Blood Runs Cold

by Catherine Maiorisi

  If he expected a reaction to his knowing she owned the building, something very few people outside her family knew, he didn’t get it. She kept her expression bland. “How did you get my home address?”

  “I have friends.”

  Probably some helpful soul at her old precinct, where most of the detectives in Righteous Partners had worked, thought it might hurt to spread her personal life around.

  “Now that you’re here, what do you want?”

  “May I come in?”

  “I’m expecting someone so I’d rather not socialize. What do you want?”

  “I’m afraid I offended you this afternoon. I’m sorry. Nardo was like my little brother and I’m sorry he’s dead. And, I want you to know I don’t have a problem with gay people. I spend time with Leonardo, and I pick up his attitude.” He flashed the grin again, the one that probably caused women to swoon. He was trying, but she wasn’t buying.

  “Thank you for the apology, but in the future, please contact me at the station rather than at home.”

  The bell rang.

  “Ah, your guest. I must apologize again, this time for intruding.”

  “Hi sweetie, it’s Gianna.” She buzzed her up.

  “That must be your sister, no?”

  “Let’s get something straight, Chief Sansone. My private life is private. And my family is off-limits.” She bared her teeth in an unfriendly smile. “So when the elevator door opens, please step in without attempting to charm my sister.”

  Gianna seemed taken aback to see Corelli standing there talking to a man. But reading the look on her sister’s face, she offered no greeting.

  “Chief Sansone was just leaving. Goodnight, chief.”

  He shrugged but managed to slip in a killer smile before the elevator doors slid closed.

  “Well, well. He’s very handsome. Are you keeping secrets?” Gianna asked.

  “You know men, handsome or not, don’t do it for me.” Corelli stooped to kiss Gianna, and then arm and arm they went into the living room area. “He’s just a bigoted hotshot trying to screw around with my investigation and invading my privacy in the bargain.”

  “You are a beautiful woman, Chiara. Maybe he’s interested. But then again, if you just met, it’s more likely something not so nice.”

  “I’d better get rid of my gun before I go after him and shoot him,” Corelli said, shaking her head. “Want some wine or something?”

  “Espresso would be good, thanks.”

  A few minutes later Corelli returned with a glass of Avola de Nero, an eggplant parmigiana sandwich for herself, and a decaf espresso for Gianna. Her sisters definitely coordinated these visits. Two nights ago Simone brought food and tonight Gianna showed up empty-handed, but they made sure she always had something to eat in the house when she got home late—usually every night.

  She placed the wine, the sandwich, and the espresso on the coffee table and sat next to Gianna. Corelli took a bite of the sandwich but her anger at Sansone for coming here, knowing her business, choked her and made it hard to swallow. How dare he invade her privacy? Next time she saw him, she would tell him she was a lesbian and he shouldn’t waste his charms on her. She stood up and walked to the window.

  “It’s dark. What are you looking at?”

  She walked back and sat next to Gianna. Would it shock her to know I’m dying for a glimpse of a woman who jogs along the river path? Would she think I’m crazy to believe I could recognize her from the eighth floor? In the dark?

  “Sorry, you know I can’t sit still.”

  Gianna took her hand. “You look exhausted. Maybe I shouldn’t have come so late. I’m a night owl and eleven is the only time I’m pretty sure to find you home, but you should get some sleep.”

  “I’m always happy to see you.” And she meant it.

  Gianna patted her hand. “I haven’t seen you this unsettled since we lost the old Chiara.”

  “The old Chiara?”

  Gianna put her arm around Corelli and pulled her close. “You probably don’t even remember the wild one, the one always laughing and kidding around, focused on having fun.”

  “Well, I was much younger.”

  “You idolized Luca. We both did. But I’ve always felt we buried the young, exuberant Chiara with him.”

  Corelli thought back to the funeral. She’d been devastated. “And a depressed fifteen-year-old took her place. But didn’t his death affect you that way?”

  “I missed him, mourned him and still do. But you two had a special connection. Maybe because you looked alike, so different than Patrizia and me, maybe because you were so much alike.”

