They all sat in silence. Then Mrs. Springer spoke. “And he drugged you?”
“No,” said Grazia, still thinking aloud. “Francisco got obsessed with the idea that I was going to bars in New York on a vacation paid for by him. He met with Valentino at the Milan office. Francisco goes there once a week. Valentino told him he was going to New York to meet a client. He told Valentino to find out what I was doing. So it was Valentino who was following me in New York—not Francisco’s bodyguards. He must have made Manuel and Luigi and Edmondo tell him what I was doing, saying that Francisco had ordered it. Of course, Valentino realized that here was his chance to destroy me and get my job. The man is a born liar. How easy it would have been for him to make up stories about me going to bars and picking up guys. Francisco has a crazy jealous streak. As soon as he got that news, I’m sure he told Valentino he was coming to New York to catch me in the act.
“But I wasn’t meeting men; I was going to museums and shopping. So Valentino had to get me to a singles’ bar and bring Francisco there. Valentino had met Laura at their hotel. He’s a charming guy, he found out she knew me and hated me. So when Manuel told Valentino that I was going to the sale at Lord & Taylor Saturday afternoon, Valentino sent Laura there before me. She was supposed to accidentally run into me and invite me to the Brazilian Bar. Valentino was following me. He phoned her when I was coming up the escalator.
“That night, Valentino took Francisco to the Brazilian Bar. They hid among the crowd. He saw me and Laura chatting with the four Italian guys. Valentino kept feeding Francisco lies about how I had arranged to meet them. Laura must have come over and told him that I just got an email setting up a job interview. Valentino immediately told Francisco and bought the champagne. Francisco watched everyone toasting me. He went crazy. Valentino had Rohypnol with him. He wanted to make me look drunk. Now he told Francisco that if I were drugged, I would tell Francisco anything he wanted to know—and I wouldn’t remember later.
“But Nick was known for calling the cops if he suspected a guy of drugging a girl’s drink. So Valentino gave the Rohypnol to Laura. She put it in my drink. She didn’t know the effects of this drug. That’s why she was so horrified when I vomited in the women’s room and could hardly walk. She took me outside, meaning to take me to my hotel. But her airport van had arrived early. The best she could do was find me a taxi. She opened the door for me, then got in her van. She didn’t see Francisco come out of the bar and pull me out of the taxi.
“The next morning, I called her. At first she didn’t believe me. She called Valentino. He threatened her that if she told anyone, he would tell Detective Cargill what she had done. She’d never get a visa to the U.S. again. Valentino forced her to tell him everything that I was telling her about trying to find him.”
“The trouble is, you can’t prove any of this,” said Cargill. “You have no evidence and no witnesses in New York. And no memory. For sure, Laura won’t talk.”
“We know the DNA on the napkin with the blueberry stains matches the DNA that was inside me,” said Grazia. That’s enough for me, even though it’s not enough to make an arrest.”
She finished her blueberries and started on the eggs and bacon that Mrs. Springer put on her plate. Cargill sat back and looked at her.
“So you succeeded,” said Cargill. “You lit up that dark hole in your memory. Was it worth it?”
“Absolutely. My past is clear, even though it’s horrible. I can make decisions about the future because I’m standing on firm ground.”
Mrs. Springer spoke up. “You still don’t know who informed the press and Building Safety about Kourtis.”
“I do know,” corrected Grazia. “It came to me when I was talking to Miranda. I read over my notes last night and now I’m sure. I’ll call Miranda now and tell her what evidence she needs to prove it.” She went into the living room to make the call.
When she came back, she was holding a piece of paper. “Sophia put this in my suitcase,” she said, looking shocked.
“The father of her child,” Mrs. Springer said over her shoulder. She was making more coffee. “That’s what she was trying to tell you at your hotel room. Francisco, wasn’t it?”
Detective Cargill and Grazia gaped at her. “A baby boy,” Grazia managed.
Mrs. Springer nodded sagely. “Francisco raped her when she was a servant in his house, obviously. Macho types like Francisco don’t use condoms. For them, if a woman gets pregnant, it’s her problem and he’s not responsible. And Sophia got pregnant.”
