“Okay, okay. What?”
Corelli turned toward the door, hoping for some fresh air, and caught Parker grinning. She scowled and turned back to Jovanovic. “Start with Friday when you got to work.”
He stared at the ground. Corelli pulled out her handcuffs. He raised his hand to stop her.
“I come at four o’clock and clean offices.”
“Which offices?”
“In basement: Manager of building, security, locker room for guards, mailrooms for businesses like Winter Brokerage, messenger delivery office and garbage room.” He closed his mouth, thinking he was finished.
“Then?”
“Seven o’clock everybody goes home. I lock front door and go to finish clean in basement. Last I come to lobby. Here, I sweep, polish marble floor and walls, shine glass doors and windows, and,” he pointed to the fixtures high on the walls, “dust lights. Then, I carry garbage out of elevators after cleaning woman put there and vacuum elevators.”
“What time did you lock up on Friday?”
“Seven, like usual.”
“And what time did you go to the Oasis?”
“I never—”
“Don’t waste your breath. We know you were there Friday night.”
He scratched his stomach. “Well, sometimes, if I go, about nine, but always I lock the door.”
“That’s not what I heard. Didn’t Ms. Winter want you fired because you often left the door unlocked?”
His eyelids fluttered. A sheen of sweat appeared on his upper lip. “The bitch want me fired because I go to Oasis sometimes for a drink. What’s it to her? It’s late. Nobody comes. Always I lock door so nobody gets in.”
Self-pity creeping into his voice, Mihailo said, “Night is not easy. I must do everything. No big deal if sometimes I forget to lock the door when I go take a piss or bring garbage out. Like I tell other cop, I have much to do.”
“What cop?”
“Comes to see the bitch, always is late night.”
“Do you know his name?”
He shrugged. “He puts gun to my head and pushes badge in my face, but his name, no. He says to arrest me if I leave door open, so I always close.”
“Describe him.”
“Better I don’t see too much, so I keep eyes down. I see Mr. Tough Guy wear high-heel shoes like girl. He’s big and mean. Pain in my ass.”
“Was he here Friday night?”
“Not Friday.”
“How do you know he didn’t come in when you weren’t here?”
“He not ring bell.”
“You’re absolutely sure you locked the door Friday night? And don’t lie. We’ll find out.”
Mihailo opened his mouth and then closed it. “Yes. I remember. I use key when I come back from Oasis. I stay only a little time, until maybe nine thirty, because that Rino is yelling about her. He gives me a headache. Talk to him. He hate her.”
“Did anyone come in or go out after seven on Friday?”
“Nobody. Everybody goes home early Friday. Only me, I work.”
“What did you do when you came back from the Oasis?”
“I go to sleep. Two o’clock I wake up and go home.”
“Did you turn off the air-conditioner on Winter’s side of the building?”
He jingled the change in his pocket. “Friday I forget garbage in elevator. But air-conditioner I always turn off when I leave to save money.”
“Are you sure about Friday night?”
His eyes began to move again, searching for help.
“Yes, I remember, after I wake up.”
“That’s not what we heard.”
He looked over her shoulder. “Who said?”
They were silent.
He hiked his pants. Still not looking at her, he said, “Is possible I forgot.”
“And is it possible you forgot to lock the door?”
She could smell his fear. “Not Friday. I remember. Is sure I lock.”
“Can anyone confirm the time you got home Friday night?”
“No. For two months now, I live alone. The other bitch, my wife, goes because she says I drink too much. Like she knows anything.”
He clasped his hands over his belly, waiting for the next question. When it didn’t come, he became uneasy, then alarmed. “I didn’t do nothin’ to the bitch.”
“We’ll see about that, Mr. Jovanovic. Don’t even think about leaving town.”
It was late and Wall Street was empty. The sound of their heels echoed in the silence. Now that they were alone again, Parker’s anxiety returned. Her whole body clenched. Would Corelli dump her now? She glanced to the side, attempting to read Corelli’s expression but then Corelli bumped her shoulder. Intentionally.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice you grinning while I desperately tried to interview Jovanovic without breathing. If I’d known he was so stinky, I would have had you interview him instead of Chip.”
