"There's nothing wrong with your house."
"There's everything wrong with this house!" Davonna shrieked. She catapulted herself out of the chair, and clawed her hands through her hair. She looked quite demented.
"What are you talking about?" Miriam whispered. Davonna wrapped her arms around her chest and collapsed onto the floor, her back pressed against the wall of glass. Miriam rushed to her side and grasped her hands. "Tell me, tell me so I can help you!"
Davonna looked up with a blank, pallid face. Her eyes two voids, black holes from which no light escaped. She didn't blink but looked beyond and through Miriam and the room as if it were invisible. She rocked, forward and back. Miriam shook her, cried, yelled, and pleaded. When she had nothing left, she took her younger sister's face in her hands and kissed her forehead. A kiss so light as from a butterfly.
"He was awful." The words came out in the quietest hint of a whisper.
"What? Who was awful?" Miriam said, searching Davonna's eyes for life.
"John."
"What happened?"
"He controlled me. He controlled it all. It happened slowly. The hotel. How we met. It seemed so benign. I didn't know what he was. How was I drawn in? I'm an intelligent, educated, woman. Or I was. I don't know what I am now."
"Oh Davonna …”
"After we married, he manipulated me into giving up my job so he could take this one here. A good position for him. In London he couldn't get the top manager position. He didn't want children, so I let that go too. He wanted me to run the house, the garden, everything, and have it all ready when he came home at night.
"It all seemed so logical. I should support my husband. I don't work so I should take care of the house for him. I need not drive on the island. We don't have the money to go to England for funerals. But I realized what he did …”
"What do you mean?" Miriam whispered. She sat crouched in front of Davonna who stared, unseeing, at the room beyond.
"He raped me. Almost every night. Dinner. Wait thirty minutes. Bed. Sex for thirty minutes."
"He … what?"
"I used to think if I didn't fight back it was consensual. I thought it was my duty to fulfill his needs as a wife. I thought … I knew it was better if I let him do it."
"Davonna, oh.”
But she rattled on, impervious to Miriam's tears or anguish or her interruptions of grief. She plowed forward like a train careening: free of the tracks.
"He hit me when I didn't behave or when I wasn’t aroused enough. He hit me and said the vilest things and he did whatever he wanted. I used to stare at the picture of Grandma while he moved on top of me. I don't know why."
"Have you told anyone?" Miriam whispered.
Davonna's eyes came into focus, and she leaned back, as though she’d only just realized that Miriam was there. "No."
"Why didn't you tell me? Seamus and I would have taken care of you. We would've come and gotten you."
"I can’t find my passport."
"What? What do you mean?"
"He took it years ago. I had a hard time adjusting to the island. It was punishment."
"Davonna, you have to find it!"
"I didn't leave then and I can't leave now."
Miriam shook her again. "We will find it. We will tear the house apart."
"Okay," Davonna said. She shrugged and curled her arms tighter around her chest, holding it all in.
"What else? What else did he do?"
Davonna looked up and saw in front of her a beautiful woman whose face was full of pain. She wiped the tears and tried to pull on a smile, like one would pull on a sweater, but her face remained tormented.
"I'm ruined." Davonna rose. She brushed her hand across the top of Miriam's head and padded across the floor.
Savva left his home early in the morning at week later; Shayma still asleep. The rusted gate swung shut behind him with a wimpy whine. He took his usual route, parked in his usual spot, and walked into the department at his usual time. The on-duty desk sergeant called out the usual greeting and an invite to watch Greece's next football friendly. Savva, as usual, waved him off and started up the stairs, his head down.
"You're right on time."
He looked up to find himself face to face with Colonel Kleitos. Was this the first time the man had actually left his pristine office with it’s €1000 curtains?
"Kalimera, Sir," Savva said, in his most polite grumble. Kleitos hadn’t used his title, so he’d forgo it as well.
"Kalimera. Let's go to forensics together."
Kleitos set his hand behind Savva's back and smiled thinly. It took a great deal of effort not to roll his eyes.
