When Even God Can't Find the Way Home: The Custodians and the Watchers

By Richard Straws

The daughter of Mob boss Anthony de Angelis has disappeared. A nationwide police manhunt is underway, seeking her for the murder of her industrialist husband. Enter Hugh Holiday, coerced by de Angelis into tracking her down before the police do.

This is the last thing Hugh wants to do. He already has a target on his back, hounded by a relentless Pittsburgh police lieutenant, who is convinced he can tie Holiday to a notorious, six-month-old murder.

Hugh heads to Connecticut to pick up the trail. It’s far enough from his Pittsburgh hometown that he can transition from his life as a lifelong stutterer to his recently acquired British-speaking persona—a smooth-talking façade vital for his mission, but also one that if tied to him would be the nail in his coffin for the Pittsburgh murder.

An involuntary outsider, Hugh’s navigated a lot of pitfalls in his almost twenty-four years. Mockery for his speech disfluencies and being framed for murder were just the appetizers. He’s now about to cross paths with a mysterious, tech-savvy organization, a sociopathic hitman, two bewitching women, and a wily and personable Bridgeport police lieutenant—all of who are about to make his life very complicated. And precarious.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Straws
• Release date: Apr 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9780967594675

Book preview

Chapter 1

She looked like a supermodel. Tall and spectacularly proportioned; long legs, thin waist. Luxurious and wavy blonde hair swept over one shoulder. A radiant smile with perfect teeth, and skin so flawless and soft she looked like a walking advertisement for moisturizers and beauty sleep. She was drop-dead gorgeous.

And yet, approachable. Clearly approachable. Dressed demurely in gray skirt, white blouse, and long, gray sweater, she had a kind of shy, sweet, girl-next-door look.

And now she was in the lions' den. Quite literally. Well, maybe technically the Great Cats Exhibit at the zoo. But, nonetheless, the habitat for captive members of this massive apex predator. And, certainly, the last place she wanted to be.

Hugh had been watching her when she'd tumbled in. She'd been leaning over the railing on the elevated observation deck, smiling broadly and just about to take a photo, when a man in the crowd shoved her violently and ran off. Her backward grasp for the railing failed. The onlookers, who previously had trained their smartphone cameras on the lion pride, were now taking photos and videos of her as she looked hopelessly up at them, silent but eyes pleading for help.

She was going to make the wrong move. Hugh knew that instinctively. She was going to run and be pursued and caught and mauled before any help arrived. Already the lions were crossing from their rocky terrace and moving across the grassy area. Five lions, led by a large male with a thick mane. Stalking her like she was a zebra or wildebeest. And no one from the zoo would make it in time.

She did start to run. She kicked off her high heels and ran towards a locked gate in the chain-link fence. She would never make it. That much was very clear.

Without hesitation, Hugh plunged over the railing and into the pit. Three seconds later he was at the woman’s side. She looked at him helplessly. Grasping her hand, he led her, walking backwards, facing the pride, with slow and measured steps back to the area nearest the observation deck. He looked into her frightened eyes, smiled to comfort her. And then he grabbed her waist and with his six-foot-two-inch frame effortlessly lifted her. He shifted his hands lower on her body to her derrière and hoisted her up, stretching full out. His eyes met the crowd and they reacted, grabbing her outstretched arms and hoisting her to safety.

And now he had no means to climb out and no time if he’d had means. The pride was nearly on top of him, moving at a fast trot, no longer stalking, but pursuing, eyes focused intently on their prey. Any effort to climb out and he would be dragged down, the instincts of these extraordinary predators already past the point of no return.

With an ear-shattering roar, he rushed at the lions.

For a moment, it worked. Startled by the unorthodox move, the lions, including the big-maned male, lurched out of his path. Hugh allowed himself to think it'd be possible to achieve his goal, to reach the leafless tree in the middle of the grassy area. To climb up and maybe buy some time until help arrived.

It was overly optimistic. The time he'd bought was fleeting. The lions quickly regrouped. They seemed coordinated in their attack, all five lions surrounding him, cutting off any avenue for escape.

And then two of the lionesses that had been crouching low suddenly launched themselves at him in an explosion of fury and power.