Parker didn’t know what to make of Corelli’s teasing tone of voice. “Yes, I’m sure you would have.” That sounded too serious. “But watching you choke was the highlight of my day.” Oops, she didn’t intend to sound hostile? She bumped Corelli back to let her know she was teasing. This was more like it. Parker glanced at Corelli. Was she was smiling?
“Unfortunately for you, I survived.”
Parker didn’t know what to say to that so she inhaled deeply taking in the fishy smell of the nearby river and hoped they would go back to the teasing.
Suddenly Corelli put her arm out, stopping them both. “Make a note. We need to find out if anybody else saw this so-called cop.”
Parker nodded. “I did.”
Corelli tipped an imaginary hat. “You believe he locked the door?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. So for now, we’ll assume he didn’t.” Parker nodded but didn’t comment.
Corelli resumed walking.
Parker tried to get a reading on Corelli’s mood but they were marching to some internal Corelli beat and it was hard to see her face. She cleared her throat, wanting to speak but afraid.
“You okay?”
Damn. Put the slightest feeling out there and Corelli tunes into it. Own it P.J. It’s the only way to get what you want, which, at this moment, is to continue to work with her, despite the difficulty. “I’m sorry about my tantrum earlier. I was really out of line. I would understand if you replaced me with Watkins or whoever you have that’s going to watch your back, but I hope you won’t.” Parker was glad her voice didn’t waver. She wasn’t begging, just making a statement.
Corelli stopped walking and studied her face in the shadowy streetlight.
“Where did you get the idea that I was going to replace you with Watkins…or anyone else for that matter?”
“Well, I know I screwed up and now that an experienced detective is available, I thought—”
“That’s your first mistake of the day. I’m supposed to do the thinking and you’re supposed to do the learning.”
“But I—”
Corelli’s eyes pierced Parker, and, as if she could see the anxiety gripping her heart, she continued. “It’s only been a day but so far you’re doing fine. I don’t need anyone else. I trust you to watch my back and your own. You don’t need to feel threatened by Watkins. I have no plans to replace you. And, if I feel it necessary to replace you, rest assured that I will discuss it with you before I take any action.”
Parker felt the tension drain. She’d stay in homicide and try not to let Corelli’s condescension and ridicule get to her.
“And by the way, you did very well on both of your solo interviews. Relax.”
“You’re…You’re not mad about what I said?”
“Nah, I’m not mad. I’m tired and you probably are too.” She glanced around as if afraid someone would hear her. “I’ll deny it if you quote me, but I deserved it. I’m sorry.” She started walking.
Parker was flabbergasted. The last thing she expected from Corelli was an apology.
After a few minutes, they reached the car. “Drop me off and go get some sleep.”
In a swirl of mixed emotions, Parker started the car but didn’t give it gas. “Uh, could I have some, er, directions? I don’t know where you live.”
“What kind of detective are you?” Corelli snorted. “Do I have to tell you everything?”
Parker smiled. “I guess I have a lot to learn. When do we get to mind reading?”
They laughed together. It felt good, more like what Parker had expected.
Corelli rested her head against the seat. “West Side Highway to Fourteenth Street. I live in the Meat Packing district, at the edge of Greenwich Village, almost in the Hudson River.”
Ah, the “in” neighborhood where former meat packing factories had been converted into apartments, and fancy restaurants and stores existed side-by-side with the occasional building that still served butchers. When she was in the DA’s office, she’d gone there for breakfast with a group that had worked all night. The neighborhood was in transition then, and they’d strolled between the refrigerated trucks loading and unloading sides of beef. Now the Meat Packing district was a hot area.
“There.” Parker stopped near the building Corelli indicated. Corelli got out and stretched, and then leaned back in. “Goodnight. Six thirty tomorrow morning.”