  “So you think I’m still depressed?”

  “You didn’t stay depressed. You changed. You became focused, serious, determined to save the world. The person you are today.” Gianna stared into her espresso. “You were happy again with Marnie. But since she was killed, it’s like you’ve been underwater, so difficult to reach. In fact, a few months ago I feared you’d given up on life.”

  “I didn’t know I was so transparent.” But she should have known. Gianna could always see into her heart and often understood her better than she understood herself.

  “It broke my heart after Luca to see you so alone, so unable to connect with anyone or be comforted, even by me. And it breaks my heart even more now.”

  She put her arm around Gianna’s waist and hugged her. “I’m sorry to make you sad.”

  “Don’t apologize. I love and respect you for who you are today, but the old Chiara is a part of you too, and it would be wonderful if you could get some of her joie de vivre back. You had it with Marnie.”

  And then they’d volunteered to go to Afghanistan to train Afghani policemen. “I’m not exactly feeling jubilant right now.”

  “Oh, Chiara, I know losing Marnie was horrible. I’m sorry.”

  She stood. “Um, want some more espresso?” She moved toward the kitchen.

  “Sit. That’s an order,” Gianna said, in her best deep, hard-boiled detective voice. “And, mangia,” she said, pushing the sandwich toward Corelli. “Eat. You’re getting too thin.”

  She sighed, plopped down next to Gianna, and took a bite. Gianna was still. Corelli squirmed as she always did when Gianna applied her silent interrogation technique. Gianna, eleven months older, had adopted Corelli as her own from the day Mama brought the new baby home from the hospital. And now thirty-five years later she was still mothering, and still as protective as she had always been. “What?”

  “I’m worried about you, Chiara. You’ve gone away again. You seem so alone, so far away. I’m afraid I’m losing you.”

  Corelli cleared her throat. “I…It’s hard.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

  Gianna pried one of Corelli’s hands free and held it between hers. She shifted to the coffee table so they were facing each other. “Tell me. You’ll feel better.”

  How to start? “I don’t know who I am anymore. The job used to be enough but…”

  “Because of Marnie? Iraq? Afghanistan?”

  “All of the above, combined with the three months undercover, I think.”

  Gianna nodded and squeezed her hand, encouraging her to continue.

  “Like the tours in Iraq, the last year in Afghanistan training the police was horrific—not knowing who to trust and who was going to try to kill you, having to kill, seeing your people get blown up, seeing Marnie die. Following that up with three months’ undercover work investigating my friends and colleagues was more of the same, and in some ways, it was worse. At least in Iraq and Afghanistan I had Marnie with me for a while. Until she died.” Her voice broke and she stopped to gain control. “Undercover, I was totally isolated. And in order to survive, I had to pretend to be like them, brutal, greedy, and immoral, because if I didn’t stay in character, if I made a mistake, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. I had to stay away from you and the family to maintain my undercover persona.”

  Gianna rubbed Corelli’s hand. “And w
hen it was over, you ended up on the other side of the famous blue wall with other police shunning you.”

  “That doesn’t help.”

  “Oh, Chiara, honey, you put up such a good front that I never guessed you were still dealing with all that. How stupid? Mother of god, do you have PTSD? I’ll bet you’re not sleeping, jumping at loud noises, things like that?”

  “How do you know about PTSD?”

  “Well, I do read the newspapers. And the mother of one of Gabrielle’s classmates has PTSD. It’s been hard on the family since she got back from Afghanistan but she’s in treatment now. Maybe you should—”

  “I’ll be all right. I feel better already just talking to you about it.”

  “Have you talked to anyone else? Parker? Or Watkins?”

  “Parker knows but she and Watkins are my subordinates. I can’t.”

  “Are you having nightmares? Tell me the truth.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, sweetie, maybe Simone and I could take turns sleeping here so you’d feel safe.”

  “Absolutely not. I sleep with my gun and if I mistake you for…someone else, I could hurt you.”

  “Promise me you’ll get help.”

  “I promise I’ll think about it.”

  Gianna pulled her close and hugged her. As usual, she knew just how far to push.

