Wolves Behind You: The Cappalletti Saga, #2

By Carrie Wexford

Wolves Behind You is the fictional story of the Cappallettis, a wealthy and powerful Italian-American mob family. Just as the aging Cosmo Cappalletti -- the most feared name on the West Coast -- is about to pass his empire to his son, the beautiful call girls enslaved in his Beverly Hills mansion stage a revolt.

The story is told from the perspective of Sam Donahan, a young, idealistic priest. Will Sam convince the Cappallettis to end their hundred-year blood feud with a rival clan, or will the family continue to battle for control of L.A.’s dangerous underworld?

A suspense thriller from Carrie Wexford, an author of contemporary and historical fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carrie Wexford
• Release date: Apr 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386891727

Carrie Wexford

An L.A. native, Carrie Wexford is an author of contemporary and historical fiction.  Her recently published work includes Meet Me After Work, the story of a successful career woman waiting for a marriage proposal, Fab or Flab, the adventures of an actress struggling to make a comeback, and Wolves Behind You, a modern classic suspense thriller about West Coast Mafia call girls.  Carrie’s current project is an historical novel about a young actress in 1920s Los Angeles. Visit Carrie’s blog for new book releases and promotions: http://carriewexford.blogspot.com Follow her on Twitter @CarrieWexford and on Facebook www.facebook.com/carrie.wexford    

Book preview

Chapter 1

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What a horrible way to die.  Sam crushed his shoulder blades against the dark window.

Five workmen in paint-splattered coveralls watched him from the flat rooftop across the street.  One man shouted an indecipherable message through his cupped hands.

Sam struggled to steady himself in the rising wind.  While his left foot was secure, his right scraped helplessly along the narrow ledge.

Small hands seized his denim jacket and slammed him to the safety of the rough stucco wall on the other side of the window.

Didn’t you hear me?  Don’t come out here! the young woman said angrily.

Sam’s feet were now balanced on a two-foot-wide cement slab. Thanks.

Her amethyst-shadowed eyes flashed skyward in disdain.

He was close enough to see the fragility beneath her bravado.  She stood no taller than his heart. Her mascara had smudged onto her delicate cheekbones.  The wind tossed her bangs and tugged her dark chocolate curls. She quivered beneath the thin straps of her magenta slip dress.  A small, bubblegum pink purse, suspended by a silver chain, swung with her movements. One of her bare knees was bruised.  Her shoes were missing.

Are you cold?  Mindful of the narrow ledge, Sam removed his jacket.

She shook her head.

Come on.  Denim’s the new black.

A corner of her scarlet mouth quirked upward.  As she allowed him to place the jacket around her shoulders, he guessed her age at early twenties, not far from his own.

She read something reassuring in his sandy blond hair, warm Pacific blue eyes, and courageous smile. Her gaze hesitated over his gray pullover sweater and blue jeans.  He did not look like a cop.  You don’t have to do this.

Yes, I do.  His hand bridged the eighteen inches between them.  I’m Sam.

Slowly she raised her eyes.  Hi, Sam.

Her slim fingers trembled.

And your name is...?

She yanked her hand from his grasp.  Oh, no.  You’ll pull that psychology voodoo on me, and then they’ll drag me back in there and lock me up.

Sam slid a glance to the window.  Inside the hotel room, a half-dozen police officers watched impatiently for him to work a miracle.  What if I promise that you’re not going to jail?

You bet I’m not! She cast a hostile look at the crowd gathering nine stories below: men in button-down shirts and dark slacks, wrestling the wind for control of their unruly neckties; women in flowery spring dresses, posing as if for a fashion magazine photo shoot; and delivery drivers in khaki uniforms, carrying expedited packages forgotten in the chaos.  Endlessly pouring through the glass lobby doors, the spectators aimed their curious stares at Sam and the desperate young woman.

What stories would these strangers tell their girlfriends over drinks tonight, their spouses over take-out meals – Uh-huh, I was there.  When it fell, her body didn’t make a sound.  But when it hit the pavement, I heard this awful crunch.

He shook his head to delete that terrible possibility from his mind.

The next few seconds would decide her fate.  Her bare toes shifted toward the open air beyond their ledge.

You don’t want to die.

Oh, yeah?  You don’t know what they did to me! Her eyes struggled to hold back her enraged tears.  The things they made me do –

Let’s go inside. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. You can tell me what happened.

If I tell you, they’ll kill me.  I won’t give them that satisfaction.

Who?

I can’t...

