Chapter 9 - The Ghost of Queens
The peace didn't last through the winter thaw.
In late March, when the snow began to turn into dirty gray slush along the edges of the orchard drive, a black town car with New York plates arrived at the high iron gates. It wasn't Richard—Richard was currently twelve hundred miles away, operating a forklift in a packing house outside Pendelton under the watchful eye of two local deputies who liked Matteo’s checks.
The man who stepped out of the rear seat was older, wearing a long mink-trimmed coat and a gold watch that looked like a small sun against his dark sleeve. It was Don Carmine Lucchese—the head of the family that controlled the Brooklyn docks and the man whose daughter had died because of Matteo’s brother three years ago.
“You’re keeping a cop’s woman in my valley, Matteo,” Carmine said as he sat in the library, his old hands resting on the gold head of his cane. The air in the room was cold, the woodstove having been left unlit for the meeting. “The commission doesn't like it. They think you’re picking up garbage from the city streets because you’re lonely up here with your trees.”
Matteo sat behind his desk, his fingers laced together over his vest, his face a perfect mask of aristocratic indifference. “The woman is my accountant, Carmine. She manages my timber logs and my shipping manifests for the Albany route. She has nothing to do with the city, and she certainly has nothing to do with your docks.”
“Her husband was a homicide dick,” Carmine spat, his yellowed eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. “He knew things about the 14th precinct layout. He knew who was paying the desk sergeants. If he starts talking to the federal prosecutors in Oregon to get his badge back, my people in South Brooklyn will be in front of a grand jury before the summer hits the water.”
The door to the library opened before Matteo could answer.
Elena walked into the room, carrying a fresh tray of black coffee and three thin glass flutes filled with clear water. She wasn't wearing her old sweater; she wore a dark silk blouse and a silver chain around her neck that Matteo had given her for the New Year.
She set the tray down on the desk between the two men, her hand perfectly steady as she poured the coffee into Carmine’s cup.
“The grand jury in Brooklyn won't be meeting this summer, Mr. Lucchese,” she said, her voice clear and calm, echoing off the high book shelves.
Carmine looked up, his old jaw tightening as he stared at her. “Who told you to speak, girl?”
“The internal affairs logs for the 14th precinct were moved to a secure vault in Albany three weeks ago,” Elena said, sitting down in the chair beside Matteo’s desk, her fingers smoothing the fabric of her skirt. “I know because I’m the one who sorted the digital index for the state archives. Your names aren't in those files, Mr. Lucchese. Richard didn't keep his records on paper; he kept them on a private hard drive hidden inside the water tank of his partner’s garage in Queens. And that hard drive was crushed by an industrial scrap press in Newark five days ago.”
She looked at the old Don with an expression that had no fear left in it—the look of a woman who had spent three years with a monster and had learned exactly how the teeth were wired.
“Richard is not going to talk to the feds,” she said softly. “Because if he opens his mouth, the first person the feds will arrest is his own partner—the man who has been handling the collection money for your Brooklyn policy wheels since nineteen-ninety-eight. You’re safe from the city, Don Carmine. But only as long as Matteo keeps his timber trucks moving through your ports.”
Carmine looked at her for a long, silent minute, the banjos from the old mill road seeming to ring in his old ears. He looked at Matteo, then back at the girl from Queens, a dry, coughing laugh escaping his throat.
May you like
“You found a sharp one, Vitali,” the old man rumbled, standing up and leaning heavily on his cane. “She smells like ink and old paper, but she’s got the bone structure of a soldier. Keep her out of the city, Matteo. If I see her name on a legal brief in Manhattan, I’ll send someone to burn your trees.”
“The trees are old, Carmine,” Matteo said, standing up to show him to the door. “They’re very hard to light.”
