Duplicity

by Jane Haseldine

  “Navarro’s a cop. That’s part of the job. He can’t answer the phone sometimes,” Julia says.

  “He always seems to take your calls.”

  Julia ignores the comment and pretends to check a text message on her cell phone.

  “Listen to me going on like that,” Bianca says, and takes a seat across the table from Julia. “You’ve got enough to deal with right now, with your husband still in the hospital.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You and Ray dated, though, right? He downplays it every time I ask, but a friend of his told me you two weren’t just a couple. You lived together and Ray asked you to marry him. He neglected to tell me that bit of information.”

  Of all the things that happened in the past thirty-six hours, being interrogated by a jealous girlfriend takes the bloody cake, Julia thinks, and cups her hands into aggravated fists under the table.

  “That was a long time ago. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Did Navarro tell you he was going to be late?” Julia asks.

  “Ray talks about you a lot,” Bianca continues, oblivious to Julia’s question. “I brought food to his house while he was at work and found a box in his bedroom closet. It was filled with pictures of the two of you when you were still a couple. I tried to convince myself he was just hanging on to memories, you know, but then I found a photo underneath some clothes in Ray’s dresser of you sitting on his lap at a police Christmas party.”

  “The picture was taken over ten years ago. You went through Navarro’s things?”

  “No. It wasn’t like that,” Bianca answers, realizing she’s been caught. “Look, this is just a conversation between us girls. I figured you’d understand.”

  “In all due respect, I don’t have time for this right now.”

  “I’m sorry. I realize my timing is terrible, but I need to know. Is there something going on between the two of you? I’m not going to invest myself anymore in this relationship if there is.”

  “What? No. He’s my friend and has been for a long time. I’m married. David and I have been together for ten years.”

  “You know, I hate to ask this, but if something should happen to your husband, I mean, from what Ray was telling me, there’s no guarantee . . .”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Julia grabs her bag and heads to the exit. She shoves the front door of the restaurant open as hard as she can, nearly knocking Navarro over in the door’s wake.

  “Hey, slow down. I thought we were meeting inside. Did something happen?” Navarro asks.

  “Ask your girlfriend.”

  “Just relax a minute. Let’s go back inside.”

  “There’s no way in hell I’m going back in there.”

  Navarro lifts his hand up as if telling someone to wait. Julia looks through the restaurant window and sees Bianca, anxious and looking somewhat sheepish, standing on the other side.

  “Okay. Let’s take a ride,” Navarro says, and tips his hand to his ear, indicating to Bianca that he will call her later, and she reciprocates with an icy stare.

  Julia slips into the passenger seat of Navarro’s Chevy Tahoe and tries to exorcise the surreal encounter from her memory.

  “What happened in there?” Navarro asks.

  “Bianca seems to be under the false impression that you and I are more than friends. Apparently she found some old pictures of us at your house and thought we were either still an item or soon going to be if my husband doesn’t make it.”

  “She said that to you?” Navarro asks, his face flushing with anger.

  “Something to that effect. But let’s just move on, okay?”

  “I’m sorry, Julia. This thing has turned into Fatal Attraction . This morning, I came out of my bedroom and caught Bianca on my computer. She was going through my e-mails, digging around for who knows what. I’m going to call it off with her. I’ve got no time for this petty crap right now.”

  “Like I said, neither do I. What’s the latest on the bomb investigation?”

  “Just between us,” Navarro checks.

  “Per Margie Kruchek, I’m off the story. So right now, it’s just two friends talking.”

  “As I said, between us, we found what was left of a small suitcase just outside the courthouse entrance where the bomb detonated. It was a sophisticated system, so we aren’t dealing with a couple of amateurs cooking up crude explosives in their basement. We’re trying to identify the type of explosive that was used. That way, we can narrow down if and where it was purchased.”

  “What was the trigger?”

