Agnes and the Hitman Read online

  “You knew about Frankie Fortunato.”

  Wilson hesitated for a fraction of a second and then nodded.

  “It would have helped if you had informed me,” Shane said.

  “Doubtful,” Wilson said. “You had more than enough intelligence on Casey Dean to do your job. As you might learn, if you achieve my position, less information in the field is preferable most of the time.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  Wilson shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Given your recent failures, it will be difficult to convince my associates to have you replace me.”

  “It might be difficult to convince me.” Wilson looked at him, displeased.

  Shane stared back at him. “I took out Casey Dean’s girlfriend last night.”

  Wilson stared at him, startled. “Why didn’t you or Carpenter report this? And where is she?”

  “We were busy.”

  Wilson’s lip curled. “Breaking a suspected murderer out of jail.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have allowed you a great deal of latitude here,” Wilson began, “and-”

  Shane interrupted him. “You’ve been testing me.”

  “Very good,” Wilson said, practically patting him on the head. “And the girlfriend?”

  “We have her. You knew Casey Dean used a woman as his front.”

  Wilson shrugged. “There were suspicions to that effect.”

  “That was also part of the test.” Shane tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. Carpenter and Joey had almost died so that Wilson could test a job applicant.

  “Flexibility of thinking is critical for my job.”

  Shane sat silent for several moments, staring at the old man. Finally he looked away. He could see Joey on the back porch now, a mug of coffee in his hand, looking out at them. Frankie was moving chairs around in front of the gazebo, getting it ready for the ceremony. Agnes was at the kitchen window, at the kitchen sink, making breakfast for the crowd again. Upstairs, Lisa Livia walked past her bedroom window in her bra, talking a mile a minute, probably to Maria. Even the flamingos were honking as usual.

  “The test isn’t over, is it?” Shane asked, knowing that Wilson still held all the cards.

  “No.”

  “Yesterday I thought I might be Casey Dean’s target.”

  “Why is that?” Wilson asked.

  “Because my real name is Fortunato. My uncle Joey told me my father was the Don’s older brother, Roberto.”

  “You were not Casey Dean’s target,” Wilson said. “No.”

  “But your uncle told you only half the story.”

  There was something snakelike in the way Wilson said the words, almost as if his tongue were flicking in and out. He savored the words, and Shane realized he’d savored a lot of the information he’d been dropping recently.

  Behind that desiccated mask, Wilson was enjoying this.

  Shane made himself still. “And the other half?”

  “Torcelli told you that your parents died in a boating accident, correct?” Wilson’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, too little to notice unless you were watching for it.

  Shane was watching for it. He nodded.

  “Not true.” Wilson lifted his chin, watching Shane from under lizardlike eyelids. “They were murdered by Don Michael Fortunato.” Shane was perfectly still.

  “Your father, the eldest brother, stood in Michael’s way, so he rigged their boat to explode. They went out on the water, and he blew it up by remote control from a nearby cruiser.” Wilson watched Shane.

  Shane sat, unmoving.

  “They say your father tried to save your mother even though he was horribly wounded.”

  Shane looked past Wilson to the Blood, beautiful in the early morning.

  “They say he screamed her name as he died.”

  He was aware of the sound of the water lapping against the floating dock and the slight creak of metal on wood as it moved against the steel gangplank.

  “They say she cried out yours.”

  Shane turned back to Wilson. Look for what he wants.

  Wilson was sitting, looking impassive, but that light was behind his eyes. “I believe she drowned, according to intelligence. There was no coroner’s report. The Don let the bodies go down with the boat.”

  What does he want?

  “You don’t believe me? Ask your uncle Joey. Or your uncle Frankie. They’ve known for years.”

  Frankie and Joey at the table last night. Joey shaking his head. Shane felt heat now-it had been rising the entire time, filling his head, blanking out his brain, but now he could feel it-the old heat from when he’d been a kid, fists flailing. Don’t go there, that’s what Wilson wants, do not go there.

  “The real question,” Wilson was saying, “is what do you intend to do about it? Because you have a job to do, Mr. Fortunato. One that does not allow for distraction because of personal issues. Can you still do your job and protect the Don?”

  He sat back and allowed himself a small complacent smile.

  Shane got up and began the long walk down the dock to Joey.

  Agnes tipped a pan of pineapple-orange muffins out onto the counter, wiped her hands on her Cranky Agnes apron, and then stepped back beside Carpenter to look out the kitchen window toward the dock, where Shane was meeting with his boss. She felt a little ridiculous baking muffins in a cherry pink halter dress covered with a promo apron, until she saw the man she loved standing like the Grim Reaper, staring down the wizened old goat he worked for. Then she forgot the dress. There was something definitely wrong down on that dock.

  “He said something about getting a better job.”

  Carpenter nodded. “He’s in line for a promotion.”

  Agnes’s heart sank. So much for hoping for a new line of work. “So that would be good?”

  Carpenter turned his head and looked down at her. “Not for Shane. Shane has been finding his way to the light this week.”

  “Oh, hell,” Agnes said, watching Shane stride back from the dock. He looked tense. As he got closer, she realized that was too tame a description: He looked white with rage, something she’d never seen before.

  Carpenter went rigid beside her, as if he, too, knew something was very wrong, beyond the kind of wrong he’d seen before.

  Lisa Livia ambled into the kitchen in her pink halter dress and said, “What’s new?” She threw an arm around Carpenter’s waist and then stopped smiling to look up at him. “What?”

  “I don’t know,” Agnes said, but Carpenter walked away from both of them, as if neither of them were there, out through the porch and down the steps to meet Shane.

  “What the hell?” Lisa Livia said, and Agnes went out onto the porch, where Joey was standing, also watching Shane, who was striding toward Frankie in the gazebo.

  “This is bad,” Joey muttered.

  “What?” Agnes asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer as she went down the back stairs and across the lawn to meet Shane. She was vaguely aware that Joey was right behind her, but all she cared about was Shane.

  Frankie had climbed down and was waiting for him.

  “My parents.” Shane said it with a fury Agnes had never heard. He was glaring at Frankie, who said nothing, and, as they came up, he burned Joey with the same look.

  “That bum Wilson tell you?” Joey asked.

  “It’s true?” Shane said.

  Joey nodded.

  “What?” Agnes asked.

  Shane met her eyes, the cold, controlled man she’d met five days before obliterated by rage. “We’ll be back.” He looked at Carpenter. “You take care of things here.”

  Carpenter nodded once.

  “What’s going on?” Agnes said, but Shane was already crossing the lawn to the van, Joey and Frankie following him, their shoulders squared with the same determination. “What the hell-” she began, but Lisa Livia touched her arm.

  “Let it go,” she said, and Carpenter nodded, too, and Agnes swallowed and thought, Well, he di