Here Comes the Body

by Maria DiRico

  She spent the next two hours helping Guadalupe prepare and serve lunch to everyone at Belle View, including the police. Pete Dianopolis pulled her aside on the way to delivering another platter of sandwiches to the pet bereavement group. “Wanted to let you know we got what we needed from the grief group. Man, some of those stories are heartbreakers. I thought Hinkle was gonna burst out crying when he heard how that lady’s Malti-poos died within a week of each other. He’s tired from that baby of his and it makes him vulnerable. I’ll take him another sandwich to cheer him up. And one for me, too.”

  Pete lifted two heroes off Mia’s platter, and she continued into the lounge. She placed the almost-full tray next to an empty one. “You’d think a murder investigation would make me lose my appetite,” Betty said as she put a third veggie hero sandwich on her plate. “Instead, I’m starving.”

  “The good news is that the police told me you’re all free to go,” Mia said.

  “We will,” Gerald said. “Right after dessert. Is that chocolate mousse?”

  “Yes, and the cannolis are homemade.” Mia took one and chomped down on it. “I could use a little comfort food myself right now.”

  The group polished off everything on the dessert platter, then departed. Mia was cleaning up the room when Cammie strode in. She looked anxious. “I need to talk to you.”

  Mia excused herself from the bereavement group and stepped into the hallway. “What’s happening?” she asked, concerned. “Did you get an update from Pete?”

  “No. He’s being tight-lipped all of a sudden. I sent a picture of me wearing the thong, okay, a couple of pictures, and he didn’t even respond.” Cammie, looking worried, bit her lower lip, then released it. “Is it me? Have I lost it? I’m no model but I thought I looked pretty good in them. Tell me what you think.”

  Cammie pulled out her phone and called up her photos. Mia examined them and frowned. “If Pete isn’t responding to these, something is definitely going down. I’m calling my dad.”

  “I’ve got your pops on speed dial,” Cammie said. She punched a number and handed the phone to Mia. It rang a handful of times, then went to the factory default voice mail message. Mia tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for it to end. “Dad, hi, call me, I think we may have a problem.”

  Mia ended the call. Her own cell phone began to ring—in her office, where she’d left it. She dashed down the hallway with Cammie and caught the call just in time. “Yes, hello.”

  “Hi, this is Teri Fuoco from—”

  Mia disconnected the call. “It’s that stupid reporter from the Triborough Trib.” Her cell rang again. Mia ignored it. “How did she even get my cell number?”

  Cammie held up a hand and rubbed her middle and index finger with her thumb. “Money. Cashola. Probably paid one of your Florida ‘friends’ or co-workers for it.”

  Mia scowled. “Probably. They couldn’t talk to the cops or reporters fast enough when I was a suspect in Adam’s disappearance. My ‘bestie’ down there told the TV news that she was only friends with me because she was afraid she’d get ‘whacked’ if she wasn’t. She’s lucky I didn’t whack her for saying that.” Her cell rang again. “Shut up! ”

  “Little advice? Take the call, say ‘No comment,’ and repeat it until she gets the message.”

  “Fine.” Mia, disgruntled, answered the call. “What?”

  “Ms. Carina, this is Teri Fuoco.”

  “How about telling me something I don’t know?”

  “Your father’s been arrested and charged with the murder of Giorgio Bouras.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mia dropped the phone and leaned against the office door frame. She closed her eyes and muttered a prayer. Cammie tugged at her sleeve. “What happened, what’s wrong?”

  “Dad’s been arrested for Giorgio’s murder.”

  Cammie gasped. “What? Nooooo.” She clenched her fists in anger. “That’s it. Pete just got his last hot picture of me in a thong.”

  “Hello?” Teri’s voice, coming from the floor where the phone lay, sounded faint.

  Mia bent down and picked up the phone. “No comment.”

  “I haven’t asked you anything.”

  “Doesn’t matter; whatever you ask, the answer is no comment. And I’m blocking your number. I just remembered I can do that. Buh-bye.”

  Mia ended the call and blocked the reporter’s phone number. She stared at her cell, paralyzed for a moment. Then she put in a call to a number on her speed dial list.

