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I grinned at that and then asked, “What makes you say that?”
“Because this thing was death on wheels. I used to call it the Black Beauty. You know, like the Green Hornet’s car?” He looked to me for confirmation, and my grin doubled in size. He was so cute when he was dorky. “I mean, ok, it was totally the wrong make and model. Wrong decade even, by far. But hey, I was a kid, what did I know?
“Anyway,” he continued, “It had all these secret compartments and built-in weapons – that was the part that made it like the Black Beauty. It actually had two Gatling guns that would fold out of the front fenders. And it had two decorative finials at the top of the driver’s seat that were actually the handles of these long, curved knives. Cat and I used to have sword fights with them.”
“Damn,” I murmured.
“Catherine and I were in love with this car almost as much as my uncle was. We’d sneak the key when we knew he’d be tied up in meetings – he always kept it locked. And we’d sit in the car and pretend to drive it, taking turns being the Green Hornet and Kato.” Dmitri shook his head. “That car belonged in a museum. It was like nothing we’d ever seen before. Or since.”
“And the car was stolen?”
“Well, that’s what we were told. One day the Packard was out in the warehouse, the next day it wasn’t. And even then, even at fourteen, I remember wondering who would have the balls to sneak into the headquarters of the Russian mafia and drive away with a car that flashy. I mean, you wouldn’t get two feet without being spotted in something like that. Assuming you even made it out the door, assuming my uncle and his men didn’t eviscerate you first.”
Dmitri crossed his feet at the ankles as he leaned against the counter. “So, the day after the car goes missing, the police show up at my uncle’s office. I remember being surprised by that, surprised my uncle had called the cops to help him find his car when he’d never done anything but badmouth the police. But they weren’t there about the car. They were asking a bunch of questions about Vince Pasteretti. How well did my uncle know him? Was my uncle aware that Vince and his wife were having an affair? So on and so forth.”
“That’s right,” my father said in a low voice. “He was our prime suspect. Jealous husband and all that. But we couldn’t find a shred of evidence. We got warrants, searched his home, his vehicles, his places of business top to bottom. We couldn’t find a thing.”
“Mr. Nolan,” Dmitri asked, “where was Vince Pasteretti killed?”
“We never found the spot where he was actually murdered,” my father said. “His body was left on the meat counter at his deli, hacked to shreds. It was one of those crime scenes that I’ll never forget, not if I live to be a hundred. But that’s not where he was killed. There wasn’t enough blood.”
My mother crossed herself and murmured, “Sweet Mother of God.”
“So, what are you thinking?” I asked Dmitri. “That maybe your uncle killed Pasteretti in the Packard?”
“Maybe.” He looked up at me. “And if that’s what happened, there might be DNA evidence left in the car that would send my uncle to jail for murder.”
“I thought you weren’t down with the jail idea,” I told him. “I thought you were worried your uncle would still send his men after us.”
Dmitri said quietly, “If my uncle goes to jail for the murder of Vince Pasteretti, he’s as good as dead.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Jamie,” Dmitri said, “Vince wasn’t just some shmuck that owned a deli. He was a retired Dombruso officer, trying to live the quiet life after years in the business. And if my uncle goes to jail for his murder, the Dombruso clan would waste no time eliminating the man that killed their beloved capo.”
“What’s a Dombruso?” my mother asked, the Tupperware containers in her hands long forgotten as she followed the conversation intently.
“A powerful branch of the Sicilian mafia,” my father said. “They make the whole Teplov operation look like mafia Kindergarten. Uh, no offense,” he said to Dmitri. Then he added, “We never found any link between Pasteretti and the Dombrusos. You sure about that, kid?”
“I’m sure. If there’s one thing I know, it’s all the family trees,” Dmitri told him.
“So, basically,” I said, “you’d be sending your uncle off to die in prison if we found a link between him and Pasteretti’s murder.”
Dmitri didn’t say anything, holding my gaze steadily.
I absorbed that for a beat, then said, “So let’s say your uncle did slaughter this guy in his Packard. Afterwards, he probably would have set fire to the vehicle. Or sent it to the bottom of the bay. He would have destroyed it to hide the evidence, to hide all that blood. There’s not going to be anything to find now.”
