The day after Bianchi was arrested, Andrew and I ate dinner at the mansion. We had pot roast, steamed carrots and broccoli, and pumpkin pie to celebrate the crime boss’s imprisonment. With Bianchi off the streets—at least until his trial—I could breathe a sigh of relief.
Mostly.
There was still one loose end that I could not ignore. Neither Bianchi nor his sniper had fingered Bob as a co-conspirator, and Mr. Barone’s word alone was not enough to arrest him without severe repercussions.
Andrew kept insisting that he and the cops would find a way to tie Bob to the crime, either through physical evidence, a paper trail, or through a confession from Bianchi or his sniper. I wanted to believe him, but nothing had worked so far, and his bag of tricks could not be endless. The time we had defi