Hugh picked up a dead tree limb, as thick as his lower leg, and swinging with both arms made contact with the first lion’s open jaws, then the side of the head of the second—and then all hell broke loose as the entire pride moved in for the kill. Hugh swung the branch right and left, hit one lioness on the backswing and another with the forward blow, slammed one head-on with an end of the branch, deftly avoided one onrushing lion as he resoundingly hammered its side with a strong kick, his fury matching theirs, his own power and agility mirroring the coiled-spring muscles of the lions, moving deftly at every opportunity toward the chain-link fence whenever an opening appeared, leaping out of the way of the deadly claws, thrashing with the branch, moving ever closer to the fence, the excited yelling of the on-looking crowd drowning out the lions’ own roars, then spotting a thin, jutting piece of rock that rose three feet in the air, jumping on it with his left foot and leaping to the chain-link fence, his shoes finding the slightest of footholds, enough for him to spring yet higher and grab the top of the chain-link fence and pull himself over and out of the pit.

Hugh climbed out to a great ovation. He was now the focus of the crowd’s cameras. The woman, the supermodel with the girl-next-door look, rushed to him, embracing him. She buried her face first into his chest and then rose on the tips of her toes to plant a passionate kiss. She stood back and smiled broadly, and with her radiant smile and teary eyes of gratitude said trembling, How can I ever repay you?

Hugh handed her the shoes, whose high heels he'd clipped inside his belt, and then her phone, which he'd put in his pocket, and said with a twinkle in his eye and his smooth James Bond delivery, Well, how about dinner tonight, love?

The gray-haired woman to his left looked at him oddly. She appeared to mumble, Excuse me?

He took out his earbuds. The bus was eerily quiet—and he'd spoken out loud. With an embarrassed nod, Hugh mouthed sorry and got up and off at the next stop. He'd walk the rest of the way to his apartment.

He drew up his parka’s hood to brace against the biting wind. His daydream had been sunny and light-sweater weather in some place like San Diego. His reality was a cold, windy, bleak December in Pittsburgh. Tucking his hands into his coat pockets, he began to trudge the nine blocks.

He didn’t use to daydream. Until half-a-year ago, it'd been too painful. His singularly severe and lifelong stutter had made the thought of daydreaming about being a hero or rock star or spy or any other fantasy too distressing to bear. It had been too much of a reminder that he couldn’t even speak to a ninety-year-old woman in a nursing home sans his disjointed speech, let alone impress a rescued damsel or electrify a sold-out crowd or pull off an espionage cover.

Now, since his breakthrough, it seemed he couldn’t stop daydreaming. Not since he'd learned that assuming a British accent—drawing upon the deeper voice and slow and measured pace employed while in character—allowed him to speak without the telltale stammer. Now the once painful reminder of his handicap became a welcome diversion from loneliness, a detachment from boredom. The reveries could be exciting, blood pumping. Even now he was high from the adrenaline rush of having been in a pit, fighting off a lion pride.

With any justice in the world, he should've been able to assume the British accent in more than just daydreams. But, luck as it was, he was boxed in. The relentless Fates just wouldn’t give him a break. His effort to change the direction of his woven thread had ended up in a tangled mess.

Hugh stopped off at his neighbor’s to retrieve Holly. He could hear her soft whining at the kitchen door before he ever knocked. Holly rarely barked. The fluffy, little, white dog was as quiet and gentle as they come, largely due to Hugh’s patient training. But the two-year-old bichon frise whined whenever Hugh came to pick her up, generally as soon as he strode in through the gate, alerting the elderly woman that Hugh was arriving.

Hugh expected, hoped, to be in and out. Mrs. Wardell had a different idea.

Hugh, how's about a piece of pie? Homemade apple pie. The nice Lieutenant Kelly brought it by today.

Hugh tried not to visibly shrug. He visibly shrugged. Petting the exuberant Holly, he slumped down in a chair at the kitchen table.

Wh-wh-what did, um, uh, Lieu-Lieu …… K-Kelly want? The last two words came out with a rising pitch and too loud. He hated his voice. The stutter was annoying enough; now it made it seem as if he were nervous, as if he had something to hide. Which he did.

Oh, not much. The usual. Just wanted to see how I was doing. Drops by almost every month since the burglary in your apartment. Always asks about you.

Hugh frowned, caught himself, and smiled. His frown didn't escape Mrs. Wardell's attention.

