by Gina LaManna
“He’s not my agent,” I corrected automatically, then stopped myself. The way I’d been smooching Russo as of late might prove otherwise. “Whatever. And no, it’s not. This is personal.”
“No more personal than any Twin Cities mob hit. Come on, Rosetti. Just because your dad was involved with Peg Leg’s crew doesn’t mean it’s personal.”
“Not yet,” I murmured. “And I sure hope it won’t get that way.”
“Do me a solid. Sit through the autopsy. If there’s nothing groundbreaking, take off. Go see your agent. Come back on Monday. We’ve got plenty of officers to chase down our non-existent leads. Hell, we might not even find who did this—chances are good our shooter’s on a plane out of the country. No sense ruining your entire personal life over this case.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“That’s more than I expected to get, so I’ll take it.” Jimmy sat back in his seat. “While you’re up, grab me a croissant, will you?”
I secured the last chocolate croissant for Jimmy and snagged an almond one for myself from the platter someone had brought to celebrate Saturday morning in the office. On second thought, I grabbed a duplicate of my almond croissant and brought it downstairs. I left it in Melinda’s office, on her desk, before joining her in the lab.
She looked up, over her mask when I entered. “I’m not finished, but you should know that there’s nothing groundbreaking yet.”
“Silencer?”
“Bullets have gone to ballistics. We’ll know once they come back,” she said. “There’s a chance we won’t be able to tell. If it was a professional hit, and a professional silencer, there may be no indications even if one was used.”
“Do you think the mob would really use a professional to off a guy named Peg Leg?” I asked. “Don’t you think it’d be easier to hire Joe-from-down-the-block to do it? Seems like it’d be a lot cheaper and just as effective.”
“It’s a possibility, and if a homemade suppressor—oil filter, or the like—was used, we’ll likely be able to tell.”
I sighed. “No evidence as to why our guy was in the fridge?”
“Nothing yet. We’ve got a hair pulled from his pants—long, possibly female if the length is any indicator—along with a few fibers. We’ll check to see if the hair belongs to Antonio’s wife. The fibers could possibly be from the killer, but even if that’s true, it might lead us to a dead end.”
“That’s right,” I remarked. “He was married. Couple of kids. I forgot about that.”
“Asha’s pulling the report on him now. She should have it to you in a few hours.”
I sighed. “None of this makes sense and nobody’s talking. So frustrating.”
“You should take the weekend off. Jimmy’s on the case. He’s got help.”
“You sound just like him.”
“Maybe you should listen to us,” Melinda said. “You deserve to have a little fun. Your agent flew all the way here to see you. Not to stare at his reflection in the hotel mirror.”
“He’s not my agent! We’re just seeing how things are going. It’s an experiment.”
“Okay,” Melinda said. “If you say so.”
“Well, I was going to stick around for the autopsy, but it looks like it might be awhile...”
Melinda gave a laugh. “Did you bring me a croissant?”
“It’s on your desk.”
“Take off,” she told me. “I’ll call you with anything important.”
“Thank you.” I stood. “I’ve got one more thing to chase down, and then maybe—maybe—I’ll take off for the day. But I still expect to hear about that report when you’re finished.”
Melinda raised her croissant in salute. “And don’t think this pastry makes up for the flat white you failed to deliver this morning.”
“I had to avoid my mother.”
“Well, clear the air soon because I’ll need the caffeine.”
Chapter 4
I’d heard somewhere that people rarely left places that were familiar to them. My father was turning out to be a prime example of that, seeing as he hadn’t traveled far after his release from prison.
I cruised down West Seventh, away from the precinct, and turned into a residential neighborhood tucked between several quirky antique shops and a couple of up and coming hipster cafés, not five minutes outside of downtown St. Paul.
The houses here were similar to the ones in my area. Some were revitalized builds with shiny new siding and sparkling windows. The vast majority, however, were old homes proudly leaning on ancient foundations. The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, a stumbling hazard for even the most surefooted of individuals. The neighborhood couldn’t decide if it was headed toward crumbling and decrepit, or cutely outdated.
I double checked the address, then turned onto the correct block. Nearly everyone was outside. It was one of the first Saturdays of the year that had given Minnesotans a true reprieve from the winter snow, the spring slush, and the blustering winds that often swept through town.
Even as I parked and stepped out of my car, it was difficult not to feel the sunshine and smile. Locals chatted with one another over the planting of spring bulbs and tired lawnmowers stretching their rusty legs. Children leaped and screamed across sidewalks and grasses. Some little boys wearing nothing but shorts and sandals despite the low sixty-degree temperatures played tag. I shivered just looking at them, although they didn’t seem to mind.
The house belonging to my father, however, was quiet. He lived against an alley where a lilac bush was just beginning to peep tiny blooms open. A detached two-car garage sat in the back, its crooked door firmly closed. I climbed the front stairs, avoiding a huge divot in the second step.
I inhaled a deep breath as the sounds around me magnified. Children’s shrieks. Neighboring chatter. The roar of lawnmowers, the chip of shovels against still-frozen earth, the chirping of birds. And I knocked.