  “Hey, Mia.” Mickey Bauer, the family’s defense attorney, sounded beleaguered. “I was just about to call you.”

  “Is it true? Did they arrest Dad?”

  “Yes.” The word came out as a long sigh.

  “Figlio di puttana!” Mia cursed. “Why was he arrested? What evidence do the police have?”

  “Nothing, if you ask me. But with his record, it wasn’t hard to get a judge to sign off on an arrest warrant.”

  “Still, the police must have something on him.”

  “Security camera footage showing him throwing out garbage in the dumpster not that long before Giorgio was discovered, which means he was already in there. The garbage bag was full of some rotting flower arrangement. The police are saying he was trying to use the garbage and the stench of it to cover up the body.”

  Mia let out a groan. “Are you kidding me? I’m the one who told him to throw out those flowers. They were stinking up his office.”

  “You did?” Mickey’s voice brightened. “That’s good. I can use it.”

  “Where are they holding him? Rikers?”

  “Where else? I’m working on getting him arraigned tomorrow. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Great, thank you.” Mia was about to end the call when a new thought filled her with fear. “Mickey . . . you didn’t tell my grandmother about Dad’s arrest, did you?”

  “Yeah, I couldn’t find your cell number, so I called her to get it. Why?”

  Mia ended the call and began running down the hall to the front door. Cammie ran alongside her. “Where are you going?”

  “Where are we going. I need you to give me a lift to Rikers Island.”

  * * *

  Cammie dropped Mia off in the Rikers parking lot, where visitors picked up shuttles that took them over a bridge to the island that housed the massive prison complex. Mia shuttled to the visitor center and passed through a scanner. A guard searched her purse, then directed her to a shuttle that would take her to where Ravello was being held. Triborough Correctional is like a spa compared to this place, she thought as she endured a second search outside the visitor’s floor. After securing her purse in a locker, a guard recited the rules of a visit to her. “You must remain seated with your hands above the table,” he said. A woman yelled in Italian from inside the visitor’s room. “You are not allowed to exchange any items with the person you are visiting or anyone else.” There was the sound of more yelling. “Sorry, there’s an old lady in there making a scene.”

  “That would be my grandmother. And I know the drill. My brother and my dad have both been here before.”

  “Good. Go on in.”

  Mia entered the barren room. Ravello, clad in a prison-issue jumpsuit, hands cuffed, sat across from Elisabetta. Or at least he would have been if Elisabetta wasn’t yelling at a guard in Italian. “Mama, please, leave him alone,” Ravello pleaded with her. “It’s not his fault I’m here.”

  “Then who should I be yelling at?”

  “Anyone but me, lady,” the guard said, “unless you want to end up in a cell yourself.”

  Elisabetta launched into another tirade. “Nonna, stai zitto,” Mia commanded her grandmother sternly. “That’s enough.”

  “Mia,” Ravello said with relief. “Maybe you can talk her down.”

  “Madonna mia, quest’è pazzo.” Elisabetta, overwhelmed with frustration, thrust her fists in the air as if appealing to the heavens.

  “Yes, it’s crazy-making,” Mia said. “But yelling a
t this poor man won’t help. Apologize to him.”

  Defeated, Elisabetta lowered her fists. “Mi dispiace,” she said to the guard. “I’m sorry. I was upset. I know my son didn’t kill anyone.”

  The guard gave a slight nod to acknowledge the apology. Mia put her hands on Elisabetta’s shoulders and gently steered her toward the door. “Wait outside. I’m going to talk to Dad.”

  Elisabetta blew Ravello kiss. “Ti amo, bambino. Stay strong.”

  Ravello gave his mother a weary smile. “I will. Love you too, Mama.”

  Elisabetta left and Mia sat down across from her father. “I feel terrible, Dad. The only reason you’re here is because I told you to throw out those stupid flowers.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, sweetie. They would have found some other way to bring me in for this.” Ravello’s shoulders sagged. “Running Belle View was a pipe dream. It was bound to go down one way or another and take me down with it.”

