Макс Коллинз - Road to Paradise

“Deputy US marshal...” Michael frowned, shifting his gaze to Shore. “Not the first team — not FBI?”

Hughes, putting his credentials away, seemed vaguely hurt.

“The marshals work with me,” Shore said, “on my unit.”

“What unit would that be?”

“Some people call it the Alias Program.” That awful smile again, the prominent eyeteeth conspiring with the buggy eyes to create the opposite effect intended. “We call it WITSEC.”

Michael, his voice almost a whisper, said, “Witness Protection Program,” and lowered the guns. “That’s what this is about?”

“Yes, Mr. Satariano. But I wonder if I might call you Michael? And you call me Harry. All my friends do. Why don’t you put your guns away, and invite your family in the house.”

Michael ignored that, saying, “Those gardeners down the street? They’re yours?”

Shore nodded. “But we wouldn’t stop you, if you left. This is not an arrest. We’re here to talk, that’s all. Give you an option you may not have considered.”

What did they know? Were they aware of the two dead Outfit slobs in that passageway at the Cal-Neva? The call he’d made to Chicago could not yet have resulted in the removal of those stiffs ...

“That ‘option,’ as I understand it,” Michael said, “would start with immunity for any crime I might have committed prior to this meeting.”

“Correct,” Shore said. “You can sign those papers today. And we can work out the details later.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Harry.” He turned to the marshal. “Here’s your gun, Don. Button it under your coat.”

Carefully, Hughes did as he’d been told. But the marshal’s eyes met Michael’s, acknowledging this as a gesture of trust.

Then Michael said, “You two know where the living room is?”

They nodded.

“Go sit in there and wait for me. I’m going to bring my girls in the house. I don’t want either one of you saying a word to them. We’re gonna restrict this to guy talk for now, got it?”

Shore gestured with open hands and, of course, smiled. “I would have suggested that very thing.”

Hughes said, “We only want the best for you and your family.”

Michael laughed. “Yeah, well, that’s sweet as fucking hell. I’ll wipe my tears and get back to you.”

He stuck his father’s .45 in his waistband and motioned to them to exit his office, which they did, Michael right behind.

Walking his wife and daughter to the kitchen, Michael suggested that they go ahead and prepare dinner, while he would talk to the two government men in the living room — and he did acknowledge these were federal agents, but that they were not here to make an arrest.

Both Pat and Anna were unnerved, of course, but he had said, “They may be able to help us,” and that seemed to calm them both.

In the kitchen, Pat nodded toward the living room. “Should I make enough for our... guests?”

“No. I’m not ready to break bread with them, just yet.”

“Well, we could at least offer them coffee.”

“No.”

Anna was at his side suddenly. “Daddy — are we in danger?”

“With these men in the house? Not at all.”

In the living room, Michael took the chair where not long ago had sat the young recruiting officer who’d reported on Mike’s MIA status. The two feds were on the couch across from him, Shore sitting forward, fingers intertwined, while Hughes leaned back, arms folded. The bald OCRS director tried so hard to be nice, it came off vaguely sinister, while the marshal was so low-key, you might miss how sharp his spooky blue eyes were, watching you.

“First,” Shore said quietly, “I need to bring you up to date on your situation.”

“Why don’t you do that.”

Eyes big behind the glasses, eyeteeth exposed, flecks of spittle on his lips, Shore said, “Considering your caution this evening, I am guessing that you are aware that your Chicago friends... perhaps I should say former friends... are blaming you for the death of Mad Sam DeStefano.”

“I am aware of that. But I didn’t do it.”

Now Shore’s eyes tightened, and the grin vanished. “We don’t believe you did, either... But there are certain people in law enforcement who don’t agree with us.”

Michael crossed his legs, ankle on knee; his hands gripped the arms of the easy chair. “And what people in law enforcement would that be?”

“Police in Chicago who found a weapon discarded a block from the DeStefano home... a weapon with your fingerprints on it.”

Michael did not bother to hide his surprise. “What the hell...” Then he laughed, once. “Ridiculous.”

Shore said nothing; both he and Hughes seemed to be studying their host.

He did his best to level with them, within reason: “My son and daughter each have a handgun — they participated in gun club competitions — and those are in my wall safe. And I only own two other guns — one’s the .45 you saw earlier. The other is an old war souvenir.”

Shore nodded, and then leaned forward, eyebrows hiked above the dark rims of his glasses. “And, by the way, don’t think your war record hasn’t encouraged your government in giving you this second—”

“Stuff it. What weapon has my fingerprints?”

Shore turned toward Hughes, who spoke for the first time since they’d moved to the living room. “A double-barreled shotgun. A Remington.”

“I’ve never owned a weapon like that.”

Hughes shrugged. “It was stolen from a pawn shop in Reno — your backyard — about two weeks ago.”

Michael grunted. “Somebody went to real trouble, making a fancy frame like this.”

The marshal shook his head. “Maybe not fancy enough — our techs tell us the fingerprints were likely planted... lifted from a drinking glass, say, and placed on the weapon.”

Michael frowned. “That’s an opinion, though — not a fact.”

Shore nodded. “A prosecutor could look at a jury and say, straight-faced, that your prints were found on the murder gun.” He shifted on the couch. “And we understand that you have no alibi — other than your family — for the day of the shooting.”

Michael moved his head, to take Shore in better — his mono-vision could be limiting. “Harry, nobody’s been around from the Chicago police or anywhere else asking me about that...”

“Some checking was done by phone — Cal-Neva employees confirm you were not at work that day... for several days, in fact.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

Shore, who’d mercifully stopped smiling so goddamned much, assumed a somber expression that also tried a little too hard. “We are aware of the sad situation with your son, by the way. He appears to have been a very brave young man. You should be proud.”

The marshal, his expression suddenly grave as well, said, “I lost a nephew over there.”

“Yeah, thanks, but Mike’s listed missing, not killed; so you’re saying, if I don’t cooperate with you, I might be facing a murder charge in Chicago?”

Shore shrugged. “Good possibility. They have two eyewitnesses placing you at the scene.”

Michael already knew this, from talking to Vinnie on the phone; but he said, “Who?”

“Sam’s own brother, Mario, and Anthony Spilotro.”

Again Michael laughed. “Tony the ‘Ant’ and Mario? You mean, the same two guys who were gonna have to stand trial with Mad Sam? Who now don’t have to worry about what that lunatic might spill?”

Shore nodded. “Our theory is that they were involved themselves.”

“You think?” Michael let out a short laugh. “Interesting alibi — do the crime, then say you saw somebody else do it, when you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”