Parker sat with the motor running and watched Corelli walk to the door, noticing that her limp was nearly gone. Suddenly the door of a parked car swung open. Parker was on the street with her gun drawn and her mouth open to shout, when Corelli put her hand up to stop her. Corelli turned and embraced the woman who was holding a shopping bag in each hand. They kissed briefly—on the lips. Corelli waved to Parker and led the woman into the building.
Parker holstered her gun. Well, Detective Parker, your detecting skills need some work. That charged interview with Cummings wasn’t anything unusual. Detective Corelli is a lesbian.
Chapter Sixteen
“Were you waiting long, Gianna?”
“You arrived just after I parked.”
Since Corelli had emerged from undercover, her sisters had been dropping in late at night to check on her. They both had keys to the apartment, so if she wasn’t there, they waited or left the food they’d brought for her.
“You didn’t come to the christening party yesterday so I saved some of your favorites.” She began to unpack the smaller shopping bag. “Lasagna, stuffed artichokes, eggplant, arancini—”
“Why bring me all this?” So much food, so little appetite.
“I thought you’d be less likely to starve if you could just heat and eat.”
“I can take care of myself, you know.” She’d been on her own since she was eighteen. Trying to hide her anger, she pulled a bottle of pinot grigio from the refrigerator, poured a glass and drank half.
Gianna flushed. “Of course. That’s why you look like a scarecrow. That’s why every piece of clothing you own hangs on you. That’s why you look like a teenage gangsta wannabe in those jeans.”
Gianna, her sweet-tempered sister who never raised her voice, spat out the words. Shocked, Corelli pivoted.
Tears glittered in Gianna’s eyes. “Really, Chiara, I’m so worried about you. I’m afraid you’re anorexic.”
Corelli pulled Gianna close. “I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to take care of me, but I’m trying to deal with…everything. I just need time.”
“You say you’re fine, Chiara, but you won’t talk about Iraq or Afghanistan. You won’t talk about seeing Marnie killed, about missing her. You won’t talk about being undercover, and you won’t talk about being ostracized. You’re not fine. You need help. I think you have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
Corelli dropped her arms. PTSD?
“And that motorcycle scares me. I read that California veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan were five and a half times as likely to die in a motorcycle accident as Californians of the same age with no military service.”
“Damn it, Gianna, you know I’ve been riding motorcycles since I was sixteen. Marnie and I used to ride together all the time. Why do you think riding now means I’m suicidal? Just like I could’ve been killed in combat or on the job, I could be killed on the road. It happens. Why the hell are you wasting your time reading horror stories about vets?”
“Because I love you. Because you and I could always talk about everything, but now you explode any time I try to have a real conversation. Because I see what’s happening even if you don’t or won’t admit it. Promise me you’ll talk to a therapist.”
“I promise I’ll think about it.”
Gianna studied her. “I’m serious.”
Corelli threw her hands up in frustration. “I said I’d think about it.”
“Yell all you want. You don’t scare me.” Gianna moved the biscotti, struffoli, and the bows to the table. “And, I’m not going to stop pushing you.”
“Whatever.” Chiara moved the rest of the food to the refrigerator. “Did Mama and Papa know you were bringing the food to me?”
“They watched me pack it, and Mama added your favorites—the bows that Zia Rosaria made and the biscotti and struffoli she made—but they didn’t ask. So I stuck to my ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy.”
She glanced at Corelli to see if she had gotten the military reference.
Corelli smiled. “Espresso?”
The middle of the five Corelli children, Gianna was the peacemaker in the family, wanting everybody to be happy together. Sometimes she reminded Corelli of one of those little border collies frantically shepherding everyone toward home, running after strays and nipping at their ankles to bring them back to the herd.
“Decaf.” Gianna pointed at the shopping bag she’d left near the door. “Zia Maria finished taking in three of your suits. The rest will be ready in a few days.”
“It will be nice to have something more professional than these baggy jeans to wear.”