Grazia was speechless at Mrs. Springer’s perception. She collected herself and went on with the story. “Sophia got pregnant, and Belinda figured out Francisco was the father. Maybe Sophia asked her for money for the pregnancy and to care for the baby. So Belinda shipped Sophia off to New York on a student visa, got her the trumped-up consulting job at the Hotel Fiorella, and made her put the baby up for adoption.” She thought for a moment, then added slowly, “She got pregnant at the same time I was seeing Francisco. He told me he didn’t want children. That’s why I took the Pill.” She felt sick.
Mrs. Springer nodded. “Belinda didn’t want Francisco to find out that he had a son. He might make him part of the family. That’s a real fear for a second wife who could lose her inheritance to a male heir. So she forced the adoption.” She thought for a minute. “Or maybe Sophia wanted the adoption. A nice American family will give her son a better life than he could have in Italy as a servant for another generation of Francisco’s family, in case Francisco didn’t legitimize him.”
Cargill was staring at her, dumbfounded. “How did you figure all this out?”
“I’m old,” said Mrs. Springer. “We understand these things. And you can tell Stanley Johnson to let Manuel come out of hiding.”
“What?” blurted Cargill.
Mrs. Springer nodded. “He’s got to be at Stanley’s house. He and Stanley are friends. Stanley would protect him. I know Manuel. I often stop in at the Hotel Fiorella for a cup of hot chocolate in the lounge. Manuel and I chat. Manuel’s a sweet guy; he didn’t rape you. He probably didn’t know for sure what Francisco and Valentino had done but he could guess. And he knew they would make sure they weren’t blamed for it. He could find himself in trouble.”
“He’s still in trouble,” said Cargill. “The DNA in his employee file didn’t match the DNA off his hairbrush and razor. His passport may be false. He and Edmondo and Luigi all state their place of birth as small towns in the Deep South. It’s a known passport scam to take the identities of stillborn babies delivered in little towns that don’t have sophisticated record keeping. But that’s for the immigration authorities to deal with.”
Mrs. Springer fixed her eyes on Grazia. “Now I’ll ask you the question that I asked last night. What are you going to do with all this knowledge? Will you tell Francisco that you know what he did? You said last night you had to think about it.”
“Tell him? No, I can’t tell him. He will assume that I will try to ruin his reputation and destroy his marriage. He will attack me first. He will slander me and ruin my career to save himself. It will be his word against mine. In a few phone calls, he can make me out to be a pathological liar driven by jealousy and thwarted ambition. He will be believed, not me. Those two men will never be punished by anybody’s law or even Italian society’s judgment. They will do this again. But one day they will slip. And I will give them a shove.”
“I wish I could help you, but there’s nothing I can do,” Cargill said sourly. “Valentino has outfoxed me. The paper napkin that Valentino handed me at the restaurant is inside a police envelope with my writing on the label. It’s got the date, the place, and my signature. It’s officially Valentino’s DNA—even though we know it isn’t. I need a warrant to go into Valentino’s hotel room and get his hairbrush or razor. Which I won’t get because my captain has told me the case is closed the minute you are out of the country. Which will be in a few hours.”
“The game isn’t over yet.”
Grazia looked at her watch. “I need to talk to Sophia on the phone. Then we go to the airport.”
Chapter 42
Grazia was silent as Detective Cargill headed off to JFK airport. She listened to the swish of slush under the tires, the whistles of the traffic cops, the roar of the construction trucks. She was putting sounds into her memory. She watched the narrow streets of the East Village give way to the shops of NoHo; then Cargill was turning up the expressway ramp towards JFK.
She felt in her handbag for her journal. It had been at her fingertips all during the long week of tough and painful investigation into a few hours of Saturday night that were once a dark hole and were now painfully illuminated. She had practically memorized the journal, she had read it so many times. Detective Cargill had said that writing would help her remember and understand what had happened to her. He was right. But the journal had also become a written record of how she had changed. Cindy was right. Now she looked differently at relationships, choices, and people. There were more changes to come, she was sure.