I gave my father a good minute to answer the door. When there was no sign of a response, I knocked again. I sensed movement inside; whether it was a twitch of a curtain or an inhalation of breath or a distant thump, I couldn’t say for sure. But someone was home.
I was just raising my hand to knock for a third time when the door swung open. My father stood in the entryway. I stood on the front steps just inside the screen door. We stared at one another for several moments before either of us spoke.
“Kate?” My dad broke the silence first. “It’s—it’s great to see you. What are you doing here?”
I gave him a thin smile. “I was wondering if I could come inside? I’d like to talk.”
My father scanned me, a hint of surprise not-so-subtly flooding his expression. He jerked to attention. “Yes, yes of course. Can I get you a coffee? You still drink coffee?”
“That would be great, thanks.”
I followed my father inside. His house creaked in welcome to its new guest. It felt homier than I’d expected. Old photographs in black and white and odd shades of sepia hung on the walls. We passed a living room with furniture that looked like it’d been plucked off a TV set from the seventies. Blankets draped over a yellowing couch, and a screen flickered in the background.
My father stopped, flicked the TV off, and continued through to a tiny kitchen that had been built before electricity. A refrigerator was wedged awkwardly in one corner and old wooden cabinets gave the space a rustic, lived-in sort of feel. Through the windows, a sparse backyard with the first tufts of green poking through the dirt sprawled to a sturdy wooden fence.
My dad gestured for me to sit at a scratched, eat-in kitchen table, so I scooted my chair out and plopped into it while he bustled around, pulling out filters and an old Folger’s coffee tin that he dumped into a Mr. Coffee machine that looked as if it belonged in one of the antique shops down the way.
“So, what brings you by?” My father sounded pleasant, but there was an element of cautiousness to his tone. “It’s great to see you. You look really good, Kate.”
&nb
sp; I wasn’t deterred by his light-hearted banter. He’d been a cop. A dirty one, sure, but he could still smell lies from a mile away. Which meant I really only had one choice: To be honest.
“This isn’t purely a social call,” I said. “But then again, I’m sure you already guessed that much.”
My father didn’t turn around. His profile flickered with a somewhat disappointed smile. I wasn’t sure why he was surprised by my answer, but I fought against the part of me that wanted to apologize. Family ties were strong in the Rosetti clan, and it had been difficult to realize that my father and I had different priorities, different morals, different ambitions. It had been a challenge to come to terms with the fact that living separate lives would be the best choice for us.
“You’re right,” he said with a sigh. “I should have known.”
The wave of nostalgia that hit along with the first drops of coffee shocked me with its strength. Suddenly, I wasn’t the youngest female homicide detective in the Twin Cities, capable of holding her own against the most dangerous of murderers and criminals.
Here I was in my dad’s kitchen, remembering the days when I’d been a little girl, swinging my legs from a chair before they could touch the floor. There was a pile of waffles in front of me, a squirming Jane next to me. My mother would have been humming at the kitchen sink as she washed the breakfast dishes while my dad puttered around, making coffee that, as my mother said, only he could love.
It took a moment for the memories to fade as the scent of coffee grew stronger. They were hazy images now, but pleasant ones. My father had been a decent husband before his liberal (and illegal) interpretations of the law, as well as a very good father. None of us had ever been able to complain about that.
Doubt churned in my gut as I wondered if I’d made the right choice. He’d tried to contact me during the trial, then from prison. He’d sent a note or two when he’d gotten out. I thought I’d seen him once parked in the lot outside of my mother’s café, but by the time I’d gone outside to investigate, the car had been gone.
He’d wanted a relationship with me, but I hadn’t wanted one back. I had always feared it would taint my career. My hero had turned into a villain, and I hadn’t known how to handle it except to distance myself completely.
My father brought over two cups of coffee. He gave me the nice mug and kept the chipped one for himself. I vaguely wondered if he’d been caught up in a similar musing during my extended silence, or if his staring into the depths of his coffee was nothing more than a way to pass the time.
“Go on, shoot,” he said. “I’ll answer anything. Almost anything.”
“What are you talking about?”
My dad shrugged. “I assume you have questions for me.”
“About?”
He scratched at hair that was significantly grayer than the last time I’d seen him. He’d aged well, however, kept in shape. His physique wasn’t as flawless as Russo’s, his clothing nowhere near as polished as Gem’s, but for an almost sixty-year-old man, he’d aged quite handsomely. The only signs of tiredness were hidden in the lines of his face and the shadows behind eyes that were the exact same shade as mine.
“Anything,” he said. “My arrest, my time in prison, why I did what I did, how I could leave a wife and two kids alone. What I’ve been doing since. You name it, and I’ll try to explain.”
“I’m not here about our past,” I said, then corrected, “Our combined pasts. I’m here about a case.”
“Ah.”
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I’m Detective Rosetti now, of the TC Task Force.”
My dad studied my face. “Yes, I’ve heard.”
“And—”
“It was quite the accomplishment, you being named the youngest female detective in the Cities. I’m sure your mother was proud.”
“Mom? She hated it.”
He laughed, his eyes squinting with delight. “Now that, I believe.”
I smiled too. “She threatened to slice the tires of my cop car.”
