Lucy didn’t reply.
The cop handed back her license and waved them through.
It was only another half-mile to the house, but the trip took them nearly ten minutes. The entire stretch was an obstacle course of marine flotsam, splintered wood decking, twisted roof guttering, and torn-up sections of pavement cordoned off by police tape.
Lucy’s front yard was a huge mess—yawning gaps in her hedges, tangles of rope and marine buoys hanging in the lower branches of her red oak, and scores of sun-bleached plastic containers strewn across the lawn. There were two vans parked in the driveway and a pickup straddling the sidewalk in front.
“Where’s your car?” Olivetti asked.
“They took it away. It’s being dried out and repaired at a shop in Newark.”
Olivetti just shook his head. He parked near the pickup and they all got out. The harsh sound of a heavy-duty generator assaulted their ears.
Olivetti strode to the pickup and studied the sign on its passenger door.
PERGUSA CONSTRUCTION LTD
“Building Your Tomorrow”
“Do you know who owns this company?”
Lucy feigned surprise. “No.”
Sixth lie
“I do. The word is, they’re connected.”
“Oh, Robert! Not you, too!”
“What do you mean?”
Lucy needed to head this off with a little show of temper. “That was the standard accusation all through the investigation of Jack’s murder! This is New Jersey, Robert! Everybody’s connected! I don’t care who owns this company! All I know is they’re fixing my house!” She slung her travel bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for the ride.” She clasped her wide-eyed son by the hand and started up the driveway.
Olivetti hurried after her. “I’m sorry, Lucy, but it’s more than that! I’ve seen an intelligence report that said Dominic Lanza owns Pergusa Construction.”
Lucy pretended to ponder his words. “So, you’re saying that some people might think Scarlatti is right … that Jack was involved with that family, and now I am.”
“Yes. It could make life difficult for you—all over again.”
Lucy pursed her lips. “Well, you know what? My life’s been difficult for years, and I’m pretty much sick of it. I have a house that needs repairs and a son to raise, so, I’m sorry Robert, but I don’t give a shit anymore about what people think!”
“Mommy, you said a bad word!”
“Sorry, honey.”
“Like it or not,” Olivetti replied, “that takes us to the thing I wanted to talk to you about.”
At that moment, a short man wearing coveralls and athletic shoes appeared from behind the house. He strolled toward them.
“It’ll have to wait. Hi, Joe!”
“Mrs. Hendricks! Perfect timing!”
“You said the upstairs was okay, so I decided to move back.”
“That’s no problem, so long as you don’t mind the noise.” He wiped a grubby palm on his pant leg and held out his hand to Olivetti. “Joseph Tomasi.”
“Robert Olivetti.” They shook. “Tomasi? That name sounds familiar.”
“You’re probably thinking of Giuseppe Tomasi. Famous dago author. No relation, far as I know.” He turned to Lucy. “The basement’s pretty bad. We’re stripping out the wall board and the tiling. Once everything is dry and we’re sure there’s no mold, we’ll get the wiring checked and then replace everything. The washer and dryer are toast, but luckily you didn’t have much personal stuff down there. We piled what we found on the patio. There isn’t much worth saving, but I thought you’d want to go through it.”
“Thanks. What about the main floor?” The spreading pool of Tait’s blood was burned into her memory.
“Not too bad. Luckily your place sits a bit higher than some of the neighbors’ houses. Looks like the main floor only got an inch or two of water. We’ll need to replace the baseboards and maybe some of the flooring. We pulled out the living room carpeting and also”—he casually caught Lucy’s eye—“that area rug in the back bedroom, and hauled them to the dump. We’ve just finished moving all the furniture into the living room, along with everything from your closets. We’ll work on that room last.”
“That’s fast work, Joe! I’m really grateful for what you’ve done.”
“Well, you were first in line. From the look of the job orders that are coming in now, we’ll be working flat out until next spring.” He grinned. “C’mon, I’ll give you the grand tour.”