How can I help you, if you won’t let me?

Nobody can help me.

I’m here, aren’t I?

Her fingers hid a strand of hair behind her left ear.  She was trying to trust him.

Her attention turned to something above their heads.

Two stories up, an anonymous hand pointed a cell phone at her.

You want to watch me jump? she screamed at the camera.  "Are you going to sell the video to L.A. Scandals?"

Don’t, please! Sam stretched a hand over the street crowd.  You’ll kill them.

She switched her fury to him.  If they’re smart, they’ll get out of the way.

When they start running, there won’t be enough time.  They will be trampled.  And do you know what you’ll look like?  You’ll be smashed beyond recognition.  Even your nose will be gone.

Her hand flew to her face.  Drawing a shaky breath, she recovered her tough girl act.  Stop it.

You’ll lie there in unimaginable agony, with every bone shattered. You’ll die before the ambulance arrives.  Those will be the longest five minutes of your life.

Shut up!  I mean it!  The girl’s palms slammed his chest.  Her blows knocked him against the windowpane.  She stepped back, breathing hard.

His fingers floundered along the stucco wall, searching futilely for a secure grip.  Let’s go in.  It’s scary out here.

An eerie change clouded her eyes.  She flipped open her pink handbag.  A glimmer of steel emerged.

She has a gun! yelled a cop.

Sam gestured at the window to silence the officers.  He studied the weapon, a no-nonsense, forty-five millimeter pistol. One shot, lights out.  Think about what you’re doing.

She raised the gun until the cold barrel touched her temple. Quick.  Painless.  Her words were debris from a wasted life.  I’ll be dead before I hit the ground.

No!  You’ll clip the back of your head, you’ll lose some brain cells, and you’ll still smash yourself to pieces.  A last-ditch idea struck him.  Wait!  Let me show you something.

His denim jacket rose and fell on her heaving chest.  He retrieved the pale blue envelope protruding from the left side pocket.

If you’ll hand me the gun, I’ll give you this.  He showed her a stack of one hundred-dollar bills.

The girl lowered the pistol an inch.  Where did you get it?

I held up a bank.

She ignored his affable smile.  How much is it?

A thousand dollars.

A midnight black helicopter, emblazoned with an orange radio station logo, swooped low over their heads.  The spinning blades snatched one of the hundred-dollar bills.

Sam lunged at the cash.  His fingers closed on empty air.

The crisp, green paper fluttered down toward the street.

A happy roar rose from the crowd.

The helicopter lifted into the sky and disappeared over the roof.

OK.  Nine hundred bucks.  Sam returned the envelope to its hiding place.  Still a good deal, huh?

Her thoughts were far away.  Her free hand pulled the jacket’s lapels close to her heart.

You can do whatever you want with it.

*            *            *

An hour earlier...

You can do whatever you want with it.  Lorayne Vanderbrook flung her arms around Sam’s neck.  Happy birthday, my darling.  She kissed his cheek with a loud smack.

The amused reactions from the other diners embarrassed Sam.  After his great-aunt returned to her chair, he whispered, This is a lot of money.

Nonsense!  You’re not five years old.  She flipped her napkin onto her lap.  "How old are you, my boy?"

Twenty-seven.

Ohhh!  She straightened her gold silk Chanel jacket and swept back her platinum hair extensions. "Remember: the older you get, the older I get. You must tell everyone that you’re, ah, seventeen."

He laughed.  Thank you very, very much, Lorayne.  He secured the envelope in his jacket’s side pocket.

And please stop calling me your great-aunt.  Telling people merely that I’m your aunt will take a quarter-century off my age.

Linen-draped tables-for-two crowded the Bonitage’s patio. New and Old Hollywood mingled at the fabled hotel, discussing screenplays and displaying their toned, suntanned physiques.

At a nearby table, a man wearing a white polo shirt and tennis shorts opened a leather menu. His eyes bulged as they darted over the prices.

Lorayne finished her glass of red wine and signaled the waiter.  I enjoy spoiling you, Sam.  You and Pixie are all I have.  She patted the cream Pomeranian perched in the child’s booster chair between them.  The chipper little dog was au courant in a daisy print dress with a satin bow.

The waiter, a frail man with a goatee and receding hair, refilled her glass with Monterey Belle Chateau.  Shall I leave the bottle, Miss Vanderbrook?

Thank you, my good man.  Oh, and one more thing.

Yes, Madam?

What can be done about the wind?

I’m sorry?

