by Becky Clark
Something was different, though. I flipped back several pages to the first photo. In that one she’s wearing a black boat neck dress. I could barely tell where her dress stopped and Lapaglia’s black tuxedo began. But in the other picture, she’s wearing a burgundy dress with a plunging neckline.
I went back and forth, squinting at them. There must have been a pre-banquet cocktail party with the nominees and then she had changed her clothes for the ceremony. Or perhaps they were held on different evenings. I searched the pages for captions but there were none. I dragged both photos to my desktop to make it easier to study them side by side.
The burgundy color could be mistaken for black, under certain lighting conditions, but there was no way those necklines were interchangeable. One high, one low. Definitely different dresses.
I zoomed in on the black dress photo, scrutinizing Annamaria. Enlarging the photo pixilated it and turned her a bit fuzzy, but I could see her dark hair done up in a classic chignon.
Next I zoomed in on the photo of her wearing the burgundy dress. Silver earrings hung from her lobes and a matching necklace dropped into her cleavage. Her hair was down in this one, a little longer than shoulder-length, held back on either side by two ornate silver combs. I squinted at the image, enlarging it a bit more, but it was immediately too much. The details became impossible to discern. I stepped it back a notch. Those combs. Something about them. I tried making the image a bit darker and then enlarging it again.
I leaned closer to the screen. I couldn’t be completely sure, but the design on the combs seemed to match the design on Lapaglia’s bolo tie, Martina’s logo, and Tiffany’s necklace.
Was it my imagination? The fuzzy enlargement? The late hour and bad dreams?
I wrestled with it until exhaustion took hold of me and I stumbled back to bed. I did sleep, but it remained fitful and I was glad to wake up.
The first thing I did was study those photos again.
I knew it was early but called Thomas Percy anyway, hoping he wasn’t at work on a train someplace.
He answered on the first ring, trepidation in his voice. “Hello?”
“Thomas? Are you okay? It’s Charlee Russo.”
“Oh. Hi. Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping well. I keep having dreams about Annamaria. And again yesterday I thought I saw her at the market.”
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Frankly, I’d rather be awake.”
“This might sound random, but did Annamaria ever wear combs in her hair? You know, the decorative kind?”
He sucked in his breath. “Annamaria never wore jewelry of any kind. Adornments, she called them. She always said baubles detracted from a woman’s inner beauty.”
“Not even when she dressed up?”
“What do you know about that comb? Why are you asking?” He lowered his voice. “They found one at the crime scene.”
It was my turn to suck in my breath. “Can you describe what they found?”
“No. The police have it. What’s this all about?” He spoke louder and quicker.
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll tell you when I can.”
Would Thomas know how Annamaria looked when she dressed up for a fancy awards dinner?
The design on that comb was taking on a life of its own in my mind. Why would it have the same design as Lapaglia’s bolo tie, Martina’s business cards, and Tiffany’s necklace?
It wasn’t random. And Lapaglia was the link.
I called my brother. “Lance, I can’t tell you why right this minute, but can you get me a photo of the silver hair comb the Nebraska cops found at the scene of Annamaria Lapaglia’s murder?”
He made a non-committal noise.
“Can you get it?”
“It would make me a happy camper to know why.” He didn’t sound anywhere near happy camper status.
“You send me that photo and if it shows what I think it’s going to show, then I’ll tell you. Otherwise, it’s just me having a bad night’s sleep.”
He made that non-committal noise again. “Where do you think I work? Do you think there’s this one big happy police department nirvana where cops from all fifty states sit around eating donuts and waiting for calls to come in so we can solve crimes like on Scooby Doo?”
“No, but I—”
“I work for the Denver PD, Space Case. I’m not a detective. I’m a patrol cop. In Dennnnverrrr.”
“I don’t need a lecture. You could have just said no, you know.” I paused. “Can you at least tell me if you guys picked up Lapaglia?”
“No.” He disconnected.
He sounded awfully grumpy. I probably woke him up, too. Wait. Did he mean they didn’t find Lapaglia or that he couldn’t tell me?
I texted him. Is Lapaglia in custody or not?
Not.
I made coffee and watched it drip into the pot. With each drip I became more and more convinced that the only plausible answer for all this matching jewelry was Rodolfo Lapaglia. He had to be involved in both murders. He was the common thread. And he’s still out there, at least according to my brother, the patrol cop. In Dennnnverrrr.
It was wishful thinking on my part to hope that Lance had some sort of contact with any Nebraska cops. Would have been great, though.
I watched the rest of the coffee finish dripping into the pot. As I filled a cup, a text pinged. I glanced at my phone and sloshed coffee on the floor.
A photo of a silver comb filled the screen. The curlicue design matched. The photo faded.
I lunged for my phone, jabbing at the message icon. I stared again at the comb. No message from Lance, just the photo.
How did you get this? I texted.
An animated gif of the Scooby Doo gang appeared and began dancing.