* * *
It was several hours before Olivetti was finally able to get Lucy alone. Just the fact that he’d hung around all day, when there seemed to be no reason for him to do so, confirmed to her that he had something serious to discuss. She kidded herself that he just wanted to declare himself—just wanted to get back where they had been as … well, a sort-of couple. But her heightened senses told her it wasn’t just that. That might be part of it, but there was something else.
Something to be dreaded.
She put him off as long as she could. All the lying was exhausting. She was trying to build up her strength, because she knew she’d soon be forced to lie some more.
Kevin, on the other hand, had proved himself. Not once did he mention recent events. Not once did he drop the slightest hint that he’d been witness to more violence in a single hour than most people saw in a lifetime.
As soon as cell service had been restored after the storm, Lucy had called Ricki to assure her that she and Kevin were safe. As it happened, Ricki and Jeff were visiting her father. When Ricki passed the phone to Joseph, the first words out of his mouth were:
“Lucinda! Are you taking care of that boy?”
“No, Dad.”
“What?”
“I think he’s taking care of me.”
She didn’t offer to explain.
Kevin was an enigma, and Lucy was profoundly thankful for that.
When the boy wasn’t trailing the workmen around the basement, where they pretended to allow him to help out, or sharing treats they produced from their gigantic lunchboxes, Lucy kept him busy with games in his room. While she picked through the sodden contents of the boxes, suitcases, and trunks that she’d stored in the basement—eventually electing to assign the whole works to the landfill—Olivetti busied himself cleaning up the front yard. At the end of the day, after Tomasi and his men had left for the night, Olivetti went on a foraging expedition, located an enterprising Chinese takeout joint that had already reopened, and returned to the house with a hot supper.
Before Tomasi left, he’d connected the generator to the fuse box and set it to provide lights on the top floor. Lucy and Olivetti carried the kitchen dinette set upstairs and ate the evening meal in Lucy’s bedroom. Kevin, exhausted from his long day, barely touched his food. After he nodded off in his chair, Lucy carried him to his room and tucked him into bed.
When she returned to her bedroom, Olivetti was gone.
While she puzzled over his absence, she heard him on the stairs. He reappeared, carrying a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and a pair of Lucy’s crystal glasses.
“I had a bottle in my car,” he said.
“How convenient.”
He popped the cork and poured. He passed Lucy her glass. She knew the moment had arrived. She settled back and waited.
Olivetti wasted no time.
“I need you to explain something.”
“I suppose you mean my call the other night.”
“You talked about the FBI. You said you were going to be arrested again. You wanted me to listen to a recording. And then you said you’d put Carla Scarlatti in the hospital.”
“I went to her house. I accused her of killing Jack. She told me I’d never prove it. She didn’t know I was recording her.”
“Just a minute! You accused Carla of killing Jack?”
“Yes. And here’s the thing: She didn’t deny it. She just said, quote: ‘You’ll never fucking prove that!’”
“Lucy
, you’re going to have to do better than that if the Jersey City cops come to talk to you.”
Lucy felt her throat constrict. “Why? Did she file a complaint against me?”
“No. If she planned to, she didn’t have time.”
“What do you mean?”
Olivetti took a swallow of wine. He set down his glass. “Because she’s dead. Murdered.”
“What!” Lucy didn’t have to fake her reaction, because she was shocked that Olivetti already knew that Carla was dead.
Dominic! You said you’d clean things up!
She tried to sound deeply concerned. “God, Robert! What happened?”
“She showed up for emergency duty on the night of the storm. A few hours later she dropped out of contact. The next morning, the manager of Best Buy in Newport Plaza arrived at the store and found the front door smashed in. Carla’s body was lying just inside. She’d been shot in the head. It looked like she’d tried to stop some looters.”
So … you did clean things up.
She let Olivetti’s expectant silence tick over for a few seconds before responding.
“What are you saying? Someone thinks I killed her?”
“Of course not!”
“Then, if she didn’t file a report against me, why would Jersey City want to talk to me?”