“She’d have done it, too, if she’d thought it would protect her baby girl.”
“Dad. I’m not—” The name came out so naturally, it startled both of us. I paused mid-thought.
“How is she?” my father asked quickly. “Your mother, I mean.”
“She’s good,” I said. “Great, actually. Jane too. They’re both really happy.”
My father nodded, pursed his lips. “I read you loud and clear, Kate. I’m not going to mess things up. I’ve been out of your life for years, watched all three of you grow into accomplished women. I’m not trying to interfere. You came to me, remember.”
I cleared my throat. “It’s about a case,” I repeated. “If we want to keep things quick, I’ll need an alibi for last night.”
His eyebrows flashed up. “Nothing like getting straight to the point.”
“Like you said, we’ve done fine on our own. No sense in trying to change things now.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” he said faintly, but before I could question what he meant, he continued. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have an alibi.”
“What do you mean? You can’t give me one or you won’t?”
“Either? Both?” My father shrugged. “Is it easier to say that I was here alone, watching TV?”
My temper flared. “Is that why you did it? It was easier to accept the money than it was to turn it down?”
To his credit, my father didn’t flinch at my jab. “Maybe. I’ve wondered why I did it a hundred times. A thousand. A million. Prison gave me plenty of time to think.”
“And?” I knew I should stick to the case, but the desire to know was too strong.
He scratched at his arm, exposing a tattoo on his bicep that hadn’t been there in pre-prison years. When he caught me looking, he let the gray cotton T-shirt drop back into place. “I don’t have a good answer. A series of bad choices.”
“Angela said you were at Bellini’s last night. Were you there?”
“I don’t know.”
“What sort of answer is that?”
“I can’t remember.”
I rolled my eyes. “Some things never change, huh?”
“I’m sorry, Kate. But you barge in here after years, decades and—without preamble or explanation—ask me for an alibi. What do you expect?”
I let out a disgusted huff of breath, pushed my chair back. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll be going now, and I’ll be turning the case over to my fellow detectives. They’ll be in touch to schedule an interview at the precinct. You can lie to them under oath because I can’t stand you lying to me anymore.”
“Kate, please.”
I’d thought it would be easier to face my dad. A part of me, the part that held onto little-girl-Kate and her memories of dark coffee and sugary waffles and happy humming in the kitchen had never given up hope that there was an explanation for it all. An explanation for the reason he’d left, for the reason he’d made his choices, for everything.
I saw now that Jimmy, Melinda, and the rest were right. This case didn’t have to be personal. For years, my father and I hadn’t maintained a relationship. I didn’t owe him anything, nor did I particularly feel like getting involved in another of his schemes.
“Look, I don’t know if you’re involved with this Bellini business or not.” I held up a hand to stop my dad from following me. “But I don’t particularly want to find out.”
“You haven’t even told me which case you’re working on.”
“I think you can guess,” I said. “You know things. And even if you didn’t, the fact that you’ve got something to hide isn’t a great start to our chat. I only asked where you were last night.”
“You’re assuming a lot, Kate. Do you think I’m happy to find my daughter dangling a murder charge in my face after twenty years of little-to-no contact?” My father’s voice rose slightly, his face twisting in frustration. “I just want to talk to you. No badges, cuffs, guns.”
&
nbsp; “Well, that’s not how this works.”
“Sit down. I’ll talk.”
The pull to sit was strong. So was the pull to leave, to retire into Russo’s arms and beg him to make me forget about everything. To let Jimmy take this case like I should have in the first place. Because it wasn’t personal. My dad was proving that he was just another in the slew of the liars that I chased down on a daily basis.
“Will you give me an alibi for last night?” I asked. “The truth?”
“It’s—” he hesitated. “I want to, but it’s complicated.”
“How is it complicated? Either you were involved in the murder or you weren’t.”
“I have never killed anyone. That is the complete and utter truth.”
“Great.” I let my shoulders jump up and down in a shrug. “So, what’s the big deal about your whereabouts last night?”
“I don’t want to say.”
“I have it on good authority that you were with your buddies at Bellini’s. You’ve got to give me something.”
“I’m sorry. I can give you something, but it’s not that.”
A burst of anger bloomed in my chest. “Frankly, that’s stupid. I’m trying to help you.”
“I appreciate that,” my father said. “More than you know. But it doesn’t change my answer. If that’s a problem for you, then maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s best if someone else handles the case.”
“Fine.”
I stalked through the living room and came to a dead stop at a picture in the hallway. It was one of our family. Of us, before everything had fallen apart.
My hand rose, fingered the faded gold frame and stared at the image cocooned inside of it. We were all at a picnic in the park behind our house. A rickety old basket sat on the grass by our feet, a checkered red and white cloth draped out from one end.
One of Jane’s tiny hands wound through my mother’s swishy skirt, and the other hand locked in our mother’s larger one. I had in little pigtail spouts and a gigantic smile as I sat on my dad’s shoulders and swung my legs down his chest. My dad was looking at my mother with a genuine smile, his eyes crinkled in the way I remembered. My mother looked down at Jane’s head. Only I stared directly at the camera.