It’s practically a hurricane!

"Miss Vanderbrook, it is April."

Lorayne glowered at him.  This is the finest five-star restaurant in Beverly Hills.  My nephew and I expect a spectacular dining experience.  The wind is blowing our salads right off our plates.

We could move inside, Sam suggested.

We’re staying right here, she huffed.  This is our regular table.

The waiter looked frantically from Sam to Lorayne before hurrying away.

Behind their table, crimson bougainvillea blossoms overflowed an antique brick wall.  Tiny nozzles tucked among the flowers hissed a relaxing mist upon the hotel’s guests.  The blackbirds nesting in the abundant foliage chirruped to celebrate their deluxe accommodations.

Lorayne pulled a gold hand mirror from her faux crocodile handbag and checked her reflection.  Is the wind mussing my hair?

Sam rested his gaze on her face.  Skilled surgeons had erased the fine lines flanking her lively hazel eyes.  You look great.

You’re a charmer.

Their waiter returned with two platters: an eggplant linguine for Lorayne and a Chateaubriand steak with roasted potatoes for Sam.

Concerned, she watched her great-nephew divide and conquer his steak; he relished the first bite with the gusto of a castaway accustomed to dining on coconuts and tree bark.  Are they taking good care of you, dear?  Do you still have a housekeeper?

Yes, Mrs. Dwyer comes in twice a week.  She’s an excellent cook.  And the freezer is full of pizzas.

Lorayne twirled her pasta.  In the old days, you would have had a full-time staff.  It’s terrible that you’re so short-handed.

It’s OK. I don’t mind pitching in wherever I’m needed.

Female voices rose above the clink of silverware and the murmur of nearby conversations.

Oh, my God!  It’s Lorayne Vanderbrook!

Where?

Over there!

Sam sighed.  Here they come.

Now, dear, be nice to my fans.  His great-aunt flipped on a pair of enormous sunglasses.

Their waiter hovered nearby.  Shall I tell them to leave, Madam?

Don’t be absurd. Skedaddle, and come back later with the dessert cart.

Two teenagers teetered up to the table on matching five-inch-high espadrilles.  One girl was tall and leggy, with short, shiny brunette hair.  The fashionably long strap of her leather messenger bag hugged her lean torso; the name Jessica shimmied in sequins on the bag’s flap.

The other girl sported red-rimmed eyeglasses and golden hair wound in a topknot.  She hugged a hardcover book close to her Mango Barbarians World Tour T-shirt.  Miss Vanderbrook?

"Well, hello."

The taller girl took Lorayne’s hand with awe.  I’m so – I mean – what a rush!

"Jessica, it is her!" the blonde girl exclaimed.

Didn’t I tell you, Emily?  I knew that if we went to the Bonitage Hotel, we would see lots of celebrities.

The two girls ran out of dialogue.  They watched Lorayne with high anticipation.

To give his great-aunt a moment to think of a witty line, Sam pointed at Emily’s novel.  Would you like Miss Vanderbrook’s autograph?

That would be awesome.  The girl shuddered with delight.

Lorayne wrapped her blazing red fingertips around the book.  She nodded at the other end of the table.  Ladies...my nephew, Sam.  So, have you read my stories?

Yes!  Of course! Jessica was as prepared as a game show contestant.  "Let’s see: The Count’s New Love, The Yacht Sails at Midnight, A Kiss in the Castle –"

Oh, that was a good one!  It was really, you know – Emily swallowed her next words.

Lorayne lowered her sunglasses and met the girl’s eyes.  "Racy, my dear?"

Glancing skittishly at Sam, Emily squeaked, Erm –

My nephew has read all of my novels.  Haven’t you, darling?

Absolutely.  In fact, the one you’re holding is my favorite.  He tilted his head to read the title.  "The Weeping Ghost on the Moors."

The look his great-aunt blasted at him could have sliced holes in an asteroid.

Emily said, I read it on the plane.  It’s a real nail-biter!  It’s by Maxine LeGuile.  Do you know her, Miss Vanderbrook?

Yes, I certainly do.  Lorayne’s words stabbed the air with the precision of an ice pick.

Sam smiled wryly as he watched his great-aunt flip through the book.

Lorayne cleared her throat.

Woooo, woooo, said the ghost, beckoning the bride closer.

She was afraid.  What do you want with me? she screamed.

Woooo, woooo, the ghost wailed once more.

Sam’s laughter stopped her.  It sounds like a train’s whistle.

