the news conference.”
“It’s a minor so we’re not releasing it. It was a seventeen-year-old going to a six a.m. athletic practice. He was on his bike. He said he always cut through the alley on his way to Jefferson High in the morning, and he called the situation in without taking pictures and posting them on the internet. All is not lost with this younger generation.”
“Has Frank Pappalardo released any statements about all this?”
“We’re bringing him in for questioning. But no, and he’s not going to say a word. He’s old-school.”
“But this is the payback. For Johnny Pappalardo’s murder. Right?”
“Looks like it. And this is why I’m telling you, you’ve got to be careful. You have my cell phone number. You call me if you see anything suspicious around you or the paper or where you live.”
“Speaking of which, did you find any cell phones in the SUV?”
“Jo. Are you listening to what I’m saying?”
“Yes. Any cell phones in the SUV?”
McCordle glanced over his shoulder like he was cursing in his head. “There was one found. We’re not sure who it belongs to, but it’s not Gigante’s because he was known to hate them We’re getting the texts and photographs that were on it.”
“What happens next? Does Gigante’s crew put a hit out on Pappalardo’s hit man?”
“Jo, will you please—”
“I don’t get a lot of time with you. I need to get these questions in. What about payback for the payback?”
“It’s probable. These things roll downhill until one of the higher-ups calls a détente meeting. It’s going to be a tennis match of dead bodies before it stops, though, especially with Gigante’s son in the mix. Junior’s going to want to avenge his father.”
“Has he given any kind of statement?”
“Jesus, are you even listening—” When she just stared at him, he muttered. “Junior has had nothing to say. And given that he was being groomed by his father, it’s likely he’ll let his gun do the talking.”
“Will he take over here in Caldwell?”
“There’ll be a power struggle first. Then we’ll have to see.” McCordle glanced toward the scene again. “I gotta get back. Promise me you’ll call if you—”
“Yes, of course. I’m not going to be stupid about this.”
There was a pause. “Jo.”
When he didn’t go any further, she said, “What.”
“I get that you want to do your job. And you’re a really good reporter. But you need to leave town until the dust settles. Nothing is worth your life.”
“You’ll let me know if you hear anything for sure about me.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Looks like we’ll be in touch again, then.”
Tucking the envelope under her arm, Jo gave McCordle a nod and then she went back around the hairdresser’s and across the street to her car. Before she got in, she looked over the crowd. The sense that this was not the end of the story, and she had the inside track on the situation, made her flirt with self-satisfaction. And it was that ego-driven nonsense that hounded her as she went back to the newsroom.
It was dangerous to think you were above things.
When she pulled into the parking lot of the CCJ, she went for the first available open spot. Putting her car in park, she opened the envelope and slid out the glossies.
Grimacing, she recoiled at the sight of a man squeezed into the back of the SUV. His face happened to be turned toward the camera and his eyes were open, as if he were alive, even though she knew that wasn’t the case: There was a black circle in the center of his forehead, about the size of a pencil eraser, and a tendril of blood leaked out of it, traveling down at a slant until it joined his eyebrow. The trail didn’t go any further than that.
She was surprised there wasn’t more gore.
She got that with the Gigante picture. God… it looked like a font of blood had come out of the front of his throat and waterfall’d down his fat-belly shirt.
The sense that she was being watched brought her head up and she burrowed her hand into her bag, finding her gun. Heart pounding, she looked around the lot. The buildings. The lanes. No one was moving, but would she see someone who had taken cover—
All at once, her headache came back, the sharp, piercing pain cutting some kind of mental connection. Some kind of—
It was a memory of feeling like this in her car before. Yes, she had felt exactly this kind of