Twenty-Five
I hated waking up Ozzi, but called him anyway. Maybe he was already awake.
He wasn’t.
“I’m so sorry to wake you up, but I need your help with something. Can I come over?”
When I got there he was looking blurry. I should have brought the coffee. I pushed him gently on to the couch and sat next to him with his laptop open on my lap. “Can we test out your new facial recognition technology?”
Ozzi immediately perked up. He pulled the computer to his lap and opened up a program. He started to explain how it all worked, but I interrupted him. “Go to the Dark Dagger website and pull up the most recent awards dinner.” He opened a new tab. When the page loaded, I pointed to the two photos of Annamaria, the one with Lapaglia and the one with her in the background. “Download those.” He did. “I want to see if these are the same woman.”
He studied the downloads on his desktop. “Of course they are. I can tell just by looking. You don’t need—”
“Humor me.”
He clicked and clacked across the keyboard, running the photos through the magic software. He tried to explain what was happening, but realized he was speaking a language I didn’t understand and stopped. When the program showed the results—100% Match—I felt like I got punched in the belly. I made him test it again, then a third time, asking him to explain each step.
Still, the photos matched. The software he and his team had been working on for so long believed unequivocally that the two women in the photos were the same person.
But I did not.
“Your software is wrong. I know for a fact they are two different women.”
“For a fact?”
“Maybe not a fact fact. But they are.”
“Charlee, I don’t know what to tell you, but—”
“Didn’t you just the other day have some horrible glitch? Maybe it’s still not working.”
He stared off into space. I knew that look. He was working out a problem in his mind. Everything had dropped away, and he was seeing computer code, line by line. Suddenly, he raced for the door. “I’ve got to check something!”
“Oz! You need pants!”
While he got dressed, I got more and more excited that he’
d find his software glitch and my theory would be vindicated. I packed up his computer case and handed it to him Dagwood and Blondie-style as he ran out of his apartment.
I ate a piece of toast with butter and jelly while I thought about Lapaglia and his girlfriends. By the time the last bite was gone and I’d licked the sticky from my fingers, I had a plan.
Twenty-Six
First, I called the anonymous tip line again and explained all about the bolo tie, the necklace, and the combs. I omitted details about Martina’s business card for now. Then I left a voice mail for Detective Ming with the same information. I made sure to include and enunciate clearly the phrases, “I know you think I’m crazy, but I’m not,” and “I’m trying my best to be a good citizen.”
Next, I sent a group text to Lakshmi, Cecilia, and Martina, giving them one last opportunity to do the right thing. I typed:
You can’t deny that the man you now know as Rodolfo Lapaglia is a creep. He cheated me out of a big chunk of money, he cheated his fans who came to hear him teach a workshop, he cheated on his wife and each of you, he lied to you about his identity, and I’m pretty sure he’s a murderer, maybe twice over. I think we can prove this, and if my plan works, you can be long gone before the cops get there. If you don’t step forward, some other poor woman may die ... maybe even one of you. Do you want that on your conscience? And even if he’s not involved in murder, should he get away with making you all look like fools and using you the way he did??
I held my breath and hit send. I didn’t care if the cops nabbed Lapaglia or if we did, but it was clear someone had to and it didn’t seem like the cops were on it.
The first response came from Cecilia, a selfie with her eye blackened and the message, Bad guys deserve bad things. I’m in.
Ten minutes later Martina texted. Fine.
After I’d showered, Lakshmi’s response awaited. Okay, if you all think that’s best.
Tepid, but I’d take it.
The first step was for someone to contact him. Cecilia volunteered and told him his page proofs were ready and they needed to meet. He replied to her message so quickly that it was clear to me he’d circled back to Denver after he escaped the Lost Valley Resort. I wondered where he parked the horse.
The trap was set to lure Lapaglia to the Aurora Motor Coachettes, a vintage motel I drove by all the time. It wasn’t seedy enough to be worrisome, hadn’t turned into weekly housing for the almost-homeless, nor had it been gentrified by hipsters. Best of all, it had a secluded barbecue area behind the corner room, which I booked for Friday night. The owner had seemed especially grateful when I offered an extra twenty to keep the rooms on either side empty as well.
When I got there, I could have saved my twenty bucks. Saved Ozzi’s twenty bucks, that is. The only people on the premises were a retired couple who had parked their RV at the far end of the property.
I circled the motel by foot, making sure my plan would work exactly as I’d imagined. Sturdy chairs around the fire pit. Easy access from the motel room. Quiet.
I passed through a breezeway to the front of the motel and wiggled the key in the room door. I glanced at my car parked several spaces away, not that Lapaglia knew what kind of car I drove, but I didn’t want to spook him with too much activity.
The room was tidy, but smelled musty. All the furnishings were out of date, spanning many decades and design trends. I had no doubt that sleeping in that bed would send me straight to a chiropractor. Luckily, I’d be doing no sleeping here.
