Free The Dead Will Tell by Linda Castillo Page B

Presbyterian Church, turned around, and idled past the estate a second time. From this vantage point, he could see the tennis court through the trees and a dozen or so cars parked in the circular driveway. He knew there were a pool and gazebo at the rear of the estate and a boathouse where Ferguson parked his parents’ thirty-four-foot Sea Ray. It was amazing what you could see from the sky without ever leaving the ground.
    He had to hand it to the guy; Joey Ferguson knew how to live. He had a reputation for throwing world-class parties, hiring local chefs and bartenders, and shelling out plenty of cash for musicians or comedians. He lived in one of the most exclusive areas of the city, with a wine cellar filled with booze that cost more than Tomasetti earned in a year. Yes, Joey Ferguson lived his life to the fullest. He’d amassed most of his fortune back when he worked for the late Con Vespian. Before his untimely demise, Vespian had had his fingers in all the nasty pies. Extortion. Money laundering. Heroin. He’d been riding high—until the night they hit Tomasetti’s family.
    He could barely remember the days and weeks that followed, but he knew something terrible had been unleashed inside him. In the end, Vespian paid dearly for his sins. For Tomasetti, the victory had been bittersweet, heavy on the bitter.
    The Cuyahoga County prosecutor hadn’t taken it sitting down. John Tomasetti might have been one of their own, but that thin blue line went only so far when it came to murder. He’d been put before a grand jury. But the evidence was sketchy and the citizens of Cuyahoga County were sick of the bad guys getting away with murder. They’d handed down a no bill and Tomasetti walked away without so much as a scratch on his record. Chalk up one for the good guys.
    Once the media coverage dropped off, Tomasetti quietly resigned his position with the Cleveland Division of Police and, with the help of one of the few friends he had left, landed a job with BCI. In the following months, he worked hard to put that dark chapter of his past behind. But he didn’t forget. A man never forgot something like that. The only question that remained now was if he was going to do something about it.
    The blare of a horn jerked him back to the present. Not giving himself time to debate, Tomasetti turned into the sleek blacktop driveway, pulled up to the call box, and pressed the button.
    “Name?” came a youngish male voice.
    “John Tomasetti,” he said.
    “I don’t see you on the invitation list.”
    “Ferguson will see me.”
    They made him wait nearly ten minutes. Two cars crowded against his bumper—a vintage Jaguar and a Viper—the drivers looking put out and anxious to get at all the swag awaiting them inside. Tomasetti was considering turning around and leaving when the gate slid open.
    The asphalt curved right, snaking through a forest of tall, winter-dead trees. The Viper swept past, the passenger sticking her hand out the window and flipping him off. Tomasetti caught a glimpse of long blond hair an instant before the sports car skidded around a rococo fountain, swept through a brick archway, and disappeared from view.
    He parked behind a black Escalade with darkly tinted glass and got out. He barely noticed the rain as he started toward the tall double doors. He could smell the cold, wet air of the lake now. The earthy scent of rotting foliage and the bark nuggets surrounding the boxwoods and blue point junipers growing on either side of the front door. He’d just stepped onto the Italian tile of the porch when the door opened.
    “I’ve got to hand it to you, Tomasetti. You’ve got balls showing up unannounced.”
    “I like to keep things spontaneous.”
    Joey Ferguson was thinner than he remembered. Tomasetti knew he was forty-six years old, but Ferguson looked closer to fifty.
    “What do you want?” Ferguson asked.
    “Just a quick chat.”
    After a too-long hesitation, he opened the door wider and ushered