The Big Boom by Domenic Stansberry Read Free Book Online

to argue. He’d had a client who kept her son’s body in cold storage for two years in the event a killer was found, and the body held additional evidence. Truth was, it wasn’t necessary. The coroner’s examination, his record, that was the forensic evidence.
    But sometimes people just did not want to bury their dead.
    “Dante’s investigating,” said Cicero.
    “I want a chronology. Every minute. She didn’t just fall into the bay.”
    “He’s out there this minute. He’s following the trail.”
    “Fuck you,” said Antonelli.
    Elegant, Cicero thought. Elegant fucking Italians. Dignified in death as in life. Masters of the oratorical phrase.

EIGHT
    A half hour earlier, Nick Antonelli had been at his kitchen table, watching his wife. At that point, Antonelli had not yet talked to the police. At that point, he had not known, not for certain, that his daughter was dead. At that point, Barbara had been in the backyard, trying to retrieve the cat.
    The cat did not respond to her. Eccentric had spent the night before underneath the furniture, then bolted outside when she’d opened the slider. Now the cat had gotten itself on the diving board, and his wife stood at the edge of the pool, trying to coax him back. Instead the foolish creature crouched, and looked as if it were going to jump across the pool—a foolish thing to do in any event, but more foolish given what Nick had seen of its leaping abilities.
    Go ahead and jump, Nick thought. Go ahead.
    Then the kitchen phone went off.
    His wife turned toward him, watching. She wore a sleeveless dress, arms akimbo. Even after he turned away, phone in hand, he knew she was watching his every move, reading his posture. Shedidn’t come in right away, though. She waited till the conversation was over.
    “The police?” she asked.
    “Yes. They found Angie.”
    Barbara went past him and sat on the sofa—in the big room with its straw mat wallpaper and the black piano and the imported ceramics. Her dress was olive green, the color she always wore. She sat with her head bowed and her shoulders straight. Outside, on the patio, on the other side of the glass door, the cat slunk into the bushes, disappearing into a velvet area of moss and ferns.
    “She’s dead then,” she said.
    Nick walked away from her, back to the bedroom. There was a sliding door here, too, looking into the backyard. European style, the real estate agent had said, back when they bought the place. Courtyard living. A statue outside and a fountain. Just like the goddamn Romans.
    He’d torn it all out and put in a swimming pool.
    On the bureau was a family portrait, the three of them together—something his wife had arranged a few Christmases back. He’d never liked the picture. It was too formal, and he looked silliest of them all.
    And now his cell went off in his pocket.
    It was a new addition, the cell, something he had gotten on the insistence of Anne Marie, his secretary. He did not much care for it. The device gave him trouble, and he was tempted for a moment to smash it against the wall.
    On the other end was Mark Smith, down in Los Angeles.
    Smith the Invisible.
    Smith was Solano’s financial officer, but Antonelli had never met him. Solano was the CEO, but it was Smith the Invisible who controlled everything. Smith the Unknowable. Solano was the company’s publicface, but the venture firm funding the operation had brought in Smith to watch the books. When the company needed office space, it was Smith who’d made the deal. It was a complicated transaction, but the essence of it was that Antonelli would use his holdings as collateral to buy the old Waterhouse Building, down in China Basin, then lease it back to Solano’s firm. No sooner had the ink dried, though, than Antonelli had gotten word that Solano’s funding was in jeopardy. Some insiders were causing trouble. It had been straightened out relatively quickly, though. Because of me, Antonelli thought. Because of my willingness to draw