"Yes, Sir.” He let Kleitos pull ahead of him and indulged in the eye roll. Much better.
"How was your week?" Kleitos said, over his shoulder as they set off through the corridors and down the stairs.
"I got caught up on paperwork, set the boys to task on two assaults, and I helped my wife at the beach."
"Oh, right, your wife helps the refugees doesn't she?"
"Yes, Sir, almost every evening after dinner. She watches for boats and feeds those who make it."
"Does she enjoy it?"
"Pardon?"
"She must enjoy the work," Kleitos said. He didn't bother to look back.
"She doesn't enjoy seeing dead bodies or children frightened out of their minds or listening to the stories of their trauma, no."
"Why put yourself through it then?"
"Humanity."
"Yes, yes." Kleitos' voice was high and flippant.
Savva struggled to reign in his anger. "My wife is Syrian, but her father was Greek. She goes to help because they are her people," Savva said. But he wanted to slap the pernicious little man and rid Greece of everyone like him.
People died in the middle of the pristine Aegean Sea and how much of the world looked the other way? It didn't matter what celebrities came, to offer their star power; elections, the bottom line, and radical Islam consumed the world. It was easy to paint them—the whole swath of Middle Easterners with the same xenophobic brush. The dead children in their soggy clothes and mismatched sandals and their faces down in the rocks didn't matter a jot.
"Good, yes. I'm glad you're there supporting her."
Savva bit down hard on his tongue, and chanted 'you need your job' over and over in his head. Why'd he mention he worked at the beach? They reached forensics and Savva held the door open for Kleitos. Such a nice suit. It wasn’t from Lesvos. Athens? Rome? Whatever it was, it wasn’t from the island.
"Ah, you're right on time." Rallis popped around the corner, a thick steaming mug of aromatic coffee in his hand.
"Is that espresso?" Savva panted in little more than a whisper. He bit his lip again, blossomed red, and tried not to look desperate.
"I bought a cheap machine for us. The lads and girls get a little worn down here at all hours. Not too bad. Did you know an Italian invented espresso? He was fed up with how long it took his employees to drink a cup of coffee. So … espresso, one gulp and you're done. I'll get one of them to make you a cup. Sir?" he added to Kleitos, who stood with his shoulders thrown back, trying to seem like he ran this department too.
"None for me."
Rallis smiled, leapt around a corner, shouted orders for another espresso, and then motioned for Savva and Kleitos to follow him.
"We retrieved about two dozen tools which might have caused the damage to John Fitzroy's vehicle. Luckily we eliminated a few, here at the lab, right off the bat. There's the saw. It had some interesting traces on it."
"To the point, please," Kleitos growled.
Savva and Rallis raised their eyebrows. A tech pushed a cup of espresso into Savva's hands.
"We don't rush our work, Sir. I'm sure you understand," Rallis said, smoothly, without even the merest hint of malice or sarcasm. Savva hid his grin behind the small, ceramic cup.
"Then continue," Kleitos replied. His mouth set into a thin line and deep vertical lin
es appeared between his eyes, as though struggling through a particularly bad bout of constipation.
"As I said, we lifted traces of brake fluid from the blade of the saw along with a partial print."
"What do you mean? A partial print?"
"Just that. It was near where the blade screws into the handle of the saw. It looks to be from John Fitzroy's left thumb; still waiting on confirmation though."
"What about the rest of it?" Savva asked, stepping a fraction of an inch in front of Kleitos.
"Nothing?"
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Why not? Was it wiped clean?"
"That’s my professional opinion, and whatever was used didn't leave much of a trace. Don't quote me on this, but I think Windex was used."
"The window cleaner?"
"One and the same."
"Who would use Windex on a saw? And why?" Savva asked.
"Not my department," Rallis said, with a glint of satisfaction.
"Touché," Savva said. "Anything else?"
"It’s what caused the damage to John Fitzroy's car."