Her phone rang. It was Miranda. A few words told her what she wanted to know.
“You’ll pass on the news to Francisco?” Receiving an affirmative, she thanked Miranda with a sigh and hung up.
Cargill looked over at her and raised his eyebrows.
“Miranda verified the identity of the person who passed the news about Kourtis to the press and to Building Safety.” Grazia looked out the window. She had thought that this moment would bring jubilance, justified satisfaction, a sense of vindication. Instead all she felt was sadness.
“Let me guess,” Cargill said. “Belinda did. And Sophia gave her the information.”
Grazia looked at him with astonishment. “How did you know? I only knew when I read my journal over and over. I saw that Sophia had been in my room when I was talking to Kourtis on the phone. Sophia had access to my papers when I wasn’t there. She probably scanned them with her cell phone and emailed them to Belinda. It had to be Sophia, but I couldn’t figure out why until I learned that Belinda had paid for her to go to New York. Belinda was making Sophia spy on me to punish Francisco and me for the affair. How did you figure that out?”
“You told me that Sophia had wanted to tell you something Wednesday morning. By then she had seen the consequences of what she had done: your career, your entire life, was being destroyed. She realized how much she liked you, how much she had wronged you. She wanted to tell you.”
Grazia nodded. “Sophia and Manuel had known each other because Manuel had worked for Francisco as a bodyguard. Manuel called her when Valentino came down from my room. Sophia rushed over Sunday morning as early as was possible. She sobbed on the phone this morning. She said she would never forgive herself. I’ve booked her a plane ticket to Naples for next week. She’s going to live with me as my housekeeper. We can help each other put our lives back together.”
They drove a while in silence. Then Cargill said, “Grazia, I’ve learned a lot from you in the past six days. You woke me up inside. You’re smarter even than I thought and tougher too. And you’ve got something sweet inside you that’s really special.”
“Here it comes,” smiled Grazia. “You’re about to give me advice.”
“And I want you to pay attention. Not that I expect you to follow it, given your independent nature. But here it is. You are up against two men who are slick, nasty, and have no conscience. They do whatever harm they want and feel no regret. They got away with what they did to you in New York, and they know it. The only evidence we can collect is to match Francisco’s DNA to the DNA on the handkerchief, and match Valentino’s DNA to the DNA on the paper napkin from breakfast. And then match that to the rape kit. But they’re out of the country and. . .”
“We’ve already discussed this, Detective Cargill.”
“What I’m saying is, don’t go after these guys in Italy. You can’t win and you’ve got everything to lose. Get a new job. Put space between you and them.” He looked over at her. “Tell me what you are up to, Grazia. We’re still on my playing field; I get to know the game plan.”
“The truth is, I don’t know what I’m planning,” she said grimly. “But I’m not through yet. Hey, aren’t you in the Alitalia Arrivals lane? I want Departures.”
Cargill cursed. But it was too late. He pulled up in front of Arrivals and hauled her suitcase out of the trunk.
“Sorry, but you’re going to have to drag your luggage to Departures.” He held out a hand. “This is the last time I’m going to see you, Grazia, and I wish it weren’t. Even though I’m too old for you.”
“I know you are,” Grazia said, “and I don’t care.” She put her arms around him and held him tight, her face pressed into his chest. She felt his arms come around her, holding her tightly against him, his cheek against her hair. She lifted her face.
“Kiss me,” she smiled. “There’s no better way to say good-bye.”
As she let herself sink into the pressure of his mouth against hers, she concentrated on the faint taste of breakfast coffee, the scent of aftershave, the muscles of his back under her fingers. She did everything she had learned in her memory training to form a long-term memory of this moment so that years later, when she heard planes landing and smelled this aftershave, she could come back to this kiss.
When he lifted his head, she pressed her eyes briefly into his jacket to blot the tears and reached for the handle of her roller suitcase. Halfway to the Arrivals entrance, she looked over her shoulder. He was standing there, watching her. When she got to the doors, she looked again. He was gone.