  Mia’s heart broke for her father. “No, don’t even think that.” Mia, remembering the rules for visitors, suppressed the urge to take his hands in hers. “I talked to Mickey. He thinks the case against you is weak. We’re gonna get you out, find out who killed Angie and Giorgio, and make Belle View the best catering hall in the city, and I mean the whole city.” A voice came over the loudspeaker announcing the end of visiting hours. Mia stood up. “I’ll see you at the arraignment. Right now, I better get Nonna out of here before she tries to arrange a prison break for you.”

  * * *

  Elisabetta was uncharacteristically quiet on the cab ride home from Rikers. As soon as they got inside the house, she motioned for her granddaughter to come into the kitchen, where she filled two wineglasses from a bottle of Boldano Montepulciano. She handed a glass to Mia. “Che giornata. What a day.”

  Mia raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t that the truth.” She took a big gulp of wine. A blinking light on her grandmother’s ancient answering machine drew her attention. “You have messages.”

  Elisabetta made a face. “Doctor appointments or telemarketers. Those are the only calls I get on the home phone anymore.”

  “Or . . .”

  Mia pressed “Play” to hear the message. “Hi, this is Dylan Schreiber from the New York Post. I’d like to talk to you about Ravello Carina’s arrest. You can reach me at—” Mia fast-forwarded through this message, the next, and the five that followed. Her worst fear was realized—every call was from a news organization looking to build a story around her father’s arrest. She pressed “Erase” and wiped the machine clean of them. “This is terrible. The last thing we need is more bad publicity.” The phone rang and Elisabetta reached for it, but Mia stopped her. “No! No talking to the press. Let it go to voice mail.”

  The women waited, frozen in anticipation as the machine picked up. “Hello, did you know you can cut your energy bill in half by installing solar panels?” a voice chirped. Mia disconnected the call and the women relaxed.

  “Who knew there’d be a day when I’d be grateful for some telemarketer?” Elisabetta said.

  Doleful, she shook her head and took a seat at the kitchen table. Mia followed suit. She took another swig of wine to steel herself for what had to come next—an Internet search. Mia typed her father’s name into a task bar on her cell. The first post linked to the lead story on the Triborough Tribune website: “Made Man a Murderer?” featuring the loathsome Teri Fuoco’s byline. Page after page of links to Ravello Carina followed. Too many pages. Mia closed the app and knocked back the rest of her wine, then grabbed the bottle and emptied it into her glass.

  Hero raised himself on his hind legs and put his front paws on Elisabetta’s lap. The old woman picked him up and held him close to her heart. “Chi è mamma piccolo bambino?” she cooed to him in a squeaky voice. “Who’s Mama’s little baby? I read they like it when you talk baby talk to them.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mia’s response was pro forma. Her focus was elsewhere. It was time to put a question to Elisabetta. A question she’d been wanting to ask for most of her life. “Nonna . . . why did Dad make the choice he did? He’s smart and such a good man in his heart. Why did he . . .”

  “Join the Family?”

  “Yes. All my life, I’ve wondered. Now I’m finally asking.”

  Nonna glanced at her wineglass. “A piece of cork.” She took a paper napkin and dabbed it into the glass to remove the errant scrap.

  “Stop stalling.”

  Nonna swirled her wine. “I’m stalling because I blame myself. Ravello was such a good boy, but all over the place, especially after his papa, your nonno, died. Ravello was only ten when that happened. He was very bright but had trouble with his studies. He couldn’t focus. He was fidgety, always moving.”

  This was a revelation. “Dad had ADHD?”

  “See, nowadays there’s a name for that kind of behavior. Back then, a kid was just considered a problem. You get treated that way enough, by teachers, principals, even your own mother, you begin to act like a problem. For your father, that led to him getting in trouble. And eventually connecting with the Family.”

  Mia mulled this new insight into her father. He’d always seemed so measured, so focused. She pictured him as a young boy, struggling to do what came easier for others, judged by his peers and teachers. “Now it’s hard to imagine Dad as someone with attention deficit disorder. But I guess as you grow older, you learn to manage it.”

  “That’s what he’s done. When he was a kid, it controlled him. Now he controls it.” Elisabetta sighed. “I wish I could go back in time with what I know now. Instead, we can only push forward.” Tears rolled down the old woman’s cheeks. “That’s why I’m so glad you’re here now, bella. With you helping him at Belle View, he finally has a chance to go straight. But not if he’s jailed for a murder we know he didn’t commit.”