"Why is John's print on it?"
"Perhaps he changed the blade?"
"Right. Well, thanks for your time, and the espresso," Savva said, tipping back the dredges now tepid espresso.
"Are you going to charge her?" Rallis asked, as Savva turned around to leave.
Kleitos spoke before Savva opened his mouth to respond. "I'm sure an arrest will be imminent."
Savva followed Kleitos out of forensics, plunking his cup on the break room counter on the way out. The two men didn't speak as they retraced their footsteps. Savva stopped in the stairwell next to the door that would lead him to his own office, the mounds of paperwork, the dim underlings, and the increasingly infuriating case of John Fitzroy.
"I want this tied up as soon as possible. I don't want a murderess roaming the streets," Kleitos said in a half whisper, his eyes pulsing.
"We don’t have proof."
"We do have proof. There’s the saw and the fact she was at home all week alone, and then there’s the mistress, motive, means, and opportunity."
"Does she know how to cut the brakes on a car?" Savva asked, and then wished he hadn't. Kleitos's face went the color of beetroot.
"Google it. Find out how easy it is to do. Get her phone records, while you're at it. Or had you forgotten that everyone has smartphones these days?"
"I had not, Sir."
"Fine, then get the warrants and inform me when you make the arrest."
"If I make the arrest," Savva corrected him. He couldn’t help it. The man was incorrigible and a bully.
"Wrap it up, Savva."
The words hung in the air like a dangling noose. Savva didn't need the warning, invisibly attached, 'Do your job or loose it.' Kleitos stomped up the stairs, the hem of his trousers danced across the tops of his claret-colored Italian leather shoes. Savva indulged in another eye roll and flung the door open.
The morning broke slowly over Lesvos. Davonna lay curled on the window seat and watched the clouds roll across the sky bathing the garden in shadow. The sun was almost invisible through the thick bank of grey. Davonna rolled onto her back and stretched. She ran a hand along the base of her neck and tried to roll out the kinks. Though her perch was covered with blankets and well padded with pillows, it wasn’t at all comfortable.
Savva had been by two days ago with a warrant for her computer and smartphone. Sofia said it was clear they were looking for damning evidence, whether—more specifically she'd searched for information on how to disable a car's brake systems. Davonna handed them over happily; there was nothing to find.
She folded the blankets and put the pillows back on the bed, desperately trying to erase the inevitable from her mind. Even if Miriam came in, she wouldn't have to find out.
"Good morning," Miriam said, as Davonna walked to the kitchen. "I made tea."
"Thank you."
"I thought we might work today."
"It’ll storm later, so I wouldn't suggest the garden."
"No, that's not what I meant."
"What?" Davonna said. She blew across the rim of her teacup and took a hesitant sip.
"We need to find your passport."
"I told you, I don't know where it is."
"Davonna, we have to look," Miriam said. She took Davonna's hands in her own and sighed. "It's not comfortable, to go through his things, but we have to."
Davonna stared. Miriam's eyes were red and rimmed with unshed tears. She looked pale as well and exhausted.
"I don't mind looking."
"Alright, well, do you have any idea where to start?"
"His office?" Davonna suggested reluctantly.
"At the hotel?"
"No, here, I didn’t go in there."
"Ok, anywhere else?"
"The house is over twenty-five thousand square feet. It might be anywhere. He might have buried it in the garden or under a floorboard and we can't check it all …”
Davonna dropped her head into her hands. The humiliation was potent. Why had she let him take so much? Was she this kind of woman, who just let a man overrun her life? Was she this weak and powerless … idiotic?
"Relax. I don't think he expected you to look for it. He didn't bury it in the garden. Maybe where he felt the most in control? Where you would never look?"
Davonna leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling in exasperation. "Let's start, maybe I'll think of something as we look."
Miriam grinned rapturously and threw back her tea.
Davonna watched as she placed the teacup in the sink, left the kitchen, and walked toward John's office. Davonna circled her hands around her own cup and followed. A fluttering began deep in her chest. She almost called out to Miriam to stop, but her sister was already through the door before she could form the words.
