Witness To Death. Dave White

And the jobs I’ve sent you on haven’t done much to slow him down.”

      Since Donte Maiore took over. Since the Feds started taking people down for breathing near an OTB. Her uncle’s business was not in good shape.

      “So, he finally called you?”

      “No, this is something else.”

      Christine’s hands went numb. Something else? What, driving some greaseball to the airport? Babysitting?

      “You might get to see your sister in the process,” Tony said.

      The thick scent of smoke filled her nostrils. Her cookies were burning. Just like the first Christmas after mom died, when her uncle tried to make it seem traditional. When he sent the maid home and tried to bake sugar cookies, and forgot about them. Her mother never baked sugar cookies. They were always chocolate chip. And they never burned.

      “What’s the job?” Christine said again, the words coming from her mouth full of spittle.

      “Is this line secure?”

      “Of course. You don’t trust me?”

      “You’re going to find Peter Callahan and Ashley MacDonald. You’re going to do what you do. Get rid of Ashley, no sign. Callahan, you bring him to me. Alive.”

      Christine switched the phone from her left ear to her right. She looked into the kitchen and watched the smoke seep out from the oven door.

      “Ashley’s not my sister. I don’t know who that is,” she said. Her uncle never did get to meet that “side” of the family. Maybe he was confused.

      “I know that,” Tony said. “I’m no dummy. Trust me. I’m calling you because you’re the best at what you do. Get this done and we’ll be back on top.”

      “Okay,” Christine said, exhaling through her nose.

      “You watch the news tonight?”

      “I had it on,” Christine said.

      “The Callahan guy, he was involved in that shooting down in Jersey City.”

      “Was that him? The picture they had?”

      “No, I’ll email you his picture. Be careful, he’s good. He took out five mercenaries. And no old ladies. Good aim.” Tony laughed again.

      He rattled off two addresses for the targets. She jotted them down, and then the five-figure amount she’d be paid to do the job. She told Uncle Tony she’d report back soon.

      “I really do want meatballs.”

      She hung up.

      The smoke alarm went off; the cookies were ruined. Turning around, Christine opened a window, then fanned her hand in front of the alarm until the siren stopped. She watched the smoke get sucked out into the night air. She discarded the cookies, the acrid smell reminding her of the time she blew up the Corsetti restaurant. Insurance paid big on that one.

      As the smell faded, Christine moved into her bedroom. She opened the closet door and reached behind the row of shirts. She pulled out her gun and a sharp knife, then checked her email and printed out the photos of Callahan and Ashley. She studied them, let the images imprint in her mind, then folded them and put them into her purse.

      Shutting all the windows, she inhaled the smell of the burnt crumbs once more. Her sister. Uncle Tony was giving her a very interesting job.

      She shrugged on a jacket and checked the weapons.

      She was ready for work.

Chapter 8

      Michelle Sandler pulled up in front of her father’s Saddle River mansion. The expensive part of northern New Jersey—rumor had it that P Diddy or Jay Z or one of those rappers lived down the street. Michelle had never met him, and probably wouldn’t know it if she did. But her father said whoever he was threw loud parties over the summer and kept everyone on the block from getting any work done.

      Frank wasn’t picking up his phone again. He never did when he worked. Michelle wondered if he’d even seen the news. Probably not, he was just out talking with Asians, trading steel with people in Korea or Japan or China. Whatever he did.

      She tried John again too, but got no answer. Had everyone decided to go into radio silence once the news broke? With no other options, she decided her father could be the most helpful.

      She had to ring the doorbell three times before her dad, dressed in a robe with a glass of scotch in his hand, answered.

      “What is it?”

      That was his standard greeting. He never asked how she was, never wondered what was going on at work. It was always about what she wanted. She guessed that’s how things worked throughout his career, so he treated everyone that way. Usually it annoyed her, but tonight, she actually wanted something.

      “John’s in trouble.”

      Robert Sandler’s face broke a little bit, his eyes widening, his mouth curving into a frown.

      “Oh, I’m so sorry, Michelle. Come in.”

      She stepped through the doorway, pushing past her father and heading into the sitting room. The faint smell of cigar hung in the air, and she could tell her father was doing his best Hugh Hefner impression. Minus the women, of course. As far as Michelle knew, there’d been only one woman since her mom left, and that woman was long gone too. Instead, her father buried himself in business, drank scotch, smoked, and sat around listening to sports on the radio at night.

      When she was a kid, she was awed by this room. It was set up to look like a library. Tall bookshelves on all four walls, a long carpet, two big chairs with a round table between them. Near the exit was a bar with three glasses, two bottles of scotch, and a radio. On the bookshelves, however, weren’t books, but files. All her father’s clients, foreign nations, and the arms deals they made. He said looking through the files was like looking through history. He found it relaxing.

      Sitting in the chair that faced the entrance, she waited for her dad to catch up. Robert Sandler never hurried. He moved at his own pace, and everyone waited for him. He sauntered into the room, sat in the thick leather chair, took a long sip of scotch, and let a sigh escape his lips. The whole process seemed to take minutes.

      “Now,” he said, his voice sounding like an NPR announcer. “What’s the problem?”

      She told her father about the picture of John at the Ferry Station.

      “We’re talking about your ex, John, right? I can’t believe this, Michelle. He couldn’t kill someone. I don’t even know how he’s able to discipline his students.”

      He took another pull of the scotch, finishing the glass. He got up, took a few leisurely steps toward the bar, and poured another.

      “Anyway, I assume you want my help. But how?”

      “With all the people you know, you can’t call someone? Find out what’s going on. Maybe we can track him down. I’m sure there’s a mistake.”

      Robert Sandler smiled. “I’ll make some phone calls. Have you heard from him?”

      “No. I tried calling him, but he won’t answer his phone. He called me earlier in the evening, but that was just after dinner. He seemed fine. Maybe you can see if there’s anything the police haven’t let out to the press now.”

      “I don’t know sweetheart, I can try. I know some police officers, some state cops, but most of my work deals with people outside the country.”

      Michelle took a deep breath and smelled the leather of her father’s chair. She remembered being a kid and sitting on the chair while her dad flipped through the newspaper. She would listen to him read the articles aloud and wonder if he was reading them for her benefit. She now thought he’d just