But it was time for new blood. Minelli had the Marinello family in his pocket as it was, and with a little push the throne was well within his reach.
"You'll still need proof," Eritrea said, aware that it had sounded lame, that someone with Minelli's acumen would have it covered half a dozen different ways.
"I have my father's letters, some from Barney to my mother. And the old man's wife... she kept a diary. Seems she knew about us all along, and just kept quiet."
Dave Eritrea could think of nothing more to say. Minelli had it covered, and short of insurrection in the ranks, he probably could pull it off.
Capo di tutti capi. The boss of bosses.
"You need your rest," Minelli said. "I have enjoyed our little chat. I'll send somebody for you in a little while."
Minelli's hand was on the doorknob when Eritrea's voice arrested him.
"My wife."
The capo turned, a shadow flickering across his face and momentarily edging out the quiet triumph there.
"Forget about her, David. You've got grief enough right here."
And he was gone, but there was something — in his eyes, his tone — that set Eritrea thinking.
Something had gone wrong, perhaps. If Sarah had escaped, somehow, she might...
The hostage closed that door inside his mind and locked "it, threw away the key. There would be no escaping from the gun crew Don Minelli set to watch her. Sarah would be dead by now, or worse, and there was nothing in the world that he could do to help her.
Don Minelli.
Make that Don Marinello.
And the sound of the name was enough to take Eritrea back a dozen years and more. It was like stepping through a time warp. A crushing sense of deja vu had settled in around his shoulders like a grim, oppressive weight.
It was ironic, after all the waiting, scheming and killing he had done to seize the former Marinello throne and claim it for his own, that Dave Eritrea would be involuntarily instrumental in bringing yet another Marinello back to power in New York and nationwide.
Ironic.
And bitter to the core.
The former mafioso thought of Sarah once again. And wept.
* * *
"It would be so much easier if you'd just tell us everything."
The lady Fed regarded her interrogator with disdain.
"I've done that. Twice." She tried a different tack. "I don't think Jules is going to like this game, do you?"
"Which game is that?" the tall man asked.
"This twenty-questions nonsense. He'll be waiting for me. And he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"Ah. Well, I believe that in the circumstances, Mr. Patriarcca would be sympathetic to our curiosity. He's quite a cautious man himself."
"This is ridiculous."
He sat down opposite Sally, chair and body blocking access to the study door.
"Let's try it one more time," he said, his face deadpan. "From the beginning. Why didn't you use the phone inside your cottage?"
Sally heaved a tired, exaggerated sigh.
"I didn't want to wake Jules up. He was... resting."
She put enough of the suggestive innuendo in her voice to let the soldier know precisely what had tired Jules out. Enough to let him know that he could have the same, if it would get her off the hook.
He passed.
"I see. And so, you made your call — long distance — from the washroom."
She spread her open hands. "You don't want people using it, why don't you take the damned thing out?"
"You called your... uncle... was it?"
"That's right. Why don't you check it with your second set of ears?"
"The name is Lazarus," he told her, frost behind the words. "And it's been checked."
"Well, then..."
"And you identified yourself as Flasher, I believe. A family nickname, wasn't it?"
Another weary sigh, to mask the rising apprehension.
"My uncle made a joke one time, about some of my baby pictures. I was naked."
No suggestive undertone this time. The man called Lazarus was obviously immune.
"Your uncle's name and address, please."
"Get screwed. You think I'm dragging family into your dream world, you're worse off than I thought."
He stiffened, coloring, but held himself in check.
"What was the purpose of your call?"
"I told you twice. His wife — my aunt — has got a birthday coming up. I wanted some suggestions on a gift."
The hardman fished inside his outer jacket pocket, produced a compact tape recorder that he placed between them on the coffee table. One long index finger found the button, brought the little deck to life, his eyes never leaving Sally's face.
"There isn't any message. If I can't get through at this end, I'll take care of it myself."
And click. The tape went dead.
"What is it you were planning to take care of, then? A birthday gift?"