Little Voices

by Lillie, Vanessa

  “Devon.”

  “How close were you with Belina?”

  “Friends,” I say, “but I’m learning she kept a lot to herself.”

  Because you were the terrible friend.

  “Like what?” he asks.

  “Maybe a boyfriend in Newport,” I say, thinking of Phillip’s lead from Belina’s mom. “Heard anything like that?”

  “He’d have to be rich.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pulls the toothpick out of his drink and slides the olive off. “Her mom was basically”—he pauses to pop the olive into his mouth—“well, the sidepiece of Newport. End of the eighties and early nineties. Belina learned from the best.”

  “You’re suggesting Belina was a prostitute?”

  “Naw, not at all.” Ricky drops the toothpick onto the bar. “She understood hustle. She didn’t have a lot of opportunity growing up. She made the most of what she had. Just like her mom.”

  “But you met her only a few times?”

  “Newport is a small town.”

  “Did you introduce Belina to Alec?”

  He shakes his head. “It was separate but worked out well for everyone.” He pauses, glancing around the room. “Until things dried up. No one saw that coming.”

  “You’re in financial trouble,” I say.

  Smile lines crease around his bright-blue eyes. “We made enough for me, but I don’t have an East Side wife with Newport expectations.”

  The phrase comes out too quickly. He is trying to chat me up instead of talk. “The amount of money your twenty boats generate does not explain your revenue.”

  He shrugs. “It was a real division of labor in that I was the labor.”

  “Who did what?”

  “Alec had the grant money from that committee. The fancy schools and degrees. The last name. He handled the money and investors. I’ve got the accent and experience, so I dealt mostly with the captains and boats.” He grimaces, his focus landing behind me. “We got company.”

  The handsome younger man who made Alec nervous heads our way with another guy, someone I hadn’t noticed. The two of them are muttering in Spanish, and mine is terrible, but I pick up a few phrases, mostly gringo asshole.

  “Hey, Miguel,” Ricky says. “Let me buy you a free drink.”

  The guy I think the comment is directed at cracks his neck to the side as if trying to keep his temper under control. “I’ve learned even something free has a price from you,” Miguel says. “You a friend of Ricky’s?” he asks me.

  They’ll see right through you.

  This is all going to fall apart.

  “New acquaintance,” I say. “Devon Burges.”

  He nods as if recognizing my last name. “Nice to meet you.” Miguel’s teeth are perfect veneers, and I think of my bedroom furniture. His shorter friend has less polish, a laziness to his appearance: the poorly fitting suit, the undone tie, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He wants people to know he doesn’t give a flying fuck about their polo lifestyle.

  Miguel, however, seems to like being under the VIP tent. He’s got a perfectly cut suit similar to the older man in the corner. They all have the same high forehead, thick black hair, and pointed jaw. I’m guessing this is a family affair.

  There’s a ping in my memory from the journal. Two weeks before her death, Belina met with a Miguel. And this one is already connected to Alec and Ricky. “That’s a nice suit,” I say.

  “I only wear it around white people,” he says with his one-hundred-watt smile. “It’s flashy and plays into everyone thinking I’m a drug kingpin. What else could a brown guy do?”

  “They probably wish you were,” I say. “Plenty of takers in this crowd.”

  Miguel laughs and wags a finger in my direction.

  “I hate that drug shit,” says the shorter one. “I hope the place gets raided.”

  “This is my cousin, Thomas,” Miguel says.

  Ricky is at my back, effectively crowded out of the conversation, which is maybe a good thing with the way Thomas keeps looking at him, anger narrowing his eyes. Ricky starts loudly chatting with a woman two seats down.

  “You were talking to Alec,” Miguel says, putting himself a step closer to me.

  “We went to Georgetown together.”

  “Ah,” Miguel says. “My father, Vicente Rossa, is a friend of Cal Burges. He’s your husband’s uncle?”

  “He is,” I say, realizing I met Vicente before at one of Uncle Cal’s happy hours. He is a self-made multimillionaire, having built a security business that monitors most of the East Side.

  “I’ve got a lot to live up to,” Miguel says. “But I’m well on my way.”

  Thomas looks at Ricky, who is working on a second martini. He raises it with a wide grin, continuing his Gatsby impression, and returns to the woman.

  “We’re getting our own group together to start in the fishing industry,” Miguel says.

  “I was thinking of investing an inheritance I came into recently,” I lie. “My great-uncle loved to deep sea fish in Florida. I thought it’d be good to honor him and make a little money.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Miguel says. His gaze narrows, more calculating than sympathetic. “We could show you around our docks. Discuss some exciting opportunities.”