He's not being nebby, Hugh. Just showing concern.

T-t-that’s n-nice. Wh-wh-what did you say?

Mrs. Wardell had known Hugh his entire life and had never once acknowledged his stutter in his presence. She had taken the time to study up on the condition. His was the worse she’s ever heard of. For two decades she observed him incessantly repeating consonants and syllables and words. She kept a poker face during awkward prolongations and even those occasional explosions of sound that would punctuate conversations after he’d gotten stuck and nothing had come out. She figured not acknowledging his stutter wouldn’t help him—not something that had become intrinsic to him after all these years; she’d never seen stutter-free episodes—but she also guessed his father's frequent, frustration-laced admonitions had only exacerbated the problem.

I told the lieutenant that you led too boring of a life. That you need to get a girlfriend.

She was honest about that. It wasn't to make him feel better about himself. Anyone not distracted by his stuttering could see he was handsome, with a captivating smile that showcased perfect teeth and a strong chin. He carried his tall, broad-shouldered frame erect, and his blue eyes sparkled below his ash-blond hair. And, as she often wistfully mused, so intelligent and kind. Surely a good woman could look beyond his speech disorder, even as severe as it was, and recognize he’d make a great husband and father.

Hugh smiled at the girlfriend comment. But it was an awkward smile, only meant to mask the emptiness that surfaced.

Mrs. Wardell reached down to pet Holly. Holly wasn't going to leave Hugh's side. Mrs. Wardell pulled her hand back.

I’m going to miss you, little girl. But you know it's Chrissmas, and Chrissmas is time to visit relatives. She looked at Hugh. But, I’m not gonna miss this weather. My sister was right to settle in Florida. I’ll probably settle there myself one of these days. It’s just this—she looked wistfully around—has been my home for sixty years now, ever since Edgar and I were married. First and last home."

Hugh nodded. He’d heard it all before.

Yinz gonna be okay for a dog sitter for the next month?

Y-y-eah. W-w-we’ll make do.

And you will look after my house and water my plants, right?

C-c-c-certainly.

"Keep the heat turned down but not so low I get frozen pipes. If we get extreme cold, let some water drip out of the faucet and bathtub. Okay?

Well, s-sure.

While Hugh picked at his pie, Mrs. Wardell explained yet again where all the plants were that would need to be watered and how often. He patiently listened for the fifth time about the plants, the fourth time about turning the heat down and frozen pipes. It wasn’t that she thought his cognitive abilities mirrored his stutter. It was just that she knew she was speaking to a young man who wouldn’t take such things as seriously as she did.

Hugh got himself free as quickly as he could, and he and Holly made their way to the house next door, taking the back stairs to his second-floor apartment.

In the quiet of his apartment, transitioning to his second self, Hugh put on a wry smile and tried to kick-start his brain into a more uplifting mood. Well, girl, what do you think? Should we put up a blooming Christmas Tree? He sat down on the living room sofa, and Holly climbed up on his lap. He took out a brush and began to work on her fur. I blinking suppose, Holly, we can get a titchy one and liven up the flat.

But the thought made Hugh melancholy, and for the hundredth time, for the second year straight, he dismissed the idea. What's the point? He put all kinds of effort in Holly's first Christmas—not a titchy one, but a nice size one, with lights, and colorful bulbs, and tinsel—and no one saw it save Holly. Girlfriend? He would be happy with some friends, or even a single friend. And now almost twenty-four years old, how was he supposed to meet someone? In the past he'd wondered about going to church to find a girlfriend or make a friend. But he'd feel like such a hypocrite. Going to church just to meet a girl? Not that he was opposed to the idea of there being a God. Maybe there was. But if so, God was hiding from him.

His small circle of co-workers were no help. They were either married or in serious relationships, and none seemed to want to introduce girls they knew to a stutterer.

Or, maybe it was the other thing.

Hi, Sally. Let me introduce you to Hugh. He's a nice guy. You two should go out sometime. Although . . . maybe I should mention that the police consider him the prime suspect in the still-unsolved murder of Dr. Megan DuPont. You remember that case? It made national headlines.

Hugh's effort to trick himself into a more positive mood had failed miserably.

Holly solved the problem.