  “A cell phone. We’re working to track all the calls made at the time the bomb went off. The cell phone is like a remote control and detonates the device. From the profile the feds came up with, the bomber was smart, and probably purchased one of those cheap, disposable cell phones for one time use at a convenience store and then tossed the phone when he was done. The FBI doesn’t think a terrorist group is responsible, and none of the obvious players have come forward claiming they did it.”

  “The courthouse is in a central location downtown. There had to be plenty of businesses around with video surveillance.”

  “We’re combing through all the tapes from local businesses now.”

  “You need to be sure Rossi doesn’t leave Detroit,” Julia says.

  “As of one-thirty today, he was a free man. The judge didn’t impose any restrictions on his domestic whereabouts. He just can’t leave the country.”

  “I have information I need to share with you, but on one condition.”

  “I’m not guaranteeing anything until you tell me what you know. I’ve played this game with you before, and you know how it works,” Navarro says.

  “This is different. I’m not writing a story. I’ll give you inside information on Nick Rossi, but you have to give me access to the investigation. I want to be there when you nail him.”

  “I can’t do that. This is a very sensitive case, and everybody is involved—the Detroit PD, the state, and the FBI. Even if I wanted to let you in, it’s not up to me,” Navarro says.

  “I’ll ask Chief Linderman myself, then. He’ll understand. You told me Rossi isn’t considered a suspect in the bombing.”

  “Not at this time, no, he’s not.”

  “You need to reopen an investigation against him for attempted murder.”

  Navarro lets out a low whistle and shakes his head.

  “All right. Here we go again. I’ll talk to Linderman, depending on what you’ve got.”

  “Nick Rossi hired a hit man, a sniper, to take out the Butcher. I spoke with someone an hour ago who confirmed a local guy, Jim Bartello, the former head of security for the MGM Grand, runs Rossi’s local operation. Bartello reached out to my source, on behalf of Rossi, to recommend a hit man to take out the Butcher as he was entering the courthouse.”

  “If a sniper was in place, somebody else beat him to it. We interviewed Bartello during the Rossi bust. Bartello was vetted. He’s a slimy little turd, but we couldn’t find any direct evidence linking him to Nick Rossi’s criminal activities.”

  “Then he got off when he shouldn’t have. My source believes whoever did the bombing is at the center of Rossi’s circle, working alone to protect the boss. I still believe Rossi did it. Whether he’s in jail or not, the people who work for him would be too scared to try and undermine his authority, whether they thought they were doing this for his benefit or not.”

  “Who told you about Bartello?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You just told me you’re not writing a story, which means you’re not protected as a journalist under the shield law. That leaves you in a position as a citizen who is potentially obstructing justice by refusing to tell me who gave you information in a criminal investigation.”

  “So, there will be an investigation?”

  “It’s going to be hard to get a warrant to search Bartello’s property based on hearsay, but let me see what I can do. The
fact that Rossi was looking to take out the prosecution’s key witness with a sniper makes it a lot more plausible to connect the dots to him and the bomb.”

  * * *

  Bartello’s Wyandotte end-unit townhome has remained dark for the entirety of the twenty minutes since the stakeout began, which means Rossi’s local guy is either hiding inside or more likely out. Russell walks fast down the sidewalk in the direction of Navarro’s unmarked police car parked on the corner. He blows into his hands for warmth as he leans forward in the driver-side window to debrief Julia and Navarro.

  “Nobody’s home. No lights, and someone left the side door to the garage wide open. There’s no car in there either.”

  Navarro gives Russell a suspicious glare.

  “The side door to the garage was wide open, huh?” Navarro asks.

  “I just call it like I see it,” Russell responds.

  “Okay, let’s see what we can find,” Navarro says, and then turns around toward the backseat to address his ride-along. “You know the drill, Julia. If I tell you to move or stay behind, you listen. Am I clear?”

  “Crystal clear,” Julia says as she pulls a black knit hat on her head.

  The three walk briskly to the older townhome complex, its faded rust exterior looking shabby against the dull yellow glow of the streetlights.