“Her captain knows she was looking at you in that prof’s murder. It’s logical to expect that a detective will pay you a visit, if only to eliminate you as a suspect.”
“Eliminate me.” Lucy pretended to be thoughtful. “Can they pinpoint when she was she killed?”
“The M.E. says sometime between eight and midnight on the night of the storm. He also says the body had been moved. Carla was shot somewhere else, and then dumped in the store.”
“Maybe in the parking lot outside?”
“Maybe. But the forensic team didn’t find any sign of that.”
“It rained all night!”
“Accepted.”
“What about security cameras?” Her question was pro forma. She already knew the answer.
“Power was out. No juice, no cameras.”
“So … me, a suspect. How would that work?”
“I didn’t say you’d be a suspect. I just said you might get a visit. Even if Carla didn’t open a file, she might have mentioned your little … encounter … to someone.”
“Well, let me clear up your doubts, since you seem to have a few. I was here in this house with Kevin, and my car was sitting in four feet of water; in other words, it was inoperable. And there are two Bayonne cops who can confirm that they rescued us just a few blocks from here—a Sergeant named Lewis and a patrol officer named Laidlaw.”
“What time was that?”
“Sometime between seven and eight, I think. The police will have a record of it.”
“I’ll check on the Jersey City investigation. I’ll make sure they know that.”
“Thanks. But just so you and I are clear, the fact that Scarlatti didn’t arrange to have me arrested the minute she got out of the hospital tells me I was right about her. So, sorry, but if some lowlife looter put a bullet in her, that’s justice.”
“That sounds pretty cold, Lucy.”
“Killing Jack was cold.”
Olivetti swirled his wine, staring into the glass. “How do you know it was her? I mean, how could you possibly be sure of that?”
“You had to be there. I disarmed her, then I—”
“You disarmed her?” Olivetti looked incredulous. “Start at the beginning. Walk me through it.”
Olivetti went a bit pale when Lucy reminded him that he was the one who’d told her where Scarlatti lived. During her outraged call to him after she’d found out about his affair with the cop, he’d mentioned that she lived in The Heights. She explained how she’d learned what shift she was working, and then waited for her to come home. When she recounted how she’d relieved Carla of her weapon and shoved the woman on her face, she detected a new level of respect on Olivetti’s expression.
“I handcuffed her to her stove. I told her I knew she’d killed Jack. She didn’t even bother to deny it—she just said I’d never prove it. I lost it and clocked her so hard with the gun that for a minute I thought I had killed her.”
“That’s all you’ve got? Just her saying you couldn’t prove it?”
“It wasn’t what she said, it was the way she said it. I could see it in her eyes.”
“That’s subjective. It’s not the kind of evidence a jury would buy.”
“What jury? You just said she’s dead.”
“I want to hear that recording.”
“It’s gone. It was on my phone.”
Lying, lying …
“You must have had something on her!” Olivetti responded, exasperated. “You wouldn’t have taken such a radical step if you didn’t! I mean, why would Carla Scarlatti, a Jersey City cop, kill your husband, a Bayonne cop? It makes no sense!”
“I suppose I’ll never know for sure, but I’m guessing she was involved in that car theft ring Jack was investigating.”
“That’s not a guess at all, is it, Lucy? You found something! Something that made you focus on her.”
Lucy chewed her lip. She decided Robert deserved one more thing. One more thing that could never be accepted as admissible evidence.
Something that would end the discussion.
“It was Kevin.”
“Kevin? You mean one of his—?”
“Yes. He remembered something. He went into one of those … trances. His voice changed. He sounded like Jack. He told me his killer was a woman. And that she was left-handed.”
“Let me get this straight. You went after Carla Scarlatti because your son told you his father was killed by a left-handed woman.”
“Because of that … and one other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“You remember the physical evidence at the scene, and Jack’s injuries? They showed that he was crushed against the wall of the garage by a vehicle.”
“That’s right.”
