When fire blew the windows of the Dent House out of the walls, Sal Maroni was looking at a plastic turkey.
The thing was only as long as a thumb, with red wings, a yellow beak, and a patch of paint missing from its belly. Someone had placed it on the corner of the desk in the cold-storage facility's accounts office.
Sal's cousin sat behind the desk.
The bullet had entered behind his right ear, and blood had run down his collar into his shirt. One hand still pressed down on the ledger; the other hung beside the chair. The coffee on the desk had gone cold, and half an unfinished cigar remained in the ashtray.
The accounts office door had not been forced.
The two guards outside were alive. One said he had left for only two minutes to take a phone call behind the warehouse.
When he came back, the man was already dead.
No one had heard a gunshot.
Sal picked up the plastic turkey.
On Halloween, the Holiday Killer had killed Johnny Viti of the Falcone Family.
Thanksgiving had not officially arrived, but the Maroni Family had already received a gift.
"Who knew he'd be here tonight?"
The cold-storage manager stood to one side, his fingers constantly rubbing against his trouser seam.
"The dock people, the drivers, and a few people in the family who handle freight."
"How many?"
"Seven."
Sal put the turkey back where it had been.
"Give me their names."
The manager immediately went to get paper.
There were more than a dozen other people in the room. Some carried guns, and some watched outside from the doorway. Since Sal had come in, none of them had touched the body again.
A man in a gray hat walked over to Sal.
"The accounts