"Well, it's gorgeous in here," Miriam said, with a great deal of reluctance, like admitting that a woman she hated had good fashion sense.
"He enjoyed it," Davonna said. She stopped near the threshold. Was she waiting for something? An invitation? Or was it the pause of anger.
"I'll start with the desk."
Miriam strode over and settled herself in the leather chair as though she was born to it. Davonna couldn't help but smile, fresh air had blown into the room, clearing some of the cobwebs of memory, temporarily displacing a bit of the horror.
Davonna circled the room. She flipped through books at random (there weren't many) and looked under and in boxes of mementoes in the built-in cabinets. In a drawer was a long thin wooden box, a golden caramel, which held an engraved gavel. Davonna pulled it out and ran her fingers over its polished surface. It was old; the brass plate bore the name of John Fitzroy III. The engraving was dull. Perhaps it belonged to John's grandfather. She blushed and stowed it out of sight, ashamed that she didn't know who the original owner was. John rarely mentioned his family.
She put the gavel back in its box and kept searching. Miriam poked through documents in the desk, sighing with displeasure and boredom.
They gave up after an hour, separating at the door. Davonna migrated to the library, not to search but to pretend … to act, like she did so often, like reality wasn’t reality. This room was her only consolation: a sanctuary for mind, body, and soul. She could breathe in the loveliness of books and other worlds and pretend for a few glorious minutes that her life wasn't what it was. The books were the only whiff of freedom she'd known for a decade.
Davonna sat and ran her hands along the cool suppleness of the leather chair. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of Miriam's search, the occasional slam of a door or a lid, the constant stream of sighs, and the soft pads of her footsteps. Davonna drifted away with the soft warm light of the veiled sun on her face.
The doorbell rang through the house, a sound she had come to hate. The cacophony sounded louder, if that was possible, in the master bedroom. Miriam fled, in case Davonna was close and could
see her coming out. They almost collided with each other at the bottom of the stairs. Davonna blinked as though she was trying to clear something out of her eyes.
Miriam opened the door and Captain Savva sidled in. Davonna glimpsed two cars in the driveway before Miriam shut the door. For a moment, the three just stood and looked at each other. Davonna frowned at Savva, as he shuffled from foot to foot and licked his lips.
"What can we do for you, Captain Savva?" she said.
Her voice was sweet and melodious and Savva and Miriam both looked at her with a kind of pity. Miriam's was full of hope for the future and sadness at the thought of the past. Savva's was a two-fold pity, for Davonna and for himself for what he was forced to do.
Savva cleared his throat. "I am here to place you under arrest for the murder of your husband, John Fitzroy."
Miriam gasped and wrapped her arms around Davonna, pulling her close.
Davonna smiled, resigned. "You'd better let go, Miriam."
Savva had the decency to drop his head and contemplate his shoes.
"You can't go. You didn't do it!"
"I love you, too," Davonna said, and pulled at her sister's hands. She worked herself out of Miriam's grip, and patted her cheek. "Keep looking."
Miriam gaped at her, but nodded.
"I'm ready, Captain Savva."
He smiled at her regal demeanor and her composure and motioned for her to follow him. Miriam came to her senses and sprang forward.
"You CANNOT go with him," she cried, and pulled Davonna back. "You know she didn't do this," she yelled viciously at Savva.
"Please don't make a scene."
"A SCENE?"
"Miriam, please, we will get this sorted. Call my attorney," Davonna said, placating. She pulled Miriam into a tight embrace and then walked out the door before Miriam could react.
Savva didn't handcuff her and the other officers didn't move forward as Davonna descended the steps. She knew what was expected, and sat with grace in the back seat of Savva's car. As he made his way around the front of the car, Miriam grabbed him.
"I'm coming with you."
"I'm sorry that won't be possible."
"Where are you taking her?"
Mrs Fitzroy Page 19