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Makayla, oh shit, we’re not out of the woods yet.
“This Hampton girl is a Michigan Soo resident,” Effa stated. “I’ll send a detective to interrogate her and see if she can shed light on who Becky was dating, or who might have hated her enough to—”
“I know the Hampton family,” Torin interrupted. “I’ll speak to her.” He turned to leave, ripping the mask from his face. He paused without looking back. “Any sign of the cabbie?”
Effa exhaled then raised a hand to block the rising sun. “He was recovered from the river about a half hour ago, every bone broken.” He met Torin’s gaze. “Whoever did this was a goddamn sadist and I want him caught, Mancini. I don’t want this in my district, you get my drift.”
Take a number and get in line, Torin thought.
“Yes sir,” he answered, as he trudged through the underbrush to his vehicle.
Inside the Rover, he grabbed his cell, his fingers flying over the screen as he texted Gage.
I need you to meet me around two this evening. It’s important. I must interrogate your woman. Call me asap!
~~~
Cruising back toward the city, Torin opened the windows of the Range Rover, hoping to escape the putrid scent which had permeated his clothing. He dialed the precinct and informed the Canadian dispatcher Michelle Renea, a perky blonde who was always hitting on him, that he was going home for a shower and change of clothes.
“Can I join you?” she asked, giggling. “I’ll scrub that special little spot on your back you can’t reach?”
“Michelle, give me a break.” He hung up and though she usually had him in stitches and half the guys in the precinct fantasized about her hot bod, today was different, so much so that he couldn’t find a smile. Just east of the city, halfway home, his cell rang. Thinking it was Gage, he grabbed it only to see it was an unidentified caller.
“Damn,” he swore under his breath. “It’s the Council.”
“Yes,” he answered, taking control of his bounding pulse.
“Torin.”
He recognized the voice. “Good morning, Antonio.”
“I’m at your house, on your deck. I just love the view.”
Torin’s spine stiffened. “Sorry I would have prepared breakfast if I knew you were coming.”
“We need to talk,” Antonio said calmly.
“I’ll be there in fifteen, twenty max. By the way, there’s a bottle of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti 1990 in the wine cellar, bottom shelf, right side. I know it’s early, but I’ve heard it’s your favorite.”
Torin ended the call, then exhaled forcefully. “What now?”
Seventeen minutes later, Torin pulled into the garage and exited the vehicle. He noticed the paint, scratched from today’s venture.
Damn.
Inside the house, he tossed his keys upon the ornate entry table and headed for the great room. He saw the bottle of Conti open on the bar with an empty stein beside it. He stopped and poured, the red fluid splashing the sides. He swirled the stein, closed his eyes and sniffed it.
Nice.
He turned, anticipating what was to come, Antonio’s scent which still lingered in the room settling in his head. Gazing through a wall of glass, he spied him sitting on the deck, a crystal stein in hand, his signature black Salvatore Ferragamo leather shoes propped on the bannister.
Torin raised a finger and smoothed his mustache, pondering.
Why are you here?
Torin ambled by the entertainment center and pressed power on the sound system. The unmistakable voice of Luciano Pavarotti echoed through the thirty-foot vaulted ceilings. He closed his eyes, the music soothing his frayed nerves. He took a deep breath and sipped the wine.
Damn that’s good.