  “Okay, but I won’t drop this.”

  “I know.”

  Gianna retrieved a newspaper from her bag and flipped through the pages.

  “To change the subject, I brought you Saturday’s Wall Street Journal. There’s an article about Brett Cummings, the woman involved in the Winter murder.”

  As if I could forget her. Corelli sighed. “Since when do you read the Wall Street Journal?”

  “Marco brings it home. I recognized her name.”

  Corelli cleared her throat. “I read it.”

  “I might ask you the same question. Since when do you read the Wall Street Journal?”

  “I saw her picture on the cover at the newsstand.”

  “Then you know she’s an out lesbian. And you’ve seen the pictures, one with her brother, a priest. He’s handsome but she’s beautiful, actually gorgeous, but not in the self-conscious way of your Mr. Sansone. And she sounds like a kind person, someone I would like. Actually she reminded me of you.”

  “He’s definitely not my Mr. Sansone. How does she remind you of me?”

  “Well, you’re both independent women, both kind, both beautiful, both strong, and both interested in outdoor stuff, you know, sports and jogging, that kind of thing. The article said she sails her own boat. Did you like her?”

  God, how does Gianna…no, she can’t. She’s just trying to help. Wrong subject, though. She turned away from Gianna, toward the window.

  “Yes, she’s nice.”

  “Do you ever see people after an investigation?”

  “No, why?”

  “You and Brett have so much in common. You could be great friends. You need a friend, Chiara, somebody to do things with. It’s not healthy, spending so much time working. And, Marnie wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.”

  “It’s less than two years, Gianna, not forever. And I’m not ready.”

  “I’m not suggesting a relationship, surely lesbians can be friends. Give her a call.”

  I’m not sure I can just be friends with her. “Maybe when I wrap up the del Balzo case.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Thursday – 7 a.m.

  As Corelli and Parker entered the conference room for the seven a.m. meeting with the full team assembled by Dietz, two detectives she didn’t know turned their chairs to show her their backs. Now they were head to head, whispering. Not everyone was happy to be here. Dietz caught her eye and tilted his head toward the hostiles. She shook her head. She would handle it.

  She stood at the head of the table. “Some of you have already started working on the case, but I’d like to officially welcome you all to the del Balzo investigation. And before we get into the details, anyone who is not willing to work with me is free to leave now, with no hard feelings. But, if you stay, you’re stuck.” The detective leaning back on two legs of his chair with his eyes trained on the window dropped the front legs to the floor and walked out with a smirk on his face. She looked around the room, giving them more time. The two hostiles hesitated, then grabbed their belongings and strolled out. “Is that it?” She eyed the group.

  The sound of a chair falling over echoed through the tension in the room. She turned as a red-faced and sweaty Detective Justin Reilly, eyes down, scampered out. That one hurt. They’d been friends since they were both beat cops and she’d saved his life after he was buried under a ton of debris while they were rescuing people at the World Trade Center disaster. Dealing with the faceless mass of police ostracizing her was hard but being treated as a traitor by cops she’d considered friends, colleagues, and cops she’d socialized with, broke her heart.

  A murmur passed through those remaining. “Anyone else? This case is a political hot potato and there’s going to be a lot of pressure to solve it, so if you choose to stay, be prepared to give nothing less than your best. Make it easier on all of us. Be honest with yourself. Leave if you can’t commit fully.”

  Heads nodded and whispers were exchanged, but nobody moved. She waited another minute. Only four. Not so bad. She made eye contact with everyone in the room, then relaxed. No more hostility. At least no overt hostility.

  “Okay. Let’s get started. Detective Dietz is going to be the inside point person for the team. Dietz please find us replacements for those four. And make sure they’re willing.”

  “Gotcha.” Dietz made a note.

  She walked over to the bulletin board. “Here’s what we have so far.” She pointed to a picture. “Leonardo del Balzo, known as Nardo, found dead yesterday morning by his cleaning lady, Miranda Foxworth.” She pointed to a picture of del Balzo’s wound. “Del Balzo was shot once in the cerebellum, the back of the head, at close range with a small caliber bullet. The ME believes he died instantly. There was no sign of a struggle. He reportedly had purchased a gun after a robbery about six months ago, but we found no record of the purchase, no permit was granted and no gun was found in the apartment.”