“If you check, you’ll find that Carla Scarlatti drives a 2005 Ford Explorer.” Lucy embellished. “Even though Kevin has never seen her Explorer, he described a sticker on the bumper of the vehicle that killed him. It must have been the last thing Jack saw before he died.” She paused for effect. “The same sticker is still on the bumper of Carla Scarlatti’s Explorer.”
Olivetti must have been holding his breath, because he suddenly expelled air. He sat there, staring at her. “So … no real evidence.”
“Maybe no real evidence, but it was enough for me. Why else would that woman spend years trying to discredit Jack and harassing me? Because she was the one Jack was investigating! And because she’s the one who killed him!”
Olivetti looked visibly disturbed. He was an intelligent man, and Lucy guessed that he sensed he wasn’t hearing the whole story. That Lucy knew much more than she was revealing. Unless she was mistaken, Robert Olivetti had suddenly realized that his emotions were about to run head-to-head into his conscience.
Good for you, Robert. I can’t afford to go there anymore.
There was one other thing she’d decided not to mention. A few hours after their arrival at the house, she’d noticed that her laptop was missing. She’d forgotten to pack it on the night Sandy hit. She doubted that any of Tomasi’s men had stolen it. She wondered if Dominic had taken it. He knew she’d kept a copy of Jack’s flash drive on her computer.
Not that it mattered anymore.
She sighed, and put voice to that final thought. “None of this matters anymore. I’m putting an end to it.”
“Putting an end to what?”
“Everything. After this house is fixed up, it’s going on the market. Kevin and I are moving back to Florida. I should never have come back here. If I’m going to have to face hurricanes, I might as well be close to my family.”
“You’re starting a new life.”
“It’s long overd
ue.”
“Lucy…”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to be part of it.”
Silence. Something inside Lucy softened.
Then melted.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you prepared to start small?”
“I am.” His gaze drifted past her. “Is that bed small enough?”
Lucy thought about that. “Maybe. But I need a shower.”
“So do I.”
“There’s no hot water.”
“Cold shower, huh? You really do want me to start small.”
Lucy smiled. “I guess I’ll just have to work harder.”
She was still smiling when they rolled into bed.
30
Robert Olivetti’s apartment building on Beacon Way had all the cool amenities—gym, pool, Green Mountain coffee bar … even a billiard room. He utilized none of them. He went to work, came home, and kept carefully to himself in his two-bedroom loft. He seldom entertained guests, and even Lucy had never visited.
Twenty-four hours after the meal in Lucy’s bedroom and the overnight romp in her bed, Olivetti prepared his solitary supper and sat down to eat.
To eat, and to think.
He’d left early, before Kevin woke up, telling Lucy he had to get cleaned up and attend Carla Scarlatti’s funeral. Despite the ongoing disorder in the wake of Hurricane Sandy, the authorities had managed to put together a suitably solemn ceremony, complete with honor guard, emotional speeches, “Taps” at the conclusion of the Mass, and a posthumous medal of honor for the slain detective. As the attendees filed out of St. Aloysius Church, Olivetti had deliberately buried himself in the thick of the crowd, and then made himself scarce. There were more than a few members of Carla Scarlatti’s family who would not have appreciated his presence at graveside.
The eerily female countertenor voice of Max Emanuel Cenčić filled his apartment. The Croatian artist was singing Policare’s aria from Tigrane. The opera had been one of Carla’s favorites. Olivetti had decided that listening to it in private was the single personal gesture he would allow himself in his ex-lover’s memory.
Listening to the opera also helped him to think.
A lot of things just didn’t add up. Carla’s assigned police vehicle had been found behind a discount carpet warehouse, just off Route 440 in Greenville, five miles from the Best Buy where her body was found. The car’s interior was clean—too clean, the forensic guy had commented, since not even Carla’s prints had been found. The unit had been hotwired, so the current theory was that the perp, or perps, had shot Carla near Best Buy and then used her car to transport their stolen goods.
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