private, career torpedoer herself, Special Agent Ellie Shurtleff.
“So, what do we have,” Cole tried to ask calmly, “to back up Special Agent Shurtleff’s allegations against Moretti?”
“There’s the gun trace,” Ficke proposed. “And Moretti’s prior connection to Earl Anson. Adds up to some good detective work.” He nodded to Ellie Shurtleff. “But all about as circumstantial as you can get.”
“There’s Frank Kelly’s testimony,” Ellie said.
“The admission of a career felon? With a grudge against the deceased?” Harpering, the lawyer, shrugged. “It could stand up, if we could establish a prior connection between the two.”
“We have about forty-eight hours,” Cole sniffed, “before someone from Washington takes over. So giving some credence to Special Agent Shurtleff’s claim, how do we stand on Stratton? Can we tie him to Moretti in any way?”
“Contact between Moretti and Stratton would have been understandable,” Harpering injected. “He was the agent in charge on his case.”
“What about prior to the art being stolen?”
“Moretti was a pro, sir,” Ficke said.
“Goddammit.” Cole pushed back his chair. “If Moretti was dirty, I want it out. Stratton, too. So, for the sake of this group, Special Agent Shurtleff” – he looked at Ellie – “and your career, would you please tell us again how Special Agent in Charge Moretti happened to end up at your house?”