Hmmph. The ghost took the midnight train on the moors.  Do you girls have a pen?

Lorayne filled the title page with large, flowery strokes:

To my dearest friends:

Wishing you glorious adventures, boundless happiness, grand prosperity, and everlasting love.

She added her name in outrageously huge letters.  "Now, if you happen to run into Miss LeGuile, kindly hand her one of my books."

Emily took the novel with reverence.  Oh, this is – I am so –

How about a photo with Miss Vanderbrook?  Sam pushed back his chair.

The girls nodded eagerly.  Jessica handed him a glittery silver cell phone.

"I suppose I could grant one picture."  Lorayne scooped up the Pomeranian.  With her fans on her left and her right, she pressed the little dog’s fluffy face to her cheek and unleashed her seventy-five-million-copies-sold smile.

Sam returned the phone to the taller girl. Nice to meet you.  Enjoy your stay in Los Angeles.  He waved farewell to their visitors and returned to his chair.

Lorayne kissed the dog’s forehead before replacing her companion in the booster seat.  For a count of ten, she pretended to be occupied with her linguine.  Are they gone?

Uh-huh.  That picture has already hit the Internet.  Sam took another bite of his steak.  It was getting cold.

Lorayne slapped her fork hard on the tablecloth.  And they’re holding that vile creature’s book!

Nope.  I cropped it out.

You did?  Oh, you’re a good kid!  Her fingers – agile and strong from many years of keyboarding – clasped his hand.  Sam, I’m so alone.  A Mediterranean cruise one week, a London book tour the next – wealth, glamour, excitement –  Her hand waved in circles; her gold bracelets pranced.  "And I have no one to share it with, because that sleazy, scheming, sentence-mangling hack stole my boyfriend."

That was a long time ago.

I remember it like it was yesterday, she said through her teeth.

It’s time to move on. You’ll find someone else.  You’ll have many good years to replace the empty ones.

Oh, Sam.  She touched her napkin to the inner corners of her eyes.

You know what you should do, Lorayne?  You should write yourself a happy ending.

You’ll have to write it for me, darling.  You have an extraordinary imagination.  When you were a little boy, you told me that you had an invisible friend.  A medieval knight, no less. I can’t remember his name.

Sam’s eyes followed sudden movement behind her.

Lorayne turned around in her chair.  Oh, criminy.

A gray-haired police officer wove swiftly through the crowded patio.  He was out of breath when he arrived at their table.  He leaned on the back of the Pomeranian’s chair and wheezed into his fist.

"You again, Lorayne complained.  Officer Powell, every time you show up, someone has been poisoned by toads or trampled by ostriches.  Your presence sends shivers through me."

The policeman mirrored her disdain. Miss Vanderbrook –

She cut him off with an imperious toss of her hand.  Whatever it is this time, must you people drag my nephew into it?

Officer Powell, Sam asked, what’s going on?

Sorry to bother you, Father Donahan.  The cop pointed above their heads.  We have a jumper on the ninth floor.

Sam glanced up at the hotel’s windows.  He could not see anything past the teal-and-white striped awnings.

Send in a psychiatrist, Lorayne advised.

Aware that his uniform was attracting the attention of the other diners, Officer Powell muttered, We’ve already tried that, ma’am.

I should go.  Sam slid his napkin next to his plate.  Thanks for lunch.  He tapped a quick kiss on his great-aunt’s cheek.

As he followed the officer, he heard her say, Twenty-four seven.  Pixie, the world needs more superheroes.

*            *            *

Just hand me the gun.

What will happen to me?  The girl held the pistol loosely at her side.

Let’s go inside and talk.  We can fix this.

It’s too late.  Her voice was flat.

That’s not true.  Come on.  Take my hand.

Her despairing eyes turned to him.

When he dropped his gaze from hers, he saw the pistol’s barrel under her chin.

No! he shouted.

Plummeting from the midday sky, a slim, ruby streak struck her forehead with a loud clunk.

The girl yelped.  An instant too late, her left arm flew over her head.

Her right hand fell.

An ominously loud explosion tore Sam away from the building.  The burning pain in his bicep overwhelmed him.

The sky danced dizzily.  The wind’s roar jammed his ears.

Darkness engulfed his eyes.

Chapter 2

Clink-clink, clink-clink.

The familiar sound summoned Sam from oblivion.  He struggled to lift his eyelids.

A six-foot-two man attired in a chainmail hood, leather gauntlets, and a gray, floor-length cloak paced restlessly around the small room.  The three-foot-long sword strapped to his left side struck his shin plate with each step.