Holly suddenly rose, her white, fluffy, front legs on Hugh, white, fluffy, rear legs on the sofa. She looked at him with excitement and what one could only conclude was a look of absolute delight. With her double-coated fur, she looked like she'd walked straight out of a cumulus, cotton-ball-like cloud and decided not to shake it off. But, now she wanted to play. Hugh reached for her, slowly, still immersed in his dark mood, and Holly sprang further back on the sofa. He reached for her again, and she was onto the floor, looking back at him, ready to run.

Hugh lunged for her, and she was off. Full speed, across the floor, her curly, white hair looking like a blur, as she darted into the bedroom, onto the bed, off the bed, under the bed, back across the floor, crashing into the wall to change direction, into the kitchen, around the kitchen table, holding still, crouching on the floor until Hugh approached her, and then off in another blur, this time right by Hugh as he reached for her. She jumped on the sofa and then onto the back of the sofa. Like a mountain goat she stood perched on the back of the sofa until Hugh approached her again, and then she bounded off across the floor, back into the bedroom, jumping onto the bed again. Then, with Hugh now in pursuit, she was again off at full speed across the living room, bouncing off more walls with every turn, over and under furniture, around and on the sofa, crashing into more walls, always just out of the reach of Hugh, sometimes brushing against his legs as she ran by, all the while looking absolutely elated by the chase. It was a bichon blitz, and it continued for ten minutes, until Hugh was gasping for breath and Holly also looked ready to stop, mouth open, tongue hanging out.

Hugh approached her with the back of his hand stretched out, and she let him pick her up. He sat down on the sofa and cradled her upside down in his arms. He rubbed her tummy, and she lay with her head turned to the side, looking at him with her big eyes filled with joy.

Holly ears pricked up. She squirmed in Hugh's arms and started to bark—not a full-throated bark; a soft string of just three yelps. Hugh hushed her and then noticed the sound of heavy footsteps on the indoor stairs leading to the living room. Even so, the knock on the door was so thundering that it startled him.

When he opened the door, two men stood there. Both large. The one with big shoulders and chiseled jaw Hugh had seen before: Mr. Adonis, Hugh had dubbed him. The other could have been used in a police lineup with Brock Lesnar, the WWE behemoth, and even his wife Sable might’ve done a double-take. He stood at least six-three and three hundred pounds, and from the look of it, all muscle. Hugh suddenly felt small.

Mr. Holiday, the Brock Lesnar clone said in a deep, gravelly drawl, Mr. de Angelis would like to see you. Now.

Hugh didn’t bother asking why. He put Holly down in the kitchen, filled her water dish, threw her a snack, got his coat, and soon was sitting in the back seat of a Chrysler, the two chiseled goliaths in the front. No one talking. Driving outside the city, up a mountainous two-lane, patches of snow visible here and there. Somewhere he had been before.

Heading back into the lions' den.

Chapter 2

The remote, stone-walled property sitting atop a mountain outside Pittsburgh was familiar to Hugh. He was driven through the same metal gate. He once again was invasively frisked by guards in the same manned guardhouse inside that gate. As the car wound up the paved driveway, Hugh looked out at the same expansive, rolling lawn with massive trees that he’d seen in late spring. The flower garden in the center of the circular drive at the top was now devoid of flowers—it was, after all, winter—but the statue of the woman holding a baby once more caught Hugh’s eye.

But this time, he was led into the striking, three-story, gray-stone mansion that accentuated the mountaintop and looked out on the valley.

Which surprised him. Six months ago, his involuntary ride up the mountain had ended with his being taken into a nearly bare, concrete-walled room in the basement below the car port: a crypt-like place that he thought at the time might be the last place he’d ever see.

In this lions' den, there wasn’t a drop-dead gorgeous, tall, and young woman waiting. She was tall and attractive, to be sure, but Mrs. Violetta de Angelis was pushing sixty, with children and grandchildren. Hugh had met her before, but he'd been somewhat dazed at the time and his memory remained foggy. This time he was struck by her classic beauty. She was someone who'd aged very gracefully. Her black hair sans even a strand of gray might be the product of the ancient art of hair coloring, but her skin was remarkably smooth, perhaps a woman who protected it from her youth, with lotions and sunscreen and large hats. With her long hair swept behind her ears, her chandelier earrings and fashionable glasses stood out, while her V-neck, pleated flare dress accented her slim figure, which was further highlighted by a long, gold necklace. A statuesque beauty with a regal air.

