A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(92)

And it had worked. She had practically forced him the next time. After that she had been his girlfriend, as though they’d been together for years. She had gone out with him every evening and gotten used to coming home with him and staying the night. And then everything had soured in one evening. He had felt desperate, taken the last chance he had to keep her, and that desperation had wrecked every-thing. He had not planned to give her the powder again, and so he hadn’t been prepared. He had to work quickly, to give all his attention to pouring it into her drink without getting caught, and had probably given her too much. Now she would never understand that he had only loved her too much to let her go.

He thought about killing himself. The police had been in his house, so they had probably taken his pistol out of his desk, but he had others in his personal storage space out there beyond the window in row A. They had been taken in burglaries, and he’d stored them in case he needed to have some available that weren’t registered to anyone but some guy whose house had been robbed. If he shot himself in the head with one of those, what were the police going to do—dig him up and put him in jail?

But Crane knew he wasn’t going to kill himself. As long as there was any chance of getting through his trouble he wouldn’t quit. He didn’t feel a strong enough urge.

“Cars coming in.”

Crane turned to look at the monitors on the wall. “Salamone. I’ll talk to him alone.” He watched Thompson get up and go down the stairs.

Crane longed to go with him. The sight of Salamone’s car changed everything. Crane felt as though he had fallen into ice water. He wasn’t feeling dreamy and bereft anymore; he was frightened. Did Salamone know already? Crane’s lungs couldn’t bring in enough air, and when he tried to make them he felt dizzy. He was aware of the sound of Thompson at the bottom of the stairs, and then he heard the back door swing open and shut.

He sat down at his desk and looked at the monitors. The big car came to the gate and the driver’s arm came out and took a ticket. The gate opened and the hand released the ticket to let it flutter to the ground. The car behind Salamone’s pulled up and the driver did the same. He didn’t recognize the second car, and it irritated him. It was one thing for Salamone to do that, but these were strangers, two men in a dark gray Cadillac. Behind them was a black SUV.

On the wall monitors he watched Salamone get out of his car, and then his two men. Cantorese had been driving, and he eased his fat body out from behind the wheel and straightened his short legs to stand. Pistore was out in an instant, his sharp young eyes already scanning in every direction.

Salamone went to the door, and as soon as he was inside he appeared on another monitor. As he climbed the stairs he looked somber. He wore a dark suit that seemed to have been made to fit his body by a talented tailor. Crane envied him.

Crane looked ahead and Salamone appeared in front of him. Salamone said, “Daniel. Are we alone?”

The question struck Crane as insanity. Salamone was never alone. Cantorese and Pistore were at his shoulders. But Crane said, “Yes. I sent Thompson out to the units.”

Salamone nodded. “We—I mean you and me—have got trouble. Bad trouble, and we’re going to talk about that later. Right now, outside in that Cadillac down there, is Mr. Malconi himself. He would like two storage units. His units won’t be together. And his keys will be the only keys.”

Crane could tell from his measured tone that if Crane argued, he would regret it. “Sure. How about”—he looked at the clipboard with the roster of units—“C-fifteen and J-nineteen?”

“Fine. Get the locks.”

Crane went to the stock room and brought out two brand-new locks, still in their boxes.

Salamone nodded. “There will be no bill, and no list anywhere with his name on it.”

“Of course.”

“Come with me.” The two men went down the stairs.

Crane stopped at the door. “Are you sure it’s okay? I mean does he mind if I see him?”

“If he minded, you wouldn’t be able to get within a hundred yards of him.” Salamone pushed open the door with his left hand and pushed Crane out with the right. He walked Crane to the backseat window.

The tinted window slid down. There he was, Mr. Malconi himself. His hair was surprisingly thick and healthy looking, most of it white and bristly. His face was tanned and marked with deep creases on his forehead, around his mouth and eyes, and even on his cheeks. He looked like a doll made of a dried apple. His shining black eyes were focused on Crane. “Hello, Mr. Crane.”

“Hello, sir.”

The old man’s expression was unchanging. “Your friend Mr. Salamone says you’re a smart man. Good head for business and all that. Is it true?”

“I hope so.”

“I wanted to get a look at you today, and talk to you in person.” He glanced at Salamone, then back at Crane. “I believe a man should take responsibility for his actions. Do you?”

“Yes,” said Crane. He wondered if this man ever heard the word “no.”

“Can I talk freely, or are we going to be overheard?”

Crane looked around him and saw that Salamone’s two men were on the sides of the little parking area, and that two other men had gotten out of the black SUV, and were also scanning the area. How could anyone overhear? “You can talk freely.”