Hooked

moonlighted driving a cab around Manhattan . Word was he didn’t much care who he worked for and kept a tight lip, except he probably blabbed to his lover, that runt queer Colin who worked for Cooper. The thought of the little fuck activated the hairs on Mario’s arms. Imagine the audacity to think he could blackmail one of Mario Russo’s people. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to stuff Colin’s cojones in his own mouth and make him chew before Mario nipped his femoral artery and watched him bleed out. But not until Reggie did what Mario wanted.
    Over-muscled to the point of steroidal, Reggie towered over the five-feet-nine Mario, now more wizened because of the menacing disease rotting his insides. The boxer appeared akin to an automaton, as if he were slightly brain-damaged. Maybe too many punches in the ring, maybe he was plain dumb. Either way, Reggie acted respectful, even subservient, when he entered Mario’s office.
    It didn’t take but a couple of questions for Mario to learn the man would do about anything for a price. Everyone and everything was fair game, except Colin and anything to do with children or animals. Too bad Mario was on his way out. He could have used an amoral man like Reggie Cart.
    When Reggie found out Mario knew all about Martell and the girl’s murder, he told Mario what he had done with the body. So, not so tight-lipped after all. Then Reggie told Mario something that twisted his gut almost as bad as the cancer, and Mario let out a long, disbelieving breath.

Chapter Twenty-Seven
    Bad Timing

    L incoln Walsh made Tawny think things she had no business thinking. Like love and a real life. What a fool she was. Those things weren’t in the cards for her. Though she had no regrets, how could she expect any man to overlook the life she’d led? Still…
    She checked the clock on the bedside table. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for her meeting with Rick Martell. Hopefully, he could do what she wanted to take care of her money problem.
    Damn, it was a lot of money. Money she’d saved over the years for her retirement. With or without Walsh in her life, those two other offshore accounts Rick Martell set up weighed heavily on her. All her sleuthing would be for naught if they were found, and since the FBI and Treasury knew of one, they might go hunting. Whatever was left from the already exposed account after taxes, interest, and penalties would be a nice nest egg, and if all went the way she hoped, she wouldn’t need any more money.
    Unfamiliar with the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn , Tawny hailed a cab. She’d never met Martell. Mario had instructed him to set up the offshore accounts and file her taxes, laundering her illegally made money into a shell company Martell created to pay her the “legal” money she made as a model. The rest went into offshore accounts. If she’d claimed all of it, an audit would surely have followed unless her modeling job was strutting her stuff on the Victoria Secret runway, earning five grand an hour. She didn’t want Mario involved now. He had enough problems without involvement in hers.
    Martell’s office inhabited a center spot in an unobtrusive strip mall. There was no sign other than one that said, Ring the Bell . She did. The blind on the small window parted, and a voice asked who she was. She said her name, and the door opened. Tawny had heard Martell was a big man, but big understated his massive bulk.
    “Miss Dell,” he said. “Nice to meet you at last.”
    He locked the door after her, and she followed him into a no-frills office, a stunning contrast to the luxuriously appointed setup at Upper Eighties. Impeccably dressed in a perfectly tailored light worsted wool, he moved with unexpected grace, not the shuffling waddle typical of a man his size. She saw no secretary.
    Two frames hung on the office’s wall. In the first, a group photograph, Tawny recognized a younger Mario Russo, a lovely woman she assumed was Mrs. Russo, Martell, and his pregnant wife. The other frame held a degree from City College in the name of Richard Martelli. She wondered why he’d anglicized his name, but given his professional, almost aloof manner, she took the visitor’s seat without asking. The huge desk fit the man or, conversely, the huge man fit the desk.
    She gave Martell a list of where she wanted the money dispersed.
    “That’s a lot of money, Miss Dell. I doubt the feds would find the two accounts in question.”
    “They