Hugh found it odd she was so fashionably dressed at home. And it contrasted with how joyless she seemed. Distracted. Worried, Something wasn't right.

After greeting him in the foyer, Mrs. de Angelis escorted Hugh into the living room. Her thank you for coming was said with warmth, and yet Hugh found himself unable to respond; his immediate thought was Thank you for coming? Like I had a choice. It was come under my own power, or unconscious and carried.

The living room into which he was led was expansive, with a vaunted ceiling. It had hardwood flooring, but with an almond-colored rug in the center on which were placed two large sofas and four plush chairs, arranged in a circle. The room had no outside light coming in; what would ordinarily be large picture windows were closed off completely by thick curtains.

The room had four main attention grabbers. One was a Christmas tree, a full ten-feet high, decorated with large blue and gold bulbs, blue and green lights, and spiral icicles that Hugh supposed could be made of real silver.

The other attention grabbers were the three key figures from the Pittsburgh faction of La Cosa Nostra.

One stood up when Hugh entered the room. The other two shifted forward in their plush chairs, but remained seated.

The one standing would be instantly recognized by most Pittsburghers: Anthony Vincenzo de Angelis. Well-known for his philanthropy and business empire, The Angel could be seen in the society pages standing alongside his wife Violetta; his visage was prominently displayed in framed photos in bars and restaurants, construction companies, stone quarries, car dealerships, and recycling businesses, not to mention some large hotels, casinos, and racetracks. At The MacArthur Medical College, the state-of-the-art De Angelis Center brought The Angel indebtedness even before he responded to the murder of their beloved professor, Dr. Megan DuPont, by endowing a million-dollar-a-year Chair in her memory.

Tony de Angelis' kindly demeanor and ordinary appearance—five-foot-ten, thin frame, wire-rimmed glasses, streaks of gray in his black hair—when combined with his reputation for being hardworking and a good family man, made him the kind of person you'd feel comfortable buying a car off of. Until someone mentioned to check the car's trunk for a body. For The Angel was head of the area Mob, an open secret to long-time Pittsburghers.

The older man in the room, in his late seventies, would equally be dismissed at one’s peril. He might look like an affable old grandfather, or great grandfather for that matter, with his warm smile; time-chiseled, tanned skin; and thick, plastic glasses complementing crow-footed and aged eyes. But those brown eyes were still piercing, and the mostly gray hair and mustache foretold nothing about the alertness and shrewdness of his mind. He would have been the one to advise de Angelis that it would be perfectly fine to put the body in the car trunk. He was Joseph D’Alfonso, consigliere to The Angel.

The third man was much more physically impressive and perhaps yet in his forties. Like Hugh, he was six feet, two inches tall, but with a thick body from head to toe and eyes that said he was a man you didn’t want to cross. He was a person Hugh'd never met. But Hugh had been studying about the Pittsburgh Mafia for the past half year and knew who this stranger was. Joseph Salerno, de Angelis' underboss. The guy who would’ve seen to it that the man in the car trunk first had been suitably tortured, and sliced and diced, and had dollar bills stuffed up his anus as a warning to anyone who’d cheated The Angel.

Welcome, Mr. Holiday. Please, take a seat. De Angelis’ subdued tone was mirrored by an equally dispirited hand motion toward a sofa, antithetical to the powerful authority he commanded. The Angel settled in a comfy chair, creating a circle with D'Alfonso, Salerno, and Hugh. No one offered a hand to shake. The two men shifted back in their chairs. The Angel leaned forward, hands interlocked on his lap. Hugh sat bolt upright.

It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Holiday. You've met my associate. He half-gestured towards D’Alfonso. You haven’t met my other colleague. You can speak freely in front of him as you could with us. He paused and looked Hugh in the eyes. You know what I mean.

Hugh nodded.

I have a job for you, said De Angelis.

Blimey! I already have a blinking job! Hugh’s British accent came out well. His long-practiced, measured, smooth James-Bond delivery didn’t. His composed delivery died in his head, as he blurted out words one on top of the other. The last thing he wanted was to be working for any of these people. If he could, he'd have climbed out of this lions' den right then and there, even if it meant leaving a gorgeous, young woman behind.