Tapping his neatly trimmed mustache, the knight paused at the window to study the night sky.  The roaring male lion embroidered in silver on his steel blue tunic shimmered in its reflection on the dark glass.

Sam hoarsely whispered his friend’s name.

Sir Alec the Bold, Defender of Britannia, hurried to his side.  Sam!  Thank God!

Am I alive?

You must be. The knight spread his hands in amazement.  I’m still here.

Sam’s eyes moved over the pale cotton garment tied neatly on his own chest.  A thin blanket covered his legs.  His bare feet protruded at the end of the hospital bed.

Sir Alec rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.  That was quite courageous, my lad. We live another day, to serve the King, to protect helpless damsels, and to battle the forces of evil – we brave knights of yore!

Sam turned his head.  He could not decode the buttons on the armrest. How long have I been here?

You’re awake! An African-American woman bustled into the room; dancing koalas decorated her lilac shirt.  I’ll help you sit up, and then I’ll bring you dinner.  She checked the intravenous line attached to his right arm.

Take care, milady. Sir Alec worried over the nurse’s adjustments.  I have guarded this lad for twenty years.  I don’t want to hear him utter a single ‘ouch.’

Sam mumbled, How did – why am I –

My name is Monique, the nurse said loudly, in case the anesthesia still muddled his thoughts.  The fire department caught you.  Do you remember falling into the net?

Sam shook his head.

I’ll bet you remember that crazy girl shooting you in the arm.  Yes, that arm.  Don’t try to move it.  It’s tied across your chest. Doctor Steen removed the bullet.  You’ll need rest and pain meds, but you’ll be fine.

Sir Alec let out a relieved breath.  Somebody up there likes you.  Ask her about the girl.

Did she jump? Sam asked groggily.

No.  The cops grabbed her.  That’s from the LAPD.  On a small table near the window, yellow chrysanthemums overflowed a plastic vase.  The TV news channels keep playing the video.  Some klutz crawled onto the edge of the roof and dropped a cell phone on her head.  That’s when the gun went off.

Did they arrest her?

No, she’s still in the lobby.  We keep telling her to leave, because it’s after eight.  Monique turned away to tuck the blanket around his legs.

Sam blinked hard.  Lorayne’s handwriting meandered across the back of the nurse’s shirt: To my dearest friend... wishing you magnificent...as always...  Was my great-aunt here?

Isn’t she a sweetheart!  She sat in the family room and cried buckets during your surgery.  As soon as we took you to post-op, we called a cab for her.  Monique twisted her neck to glimpse Lorayne’s words.  I’m framing this shirt.  Someday it will be worth a fortune.

Sir Alec the Bold guffawed.  "Perhaps not.  Lorayne has autographed everything.  A hockey player’s forehead.  A Porsche 918 Spyder.  Even a suit of armor in London’s Royal Antiquities Museum.  I’m afraid the curators fell into a bit of trouble for that one."

When Monique headed for the door, she crossed paths with the knight.

Sir Alec vanished in a cloud of sparkling lights.

Don’t go, Sam said faintly.

The nurse turned in the doorway.  I’ll be right back.  No tuna salad for you, Father Donahan.  You’re a celebrity.  We’re keeping the kitchen open all night.

The silence lasted an unbearable ten seconds.

An icy breeze coursing down the hall tortured his bare feet.  He tried not to think about spending the night in this place, with its antiseptic smell and its nameless sense of foreboding.

His gaze moved unsteadily over the small, open closet near the door.  The jagged hole in his sweater’s sleeve jostled his memory; the matte brown streak was his own dried blood.  On the next hanger hung his denim jacket, which he last saw draped over a young woman in peril.

Light footsteps approached.  Sam?

Worry lines dividing her graceful eyebrows, the girl from the window ledge leaned over him.  Are you OK?  I’m really sorry.  Her eyes were wet.  With most of her mascara rubbed away, her natural beauty was apparent.

I guess we made the news. He smiled wanly.  I never got your name.

It’s Natalie.  She laid her fingers over his right hand.  Thank you for trying to help me.

What you were doing out there?

I don’t want to get you involved.

I’m already involved.

It’s too dangerous.

A huge, hairy hand descended on her slim forearm.

Sam looked up in alarm.

A muscular man in his mid-forties, filling out an expensive, black-and-red pinstripe suit, towered over them.  Get away from him!  You stupid girl.  You shot a priest!  He dragged Natalie, squirming helplessly, from the room.

