Chapter 12 - THE CRIME BOSS THE GOVERNMENT PROTECTED
Victor Cavallo had survived for thirty years because powerful people needed him useful.
He gave federal agents information on rival organizations.
In exchange, certain investigations disappeared.
Cases weakened.
Witnesses were relocated.
Evidence went missing.
The arrangement was unofficial.
Illegal.
And devastating if exposed.
The ledger proved it.
That was why Frank wanted it.
That was why Victor wanted it now.
Not to protect crime.
To protect legitimacy.
Vincent looked at Marco.
“Why didn’t you show me this years ago?”
“My father made me swear.”
“To Anthony?”
“Yes.”
“That man controlled everyone from the grave.”
Grandma muttered:
“Men love instructions they don’t have to live long enough to explain.”
I liked her more every day.
The FBI arrived the next morning.
Not because Vincent called.
Because I did.
He looked offended.
“You called federal agents without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I own the tunnel.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Strong argument.”
“I want this finished legally.”
“So do I.”
“Good.”
The agents who arrived were from an internal corruption task force.
Not local offices.
Victor’s old protectors couldn’t interfere.
We gave them copies.
Not originals.
Grandpa would have approved.
Then one agent asked:
“Where is the third ledger?”
Vincent and I exchanged looks.
We had the chapel ledger.
The missing-page list.
But Caroline said there were three.
The third was still missing.
“Why does it matter?” I asked.
“Because the third copy may contain federal signatures.”
Of course.
The most dangerous one.
Then Grandma remembered something.
“Peach cobbler.”
Everyone stared.
I closed my eyes.
“What?”
“Henry used to say, ‘If the world ends, check the cobbler recipe.’”
Tess whispered:
“I thought that was because he loved dessert.”
So did I.
Grandpa’s recipe book sat in the inn kitchen.
Old.
Flour-stained.
Inside the peach cobbler page, one ingredient was bizarre.
3 cups peaches.
1 cup sugar.
2 cups flour.
1 teaspoon cinnamon.
Room 6, shelf 4, jar 2.
I stared.
“How have we never noticed this?”
Grandma shrugged.
“Your grandfather was terrible at recipes.”
Room six was an old pantry.
Shelf four.
Jar two.
A mason jar labeled:
PEACH PRESERVES - 1999.
Inside:
A waterproof drive.
The third ledger.
Digital.
Names.
Payments.
Recordings.
Federal signatures.
Everything.
Vincent whispered:
“This could bring down half the people who protected Cavallo.”
Then the lights went out.
Again.
I was getting tired of dramatic electrical failures.
A shot shattered the kitchen window.
Vincent pulled me down.
Grandma yelled:
“Not the preserves!”
Men entered through the tunnel.
Victor had finally used it.
Marco’s team exchanged fire.
I crawled toward Grandma.
Tess grabbed the drive.
Then someone seized her from behind.
Victor.
He held a gun against her neck.
“Everybody stop.”
They did.
He looked at me.
“Give me the drive.”
Tess whispered:
“Don’t.”
Victor tightened his grip.
Vincent raised his weapon.
Victor smiled.
“You shoot, cousin dies.”
I looked at the drive.
Then at Tess.
No choice.
I held it out.
Victor released her after taking it.
Then he looked at me.
“Your grandfather should have sold the inn.”
I smiled.
“You should have checked the jar.”
He frowned.
Too late.
The drive he held was Tess’s phone charger.
The real drive was inside my cowboy boot.
Grandma had taught me one useful rule:
Never trust a man who assumes women only hide things in purses.
May you like
Victor discovered the trick thirty seconds later.
And by then, federal agents were coming through every door.