  She pointed to a series of pictures. “When we arrived at the scene, Mr. del Balzo, wearing just pajama bottoms, was laid out on the sofa with a rosary in his hands and a CD of Gregorian chants playing on a repeat loop. Incense had been burned. According to Ms. Foxworth, the alarm was off, the top lock unlocked, and the bottom lock not double-locked. She said Nardo was gay, and though he wasn’t trans or a cross-dresser, he called her in tears the night before his death to ask her to dress him like a woman because he was having a coming out party. We think he meant to rub his father’s nose in his being gay.”

  Corelli looked around to see if everyone was following. “So far we’ve interviewed his parents and sister and brother-in-law, his coworkers at the UN, and Scott Sigler, a brand-new lover. Neither Sigler nor the family could give us the names of Nardo’s friends, and his cell phone, address book, and computer, if he had them, are missing. We’re trying to locate his phone company to get his phone records.”

  She looked up. Everyone was taking notes. “Here’s the icing on the cake. Nardo was the son of the Italian ambassador to the United Nations, Leonardo del Balzo, known as Leonardo, and the ambassador is being touted as the next prime minister of Italy.”

  She looked around the room. “Detective Ron Watkins, Detective P.J. Parker and I are new to the oh-eight. Ron is still on restricted duty due to a shoot-out several months ago. Stand and take a bow, Ron. The autopsy is this afternoon at three. I’d like you to attend.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Who checked out Scott Sigler’s alibi?” she asked, looking around the conference table.

  Detective Charleen Greene raised her hand. Corelli smiled. “What do you have?”

  Greene shuffled some papers. “Based on time r
ecords in the office, the sign-out sheet, and the two guards in the lobby, we confirmed that Sigler left the office a little after three a.m. It seems that’s a standard workday for young attorneys in these big firms. The staff at the restaurant knows him and confirmed he had dinner with a man fitting del Balzo’s description. Waiter said they held hands most of the time and ordered champagne for some kind of toast. They walked out holding hands and looking happy.” She coughed, took a sip of coffee. “Mohammed Hussein, the grocery clerk, couldn’t say whether it was two or three that morning, but he knows Sigler because he often comes in around that time for a pint of ice cream.”

  She looked up. “And we got the dog walker too. Richard Smythe. Works three to eleven and usually walks his dog around three a.m. just before he goes to bed. He’s seen Sigler before, but he remembers Tuesday morning because Sigler was eating a pint of ice cream with a plastic spoon and doing a little,” she looked at her notes, “Singing in the Rain dance as he walked down the street.”

  “Good work. Sounds like we can eliminate Sigler. Who’s following up on Ms. Foxworth?”

  “That would be me,” Ron said, opening his little black leather notebook. “Originally from Oklahoma, been in New York fifteen years. According to her, she’s been cleaning houses about five years. Before that she worked as a payroll clerk for a small construction firm in Queens. She has about ten clients, mostly gay men, one lesbian, charges twenty dollars an hour. Neighbors say she and her partner are quiet, respectable, and friendly. No police record here, still waiting to hear from Oklahoma.”

  “Did you get a list of her clients?’

  “Sure did. We’ll be interviewing them today.”

  “Get somebody to help out with that. Any questions so far?” Nobody said anything. “Detective Parker and I are teamed up. Parker, please report on our interviews.”

  There was silence when Parker finished. Then Dietz said, “Geesh, the father was threatened, but murder his son? Sounds like a Greek tragedy.”

  The ambassador was Corelli’s prime suspect but she needed to keep a lid on it for now so Parker didn’t share the ambassador’s comment about Nardo’s death being for the best. Corelli put a hand up to stop the comments. “Don’t get carried away, Dietz. There may be something there, but you know how family arguments go. Right now we just have the father’s attitude and the argument, no real evidence. We need to tread carefully. Any hint of something like this could ruin the ambassador’s career, for no reason.” And mine too.