It was an accident, Sam protested feebly.  No one heard him.

Take her back to the house.  The stranger pushed Natalie into the hands of a teenager waiting in the corridor.  His son, Sam guessed.  Both men had thick eyebrows mounted above intimidating stares.

Sam tried to focus on the doorway.

Natalie and the strangers were gone.

A man in his late twenties, with a shaved head and a don’t-mess-with-me attitude, swaggered in next.  His white tank shirt exposed his bulging arm muscles.  He slid a cell phone into the front pocket of his faded jeans.

He halted to examine the room.  He stalked to the bedside table, picked up the telephone, and disconnected it.

Next, he noticed the chrysanthemums.  The handwriting on the card made his eyes tighten.  He marched into the bathroom and dumped the flowers in the trash can.

Finally, he stationed himself by the door, with his arms crossed, and watched Sam respectfully.

A few minutes later, the stranger in the black-and-red suit returned.  A handsome man with horizontal lines etched into his forehead, he carried the confidence that accompanies great wealth.  He smoothed his shiny, dark hair with his palm.  Father Donahan, I wish to extend a sincere apology to you.  My name is Cappalletti.  His massive hand, scented with musky cologne, swallowed Sam’s.  My family feels embarrassed about what happened today.  I promise to make it up to you.

Despite his affluence, the man was fashion-challenged; Sam could not make sense of his tomato shirt and tangerine necktie.  That girl – Natalie –

Forget about it.  She won’t do it again.

Please –  Sam tried to shift his feet off the bed.

Whoa, there, Padre.  Leave everything to us.  Let us know if you have any medical bills.  We’ll take good care of you.  He slid a glossy black business card into Sam’s hand.  His name glowed in gold letters: Franco Cappalletti.  Call me when you’re up and at ‘em.

Franco bared his teeth in a terrifying smile.  He turned and left the room; the young man with the shaved head followed abruptly.

I don’t like the way you talked to Natalie, Sam fumed silently, or how you manhandled her.

Monique’s arrival interrupted his thoughts.  Have you been trying to get up and run around?  Not tonight, you’re not.  She secured the blanket around him once more.  Now, we’re thinking you should start this day over, and what better way than with breakfast.  The cook recommends French toast and scrambled eggs.  How does that sound?

Sam nodded.

Good.  She saw the business card.  What’s that?

Nothing.  He hid it clumsily under the blanket.

A slight man with a copper crew cut, a white button-down shirt, and khaki trousers knocked on the doorframe.  Is Father Donahan receiving visitors?

Monique did not hide her exasperation.  What do you think? Don’t you watch the news?

I need to talk with you, the man called past the nurse.

It’s OK, Sam told her.

She gave in.  One minute.

After she left, the stranger shut the door.  The tan corduroy jacket folded under his arm concealed a bulky object.

Sam felt the hairs on his neck prickling.

The man exhaled lager fumes mixed with a breath mint.  His face bore as many freckles as the constellations in the night sky.  Without a trace of emotion, the visitor’s eyes jerked to Sam’s left arm, secured across his chest.  I understand that you’re a priest.

That’s right.

You don’t dress like a priest.

Today was my day off.

I didn’t know they let you do that.  The man studied his face.  You look like you’re still in high school.

What can I help you with, Mr. –

O’Rourke.  I need you to keep this conversation confidential.

Sure.

How well do you know the Cappallettis?

Sam held up the black business card.  I just met them.

The West Coast’s most notorious organized crime family.  The man opened a leather wallet and flashed a tarnished silver badge.  The Federal government is interested in any information you can provide about them.

I don’t know anything.  Exhaustion washed over Sam.

O’Rourke handed him a plain white business card.  When they contact you again – and they will – call me immediately.

Sam’s eyes twitched over the card.  It bore the seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Use my cell number.  You’ll reach me directly.  I don’t want my staff asking questions.  His visitor turned on his heel.

When O’Rourke opened the door, Monique was standing in his path. 

She held a tray loaded with tan, plastic discs.  Tell me that you did not close my patient’s door.  This man is recovering from surgery.  Visiting hours are over.  Do you understand?

Yes, ma’am. O’Rourke retreated down the hall.

Monique set the tray on a rolling table. No one else will bother you tonight.  I will see to that.  She lifted the plastic covers and showed Sam a feast of French toast, scrambled eggs, and sliced peaches.  Doesn’t everything look delicious?

"Just