  “If Bartello was working for Rossi, he should have been able to afford a better dump than this,” Russell whispers.

  Navarro ignores Russell, moves toward the front door, and gives it three hard knocks. The only response is a curious neighbor who turns on their front porch light. After a minute, Navarro motions his partner and Julia toward the garage and the side of the home that faces a small wooded area.

  “Like I told you, the side door to the garage was like this. Wide open,” Russell says, somewhat unconvincingly.

  The garage is dark. Navarro pulls out a flashlight and quickly pans the small one-car space, careful not to reflect the light in the narrow garage door windows. The sides of the cramped space are crowded with boxes, what looks like a never-used Stairmaster, and a framed and dusty picture of the Detroit Red Wings’ 1998 Stanley Cup win. Russell begins to lift the lids off a few boxes in the corner.

  “What do you got over there?” Navarro asks.

  “A stack of old Playboys from the 1980s and some faded newspaper clippings from when Bartello used to play high school sports.”

  “Don’t touch anything, Julia,” Navarro says, but it’s too late. Julia sifts through a black trash can next to the door that leads into Bartello’s house.

  “This guy used to be the head of security for one of the biggest hotels in Detroit. He’s not going to be stupid and leave something behind in the trash,” Russell comments.

  During her first year as a rookie newspaper reporter, Julia learned from a veteran journalist that people’s trash cans are usually a hidden treasure trove of information. Julia’s experienced fingers carefully pick through Bartello’s garbage, including mostly fast-food and frozen dinner containers. She pulls out the plastic interior case from an Oreo cookie box and motions for Navarro.

  “I don’t think that’s a condom,” Julia says.

  Navarro flashes his light inside the plastic container, which holds two spent balloons with the remnants of a sticky black substance inside.

  “Looks like Bartello was using,” Julia says.

  “Heroin,” Russell comments. “I think I may have heard someone in distress inside.”

  “Come on,” Navarro tells his partner. “We didn’t get the warrant yet.”

  “You didn’t almost die in the blast. If you’re not going in, I am,” Russell says.

  Navarro makes a split-second decision and turns to Julia. “Go back to the car. You and Russell. If you see Bartello or anyone else get anywhere near this place, you call me on my cell phone. I’ll have it on buzzer.”

  Navarro kneels down and uses his lock picks with precision until the door creaks open.

  “You didn’t see this, Julia. Now get out of here.”

  “Five minutes. Don’t be in there any longer than that,” Russell tells his partner. He then grabs Julia’s arm and leads her out of Bartello’s place and to the car.

  Julia returns to the backseat and sweeps her eyes back and forth down the street searching for approaching cars as the two sit in silence.

  “It’s been longer than five minutes. What’s he doing in there?” Julia asks, her voice raw with nerves and adrenaline.

  A black SUV turns the corner, passes them, and then makes a slow crawl past Bartello’s townhome.

  “Ah, shit,” Russell says as he pulls out his cell phone and speed dials his partner’s number.

  “The car’s turning around. They’re coming back. We’ve got to go help Navarro,” Julia says.

  “Stay put. That’s the worst thing you could do. You don’t want to attract attention. Ray knows what he’s doing.”

  Julia digs her fingernails into her palms until she can feel them begin to cut through her skin.

  The black SUV snakes down the road, its headlights cutting a trail in their direction until the car parks on the street directly across from Bartello’s place. Two men, short and wide and wearing all black, exit the vehicle and head directly to the front door. One of the men reaches his arm around to his rear waistband, and Julia can make out the shape of the butt of a gun. One of the men pulls a key from his pocket, and the two go inside Bartello’s place.

  “I’m going in. You stay here. You hear shots fired, you call for backup on the radio,” Russell directs.

  “Hold on, there’s someone coming around the other side of the complex,” Julia says.

  Navarro appears under a street lamp walking casually in their direction, as if he’s a neighborhood guy just out for a pleasant late-evening stroll.