She stopped then and groped in her handbag for her handkerchief. When she took the handkerchief away from her eyes, she gasped in shock.
Not ten feet away from her was Valentino. He was coming out of the Arrivals entrance, pulling a huge suitcase marked with designer labels. Over his shoulder was a large purple duffle bag with similar designer labels. He was smiling down into the shockingly beautiful face of a gorgeous young woman who glowed with loveliness.
“Celestina!” Grazia whispered in dismay. “That’s his delicious date for Friday night! Francisco has made Valentino to be Celestina’s bodyguard!” Francisco is slipping,” she thought, wildly. Was it his arrogance or just his age starting to show? How could he mistake Valentino’s subservience and ruthlessness for loyalty?
The pair passed without seeing her, so engrossed were they in each other. They joined the short taxi line and quickly climbed into a taxi.
Grazia made a U-turn and ran for the front of the taxi line, shouting her apologies to the first person in line, memorizing the license plate of Celestina’s taxi as she flung her luggage into the trunk. She jumped into the back seat and grabbed her smartphone so she could dictate the license into her smartphone. She gave the driver Mrs. Springer’s address, then leaned back and took a deep breath.
“Francisco has handed his daughter over to a rapist. I have to warn her.”
But as she sat there, she began to regret her protective impulse. Why was she so sure that Celestina was Valentino’s next victim? She was Francisco’s daughter! Francisco had two bodyguards who were rumored to be hit men. To touch a hair on Celestina’s head would be suicide.
But she remembered the leer on Valentino’s face when he had told her about his delicious Friday night ahead. Valentino had already shown he wasn’t afraid of Francisco. Valentino had raped Grazia, Francisco’s lover, after Francisco had gone to the airport. Francisco had made him follow Grazia around New York, watching for her to pick up men in bars. And now he was making Valentino bodyguard his daughter. In short, Francisco was treating him more like a servant than a highly-paid lawyer on his legal staff. What was it that Valentino’s secretary had said? “A huge ego and never forgets a slight. And nothing sticks to him.” Now Valentino was taking revenge on Francisco’s daughter for his bruised ego.
She pulled out her phone and called Mrs. Springer. “I’m coming back,” she announced. “I need your help. Valentino is at it
again with a twenty-one-year-old Italian girl. He just picked her up at the airport. We have to stop him.”
“I’ll alert my mahjong group. They’re already up in arms about what happened to you.”
Grazia then called her Naples office. With a cheer in her voice that she didn’t feel, she told the travel department to cancel her flight.
“Can you rebook for tomorrow? That’s Saturday. Put me on the same flight as Valentino Agresta from the Milan office. We have important matters to discuss.” Receiving a tentative affirmative, she continued on. “Did Francisco Pamplona get to Naples all right last Sunday morning?”
The travel agent sounded puzzled. “We didn’t make any reservations for Mr. Pamplona. I wasn’t aware he was out of the country.”
“My mistake,” she said, satisfied with the answer. That only meant that Francisco had booked his own flight. Grazia pushed her luck. “Francisco told me his daughter Celestina is arriving today in New York. Is she at the Hotel Fiorella, as I was?” The answer was affirmative.
Stanley was next on her list to call. He grasped the situation immediately. The Hotel Fiorella was about to be used for another drug-facilitated sexual assault. He agreed to meet at Mrs. Springer’s apartment in half an hour.
Another winter storm was blowing in. Dark clouds were covering the sky. The streetlights were blinking on when Grazia’s taxi let her out at Mrs. Springer’s steps. Stanley was waiting. He took her suitcase and buzzed Mrs. Springer. The old lady was standing in her open door, Jacky behind her. He walked slowly over to Grazia and wriggled happily as she put her arms around him. When Grazia looked up, she was looking straight into Cargill’s cold blue eyes.
“Thanks for the heads up,” Cargill said.
“Valentino was coming out of arrivals,” she stammered. “He was with Celestina, Francisco’s daughter. Remember when he said he was planning a ‘delicious’ Friday night? Celestina is his target.”
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