“You could afford to buy new suits.”
“Yes, my dear sister, but then I’d have to go shopping in crowded stores, on crowded streets with lots of noise. And you know I hate to shop.”
Gianna watched her move around the kitchen. “You didn’t always.”
Corelli shrugged. “I do now.” She poured the espresso, rubbed lemon peel on the lip of her demitasse cup and bit into a bow. The fried dough with honey was her favorite dessert.
“You should be with the family when we get together.” Gianna broke off a piece of biscotti. “We laugh and talk but underneath there’s a sadness. I miss you. Everybody does.”
“I went to the church for the christening even though Patrizia didn’t invite me.” Her oldest sister wanted Chiara to be like her—a married woman tending her husband and children. Patrizia had loved Marnie and knew they were lovers, but paradoxically she hated that Chiara was a lesbian, a cop, and an independent woman.
“But you should have gone to the party too.”
“Didn’t I cause enough trouble at the church? Father Alfredo was ready to excommunicate me, and I thought Patrizia would fly over the pews and bite my head off when she realized it was my phone ringing.”
“You know Patrizia. All bark and all bite.”
Corelli smiled at Gianna’s little joke about their critical sister. She chewed slowly, enjoying the crunch and the sweetness. “You and Marco and the kids are my family, Gianna. I feel accepted and loved by you. And you gave me the gift of Simone, for which I bless you. Our little sister would have grown up without knowing me if it wasn’t for you.”
Gianna nibbled her biscotti. “Why don’t you talk to Mama and Papa? Make up? I’ll go with you. Simone too.”
Corelli pulled her legs up on the chair and wrapped her arms around them. She stared into the room. “It’s up to them. Until they accept me for who I am, accept the work I do and the life I choose to live, there’s no making up. He’s the one who called me putane, whore, and disowned me when I enlisted in the army. He’s the one who denigrates
my life as a lesbian and a detective.”
“He can’t help himself, Chiara. His values are old country. We spent so many summers there. You saw it yourself. A daughter only leaves home to get married or to be buried, and even then, only with her father’s permission.” Gianna snorted. “At least to get married.”
“He’s lived in America longer than he lived in Sicily. The world has changed. He should have changed. Uncle Gennaro was older than him, yet he accepted me totally. He adored Marnie and was proud that we were both cops and in the military.” She was agitated now and got up to pace. “Papa can’t accept that I do work that men do, and I’m not dependent on a man. You and I both know we would still be one big happy family if, instead of leaving home after high school, I’d married Ettore from his village, even though he became a Mafioso. Better to have a killer in the family than an independent woman.” She walked to the sink for a glass of water. “Okay, that thing about the killer is an exaggeration, but you know what I mean.”
“I know you’re dealing with a lot right now. I didn’t mean to pressure you. But my heart aches for you and I’m selfish. I want you back in the family where you belong. Sometimes I think he wants to make up, but he doesn’t know how.”
“He’ll have to figure it out. Don’t worry, Gianna. I just need time to deal with losing Marnie, with the war, with the undercover work. I feel very lucky to have you and Simone and Marco and the kids in my life. And chi sa? Who knows? Maybe there’ll be a miracle that will change Papa’s mind. I can wait.”
It was after midnight when Gianna left, but Corelli was wide awake. She lit some candles, shut off the lights, and lay on the sofa thinking about Brett Cummings. She had never felt such an intense attraction to anyone, not even Marnie whom she’d loved and planned to grow old with. Marnie, who laughed and teased about Chiara being the commander-in-chief of the lesbian old age community they would move into when they were eighty. Now Marnie was dead and Chiara’s body was betraying her. She felt as if she had swallowed a hallucinatory drug, her feelings surging and swelling unexpectedly right beneath the surface, her senses heightened. But it had been a long time since she’d felt so alive. Maybe Gianna was right about her having PTSD. Maybe that’s why she’d reacted so strongly to Cummings and why she was having flashbacks.
A Matter of Blood Page 10