  Mia, her own cheeks wet with tears, embraced her grandmother and the two women clung to each other. Mia loved the familiar comfort of her nonna’s arms. When she was a kid and her parents engaged in one of their histrionic arguments, she’d sneak out of the house and seek refuge with Elisabetta, who could be counted on for sympathy, a plate of homemade pasta, and an illicit glass of wine.

  Mia’s cell pinged a text. She picked up the phone and read the message. “It’s from Mickey Bauer. Dad’s arraignment just got switched from two P.M. to nine A.M. Here’s hoping the press doesn’t find out about the time change or oversleeps.” She wagged a finger at Elisabetta. “You can only come with me if you promise not to go ballistic on the prosecutor.”

  “I can’t promise that, so go without me.”

  “Va bene. I’m going to bed early so I’m in good shape in the morning. Here’s hoping Dad will be released and the story will blow over.” Mia got up from the table. “And you’ve got nothing to blame yourself for, Nonna. You were a widow dealing with your own grief, raising a kid by yourself in a time before anyone defined kids’ issues. You obviously did something right because Dad adores you.” She hugged her grandmother again. “And so do I.”

  * * *

  Mia sat in the ornately paneled courtroom with her hands clasped together tightly to prevent them from shaking. Her heart hammered as Mickey Bauer pleaded her father’s case in front of a grim-looking judge. “A man threw out rotting flowers, Your Honor. That’s it. He threw them out because his daughter, who happens to work with him, complained that the smell was distracting and probably a detriment to wooing customers to their catering hall business.”

  The prosecutor, a man whose intensity screamed Type A personality, cast a baleful glance at Ravello. “The man Mr. Bauer is referring to also happens to be known to law enforcement as a member of the Boldano crime family.”

  “If that’s the case,” the judge said, “you’d think Mr. Carina would know better than to dispose of a body in his own dumpster.”

  “Especially one not set to be picked up for another two days,” Mickey threw in. “My client would’ve needed a lot more rotting flowers to cover up that sme
ll.”

  The judge used his index finger to push his wire-rim glasses against the bridge of his nose. “I’m dismissing this case without prejudice in light of the fact I don’t see adequate evidence on the part of the prosecution to bring a second-degree murder charge against Mr. Ravello.” He addressed the prosecutor. “Come back when you have some solid evidence, Mr. Robbins.”

  Mia released the breath she was holding. She followed her father and Mickey Bauer up the aisle and out of the courtroom.

  “Nice job, Mickey,” Ravello said. He was more relaxed than Mia had seen him in days, although not by much.

  “Yes, we can’t thank you enough,” Mia said, echoing her father’s gratitude. But the lawyer seemed distracted.

  “You might want to hold back on the thanks,” Bauer said. He made a slight gesture with his head toward the prosecutor, who was glaring at them. “Robbins is the most ambitious prosecutor in the office, and that’s saying something with those sharks. He could get a ton of publicity off a case with your father. This thing won’t be over until the real killers are caught.” He checked his smart watch. “I gotta go. My kid’s playing Chester Arthur in a school play about the presidents. Whoever the heck Chester Arthur was.”

  Bauer took off, leaving Mia and Ravello. “I know Mickey’s right,” Mia said, “but we can still celebrate that you don’t have to go back to Rikers today. Lunch?”

  “I’d love to, but I think I need a little time to myself,” Ravello said. “You don’t mind?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll go back to Belle View and tell everyone the semi-good news.”

  Mia headed down the long hallway toward the building’s elevator. She noticed a woman standing in an alcove—it was Lin Yeung. Their eyes met, and they acknowledged each other with discreet smiles. Mia didn’t understand why her father felt compelled to hide his relationship. Everyone in the family—and the Family—agreed that he and her mother had stayed married far longer than they should have. Maybe this led to Ravello, like his daughter, doubting his instincts when it came to relationships and wanting to be a hundred percent sure Lin was the woman for him before he brought her into his world. Whatever the reason for his hesitation, Mia respected him too much to press the issue.