One man nodded grimly and opened the door for Brett and Diego.
They entered a large foyer leading to a huge room with ceilings that appeared to be about twenty feet high. A curving staircase led to an open balcony above them, and halls to the right and left led into the rest of the house. Brett had heard that the place had over ten thousand feet of living space.
A woman in a tight-fitting business suit and high clicking heels hurried toward them. “Mr. Barillo will see you in his office.”
She swept a hand to her right and led them forward, opening a carved wooden door at the far side of the entry.
Anthony Barillo was there, standing behind his desk.
Brett thought that the desk—and the room—seemed to dwarf him. On the one hand, it was a typical office, with a desk, computer, bookshelves, an elegant globe in the center of the room and several chairs arranged before the desk.
On the other hand, the windows behind the desk looked out on the water and a yacht that was at least fifty or sixty feet in length berthed at an even longer dock.
“Gentlemen,” Barillo said.
His voice still sounded rich, but Brett detected a light rasp to it. As Barillo sat, his hand shook slightly. “Sit, please. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked drily.
Brett and Diego looked at one another and took the chairs facing the desk and the view. They’d already decided that Brett would be asking the questions. Diego, who was even now angling his chair so he could see the door in his peripheral vision, would be listening and watching their backs.
This place was actually a small fortress—no matter how well camouflaged it was as an elegant home. Brett had seen other criminals with similarly pleasant-looking homes that housed entire arsenals.
“Mr. Barillo, I admit to being in a quandary,” Brett said. “I assure you that neither of us is wearing a wire, so I hope we can speak frankly. We both know that you’re a businessman. All kinds of business. You’re almost a small country unto yourself, with your own army. And desertion from that army amounts to treason. We know this. But you made a point of coming to me to tell me that you didn’t kill women, that you were innocent of Maria Gomez’s death, and that you didn’t even kill her husband, a former employee of yours. But now, Mr. Barillo, things are getting very complicated. You see, a man disappeared from a funeral home. A man named Randy Nicholson, who supposedly died in a hospital from heart failure. Except that he wasn’t really dead.”
“It’s my fault a hospital makes mistakes?” Barillo asked.
Brett ignored that and said, “I believe he was poisoned, that someone administered puffer fish toxin to simulate death. I think someone who works for you—someone in your ‘family’—found out about Randy Nicholson’s condition and figured he’d be a nice specimen for your experiments. Easy to slip into the room and poison a guy with a heart condition. And there you go. He’s ‘dead.’ Then he disappears from a funeral home. And the man who arranged that? None other than Jose Acervo. Another member of your fine family. Or should I say, a late member of your family?”
Barillo was good; he kept his features impassive. But there was something in his eyes. Something that told Brett he had been blindsided.
He hadn’t known that Acervo was dead.
Barillo stared at him. “I knew nothing of this,” he said, confirming Brett’s suspicions. “Yes, I knew the man. I even called him a friend. But I can’t be held responsible for the criminal activity of others. This thing... This whole thing with Miguel and Maria... I am innocent. I am grieved to hear about Jose Acervo, as well as the death of Mr. Nicholson. But I don’t know anything about any of these things.”
No, Brett thought, Barillo hadn’t known—until now. But now that he knew, he was suspicious of those around him.
Because someone was using his power and his private “army.”
Diego nudged Brett’s foot with his own, nodding toward the windows.
A half dozen of Barillo’s men had gathered on the lawn and were staring steely eyed into the room.
Brett thought that he had discovered what he needed to know, for the moment anyway, so there was no point in tempting fate—and Barillo’s bodyguards—by pushing further.
He rose. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Barillo. If you think of anything that can help us solve Mr. Acervo’s murder, we’d greatly appreciate hearing from you.”
Barillo rose, as well. He was visibly shaky.
“Gentlemen,” he said, nodding. “Cecelia will see you out.”
Brett thanked him. He glanced at Diego. He realized that neither of them had known that the smartly dressed young woman who had led them in was Barillo’s daughter.