I closed the door and kept the curtains drawn. The room was gloomy so I turned on both the heavy baroque-style lamp on the nightstand, and the macramé swag lamp hanging over the small table in the corner.
Hands on hips, I walked through my plan to make sure it would work, now that I’d seen this long, narrow room. Bathroom and closet in the rear on either side, and the sliding patio door almost directly opposite the front door.
It was perfect.
Cecilia would greet him at the front door, but Martina, Lakshmi and I would be waiting out back.
We planned to tie Lapaglia up out there to force him to watch his three girlfriends symbolically and literally destroy his picture book—at least in print shop proof form—in the fire pit as punishment for lying and using the three of them. After that, I was going to send the women on their way, then call the cops to come get him. I flipped open the lock on the patio door. We’d want to head out back as soon as we heard Lapaglia show up.
The other women arrived well ahead of time, making sure to park at the far end of the motel like I’d asked. Martina brought pizza and beer while we waited for him. Cecilia and I sat at the wobbly mismatched chairs on either side of a scratched table. Lakshmi sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, and Martina leaned against the headboard.
We went over the plan one last time. I was in the middle of explaining how the zip ties worked to lash him to a chair when Cecilia expressed doubts.
“Do you really think he killed somebody?” She stretched the really from here to Kansas.
“Yes, absolutely,” I said. “There’s that bolo tie he was wearing that matched the design on Tiffany’s necklace, those silver combs, and—” I turned to Martina. “And the logo on your business cards. Why do they all match? What’s the significance?”
Martina stiffened. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing. I’m just asking a question.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but he was wearing that tie when I met him. I liked the design, so I copied it for my logo.”
I studied her face. Was she lying? “I thought Lapaglia started his relationship with you because you had a marketing business?”
Martina reddened. “He did.”
“Then why didn’t you already have a logo?” Cecilia asked suspiciously.
We all stared at Martina until she knew she had to answer. “Okay, fine. I wasn’t a marketing professional”—she used air quotes—“at all until someone introduced me to him that way. I worked at a big marketing firm, but in the payroll department.” She shrugged. “I’d been toying with the idea so I thought this would be as good a time as any to start my own business.”
“So you plopped a logo on a business card and rented a post office box at Pandora’s.” I bit the point off a slice of pizza and tried to hide my envy at her audacity.
Martina shrugged again.
“Ballsy,” Cecilia said.
Quiet until now, Lakshmi said, “How else do people start businesses?”
She got me there, but that wasn’t the point. “Regardless of how Martina started her marketing business, there’s still the question of the bolo tie, the combs, and that necklace. There’s a link there and the only possible explanation is Lapaglia.”
“I still can’t see him killing anyone, much less two people,” Cecilia said.
“Me neither,” Lakshmi added quietly.
“Gotta agree,” Martina said, mouth full of pizza. “I’ve been thinking about it since you called, and it just doesn’t make sense to me. Yes, he’s a piece of .... philanderer and user of our good natures for which I’m willing to punish him, but I don’t think we should get the cops involved.”
“Me neither,” Lakshmi said again, a little bit louder. She wiped her mouth on a paper napkin and began clearing the trash.
“That’s what I’ve been thinking, too,” Cecilia said. “I don’t mind if you guys want to punish him by destroying his manuscript and illustrations, but I think we should leave it at that. Not go to the police.” She paused. “He was actually really nice to me, even with all the using and lying. Way nicer than my husband.” Her fingers brushed her black eye. “And I seriously doubt that our names will come up at any point.” She handed Lakshmi her plate and crumpled napkin. Lakshmi nodded and smiled.
I felt my fists clench. “I don’t think Tiffany or Annamaria would say he was actually really nice to them while he was killing them.”
“Show us your proof,” Martina said, holding out
her hand. When I didn’t place anything in it she said, “Exactly. You have nothing. You’re playing a dangerous game of chicken, and I’m the head hen.”
Whatever that means. “You guys are missing the point. We’re not going to execute the guy. All we’re going to do is get the three of you some well-deserved revenge, and then I’m calling the cops to come and pick him up. They’ll investigate and gather the rest of the evidence.”
“And we'd be part of the evidence,” Cecilia said softly.
“He can’t be a murderer,” Lakshmi said. “He just can’t.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because ... because ...” She swept her arm to include everyone. “Because we know him! We can’t possibly know a murderer!”
Cecilia and Martina murmured and nodded their agreement.
I stared at them, stunned. How could they not see what I see? And how could I possibly make them understand that everyone had secrets, even people close to you.
I took a swig from my beer bottle and told them the story about the murder of my agent. Satisfied that would illustrate my point, I let them chew on that while I stood up and added my trash to the pile Lakshmi collected. When I turned back, Martina had slipped into the chair I’d been sitting in.
“Sorry,” she said. “My back’s killing me. That bed sucks.” She picked up my phone lying on the table and squinted at it. “You were right,” she read. “Different women.” She set it back down. “What kind of name is Ozzi?”