The Angel furled his brow and looked up at Hugh’s face. He smiled. The kind of smile an assassin might affect if he was trying to follow his mother’s advice to smile more at his job, which in his line of work would be when he pulled the trigger.

Perhaps, I misspoke, Holiday, continued de Angelis. His words were measured. I have something I need you to do. Something . . . you will do. He smiled again, a mask on a dark mood.

He waived Hugh silent before Hugh could interrupt.

My daughter is missing. I haven’t heard from her. No one knows where she is. From my experience with you earlier this year, I found you to be a uniquely resourceful individual. Someone we can use to help. Someone I have a plan for.

Hugh did interrupt. The bobbies have a bloody lot more blooming resources than I have.

There was another pause, as the three listeners digested Hugh's awkward use of British slang.

Hugh had become practiced in the art of using—well, overusing—British slang. Blimey and bollocks and gobsmacked and Bob's your uncle littered his vocabulary—a habit cultivated to aid him in hanging onto the British accent, just as he similarly spiced his conversations with uniquely pronounced British words like privacy and laboratory. But he was painfully aware that he hadn't the foggiest idea how people in England really used the slang, how they spoke to one another; he’d never traveled outside the United States save once to Canada. His expertise was limited to what he could find on the Internet and streaming British shows.

The pregnant pause was broken when de Angelis again spoke up.

Well, and here's the problem. You see, Holiday . . . Hugh . . . the police think— His voice broke a little; he paused to collect himself. They think she murdered her husband and is on the lam.

Hugh looked down at his hands. Well, this is just going great.

But, I know my daughter very well, de Angelis continued, with a passion growing more fiery with every word. We'd speak almost every night. She’s my baby girl. And she's a fantastic daughter. And loved her husband, deeply. They got along very well.

You're head of the . . . the . . . a bloody lot of organizations with a blooming lot of resources. I am one insignificant bloke; I can’t help. It's not my cup of tea. Hugh's exasperated tone matched de Angelis' passion, but he couldn't make eye contact. When he glanced to the side, it brought him to Salerno. He regretted it immediately; Salerno looked pissed. Hugh didn’t know if it was the slang or his saying no to The Angel.

De Angelis said . . . nothing. He looked at Hugh for almost a minute. When he continued, his tone was one of practiced patience combined with absolute authority. Each sentence was highlighted by pauses both captivating and anxiety-inducing.

Hugh. What you did last spring . . . that was . . . very impressive. You are uniquely perceptive and clever. You're imaginative. And I have a plan that will be able to utilize your ability to speak with a British accent.

I'm still a suspect in a murder, Hugh pleaded. Lieutenant Kelly is watching me like a bloody hawk. The only thing keeping me a free man is not speaking in a British accent. Hugh was the doomed man on a pirate’s gangplank, begging for mercy. Expecting none.

Hugh vaguely looked in Salerno’s direction. He addressed his next remarks to the underboss, someone who'd not heard his tale. But his real target was de Angelis. You remember the DuPont murder? Of course, you do: it was docking big news. One bloody word from me in this accent, and then the eyewitness account holds true. I’m placed at the scene and nicked by Kelly in no time. He realized he was sounding more like Benny Hill than James Bond.

Hugh made eye contact with Salerno. He saw the man who’d tortured, sliced, and diced people before dumping them in a car trunk with dollars shoved up their anuses. Only . . . only. His voice broke. O-o-only m-my s-s-st-stutt-stuttering is k-k-keeping me free.

Salerno looked at him with open mouth. Then he shot de Angelis a look of You made a plan around this panicked imbecile? What, Barney Fife wasn't available?

Hugh looked back at de Angelis. Y-y-you c-c-ould have l-left one of the . . . uh, um, um . . . p-p-per-perpetrators alive to confess. Y-y-you c-c-could have g-g-gotten a . . .—a word stuck in his throat, until finally it came blurting out—CONFESSION, so-so-so I-I-I d-don’t stay f-framed. Uh, um, you h-h-had to dis-dis-disappear-disappear them and leave the Du-Du-DuPont m-murder unsolved. And with a p-p-person f-fitting my d-description with a B-B-British accent.