  Navarro gets to the car and calmly opens the driver-side door.

  “Two guys inside who let themselves into Bartello’s place with a key, and one guy still in the car,” Russell says. “Talk about a close call.”

  The front door of Bartello’s house opens, and the two men exit and get back into the SUV, which then shoots down the street like a cannon.

  “They didn’t find what they were looking for, which I assume is Bartello. Did you get the plate?” Navarro asks as he slides his key into the ignition.

  “Classic Michigan plate. Blue and white. I couldn’t see the number from here, though,” Julia says. “They have to be Nick Rossi’s guys.”

  “How the hell did you get out of there?” Russell asks.

  “I went out the bedroom window when you called. Thanks for having my back. The place was overall pretty clean. Looks like he hightailed it out of there pretty fast. Bartello took his clothes and wiped out a safe in the bedroom. But the guy is a junkie, so he got careless. His bathroom was clear, but I found his hiding place. He had a hole in his closet floor. He left a cell phone in there and a couple of grainy photographs that look like a man and woman having sex in a hotel room. From the quality of the pictures, it looks like they were copied from some kind of surveillance tape. There was also a piece of paper with the name and number of a woman written on it. I couldn’t take the phone and the photos because we don’t have a warrant.”

  “Shit,” Russell says. “Those guys probably beat us to it. Did you get the name and number that was on the paper?”

  “Yeah, I wrote it down. It’s a local area code and the name of the woman is Isabella Rossi.”

  “Nick Rossi’s wife,” Julia says.

  CHAPTER 14

  In the penthouse suite bedroom, Isabella Rossi waits for her husband to finish on top of her. She closes her eyes and remembers the smell of Christina’s head when she was a baby, as she rocked her daughter back to sleep against her chest, the cool night air misted with the smell of Lake Huron lazily wafting through the white organza curtains of the nursery.

  Her husband, Nick, licks her neck and whispers in a husky voice that she is his whore, while Isabella d
rifts off to the days when she and her sister, Ava, danced on the sand while they waited for their father to get off his shift at the concession booth in the summer resort town of New Buffalo, nestled along Lake Michigan’s southern coast on the western part of the state. Isabella closes her eyes tightly as she drifts off to the image of the younger version of herself and Ava holding hands as they executed sweet pirouettes and swore one day they would be ballerinas in New York City.

  Nick Rossi finally arrives, the whole sexual episode clocking in under five minutes thanks to his recent lockup in jail. As he climaxes, her husband lets out a loud groan that Isabella knows his two bodyguards can hear loud and clear in the next room.

  She lies still until he rolls off of her, and then she covers her naked body with a sheet.

  Rossi gets up, no modesty in his nakedness, as he sprawls with his legs casually wide open on a beige chaise lounge and pulls a cigarette from a pack, taking a long drag after he lights it.

  “You changed your hair. It’s like how you had it when I first met you out in L.A.,” Rossi comments. “I liked it better before. You look like shit.”

  Isabella doesn’t bother to fight the insult.

  “I’m leaving tonight. The boys will drive me to Chicago and I’ll take a flight back to San Francisco. LAX is closer, but I don’t want the cops getting a lead on me if they’re tracking the passenger lists,” Rossi says.

  “When do we leave?” Isabella asks.

  “Change of plans. You’ll stay behind. After all this crap, I’m going to have to scale back the Detroit operation. The future is out in L.A. anyway. I need you here to tie up any loose ends for me. That idiot Bartello took off. My men just left his house and he was gone, running away like a scared little girl. When I find him, I’m going to cut off his balls and make his mother eat them.”

  “Jesus, Nick. I don’t want to hear that.”

  Rossi moves toward the bed and grabs his wife’s delicate chin, forcing her to look directly at him. “What do you want to hear, Isabella? Do you want me to give it to you again? Three months without a man, I bet you’re begging for it, right?” Rossi says, then laughs.