Hugh felt pathetic. Just the thought that in his case all of the physical characteristics that one normally would use in identification—his six-foot-two frame, his stockiness, his blue eyes, ash-blond hair, strong chin, erect posture—all were eclipsed by his stutter. The elderly man at the crime scene had good eyes. He'd shown recognition of Hugh at the police station. But just hearing Hugh stutter, versus the smooth British accent from their brief conversation at the murder scene, and all the physical characteristics blurred. They no longer mattered. The phrase I see better than I hear didn't apply in this case. More apropos was the Marx brother Chico's quote from Duck Soup: who are you going to believe, me or your own eyes.

De Angelis looked at Hugh steely. You were not our first concern, Mr. Holiday. Or any concern, to be honest.

Hugh raised his eyebrows. He turned his gaze to the carpet.

Anyway, Mr. Holiday, he continued, my daughter’s home is in Bridgeport, Connecticut. It's two hundred miles away. It's two states away.

Bag of Ferrets. Dodgy. Privacy. Hugh fought to regain his composure. To not think about the fact that this Salerno guy looked like he was ready to drop him into the Allegheny with some concrete shoes. L-L-Lieu. He paused. He whispered, barely audible. Vitamin. Laboratory. Hugh avoided eye contact with any of the three, looking down at the almond-colored rug. Had he looked up, he knew what he would see: shaking heads, mouths open. He took an audibly deep breath. Jolly good. . . . It’s a major cock-up. Lieutenant Kelly is looking blinking everywhere to find someone to witness my speaking without a stutter. Even in Connecticut, he finds one person to tie me to the British accent and then the blinkin’ eyewitness testimony to my being on the murder scene sticks. I’m sorry, but I—

Hugh caught a glimpse of Salerno and D’Alfonso and stopped mid-sentence.

D’Alfonso moved forward in his chair, resting his right arm on his right leg, his hand on the other. We are sorry you got caught up in that operation of a former colleague, he said firmly, without even a trace of being sorry. "We had nothing to do with it, but we cleaned it up. Including cleaning it up for you. You're —

But it's not bloody cleaned up. I am Kelly's frikking white whale, Hugh pleaded. His open case. One that he's sure he solved, but can't prove.

Yes, and so now we have leverage. De Angelis suppressed barely-caged anger. If we want, we can provide the police with what they need to close this case. Should we have to go that route.

Hugh was stunned. For months he'd believed that de Angelis had been his angel. But he was still The Angel.

I just want some privacy. Just to be let alone. Please, just use your organization in the area.

The Angel continued.

That operation of our former associate, it impacted us as well. It severed relationships with our Boston and New York colleagues. Without them, we have no inroads in Connecticut. Not with the Bridgeport police. Not with anyone. All three of my sons have been in the area, and they ran into a stone wall. I lost two guys when we tried to shake down the wrong people. I need an outsider. Someone not identified with me. Outside our operation.

Lost two guys? Hugh felt lightheaded.

I'm bloody sorry. I really am. But I just can’t do it. I have to decline.

He had poked the lion. The last thing he needed to do was poke the lion. De Angelis’ eyes narrowed and his jaw clinched. He was steaming. His voice, his mannerisms, were so trenchant, Hugh’s jaw dropped.

Perhaps, I again misspoke. I am not asking. I am telling you what you will be doing.

Hugh looked down at his feet. He spoke without raising his eyes. He had to get out of this. He'd be working for the Mob. The Mob that just lost two guys on this job.

I'm truly sorry about your daughter. But . . . I think . . . you can appreciate how risky this is to me.

And that is precisely why you will be doing exactly what I tell you to do.

Hugh looked up.

"What you say is true, Mr. Holiday. We are well aware that Kelly has been searching under every rock for someone to prove his claim: that you and that British speaker at the scene of the murder are one and the same. Reverting from your newfound talent to your lifelong stutter—yeah, that was quick thinking. You threw off the eyewitness completely. It saved you for the time being.

"But you're forgetting one thing. I can provide the testimony Kelly is clamoring for. Both of these gentlemen can provide that testimony. How well do you think my testimony, as head of hundreds of companies, will stand up to a med-school reject? Motive, means, and opportunity. You were set up quite well. The police just need to place you at the scene. That we can do. And, let's face it. You indeed were at the scene when Dr.