  “It’d need to be soon,” I say.

  “Not a problem,” Miguel says.

  Thomas orders a Manhattan, finishes it quickly, and orders another one. Miguel widens his eyes at the bartender, who just laughs. No doubt he doesn’t get paid enough to argue with a man hell bent on getting drunk in the VIP tent.

  I get Miguel’s number in time to watch Ricky finish his drink as he ambles over to us. “Fellas,” he says, his words slurred. “Don’t we have a boat deal to discuss?”

  I try to hide my surprise that they’re doing business together. They seem to barely be able to be in the same room. Of course a bad deal may be why Alec ran.

  “You’re a fucking cheat,” says Thomas. “That boat won’t be worth half of what we have to spend on repairs.”

  “Back luck,” Ricky says and winks at Thomas.

  “Leave it alone,” Miguel says to Thomas. “We’re here to watch my nephew.” He nods out toward the polo players racing up and down the field in red shirts and white pants. “Let’s not make the situation worse.”

  “Or we can make it much, much worse,” Thomas says as he spits on the ground an inch from Ricky’s shoe.

  Ricky laughs, staring down at him. “Vicente seems well,” he says. “Nice of him to let you out of the van.” He leans toward me. “They’re basically cable guys.”

  “I will never be embarrassed of working for a living,” says Miguel.

  Ricky leers, the cockiness roiling off him. “Your father did all the work,” he says. “Or at least got rich paying people next to nothing to do it.”

  Thomas lunges for Ricky, and the punch is fast and hard, if a little high on the nose.

  The room explodes, and I’m off my seat, Miguel pulling me away from the action. The small bar crowd swells as Thomas kicks Ricky in the ribs and then stomach. Thomas jerks up his leg, positioning his shoe above Ricky’s face. Miguel takes the opportunity to shove his cousin back, yanking at his jacket, and it requires effort, even as he’s unbalanced.

  Vicente, watching from the corner, stands and buttons his jacket, looking annoyed but not surprised. He casually strides across the tent, bypassing the chaos. A security guard hustles in as Miguel drags Thomas out the back of the tent.

  The guard helps Ricky onto a stool, shoving some bar napkins into his hand. His nose is bleeding down his face and onto his suit jacket. He leans back, dabbing at it calmly.

  I rush over beside him. “Towel with ice,” I say to the bartender. “Clean one, if you’ve got it.”

  “How thoughtful,” Ricky says to me. “Whiskey back with that.”

  The nonplussed bartender hands me the towel before sliding over the whiskey.

  Rick
y shoots it immediately. “Watch your dress,” he says as I hand him the towel, blood spattering as he adjusts the ice-filled rag onto his nose.

  “Deserve it?” I ask. The room is settling down, attention turning back to the match.

  “I always deserve it,” he says through the towel.

  “Was that just about a boat deal?” I ask.

  “Probably a couple other things,” he says.

  We’re silent until the bleeding stops. I pull the rag off his face and clean up some of the blood around his nose.

  “Hey, Devon,” he says when I’m done. “You need info on our business. I’ll do my best to help. We gotta keep Alec outta jail.”

  “We will,” I say, uncertain if we’re lying or delusional or both.

  “Have a whiskey with me?” He presses the back of his hand under his nose, hissing at the contact as he swipes a trickle of blood.

  I realize I’m very late to meet Detective Ramos. “I have to go.” I hesitate, squeezing my nails into my palm. “You going to be okay?”

  He smirks from behind the bloody rag as if my kindness is surprising. “Want to meet Monday?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

  I make it to the police station by noon. As I step out of my car, I see a few drops of Ricky’s blood on my dress. I button my jacket and hope no one notices. I’ve got enough to explain as it is.

  Chapter 14

  Look where we are again, girlie.

  I ignore the voice and check my phone outside the police station. Jack texted that Ester is sleeping, and I can take all the time I need. He’s hoping my handing over the planner and being interviewed will mean the end of my involvement. And maybe it should, but he knows better.

  I open the glass door to the police station and freeze. Even though it’s been twenty years, the terror from the first time I visited one returns. The weight of the memory saps my nerve, as jarring as the scent of Mr. Clean on wooden pews or Conway Twitty crooning through an AM radio. The detonation of my worst memories from childhood.

  I manage to move and hurry to a folding chair in the station’s entryway. I drop onto it, not the woman in her Newport Polo best but a girl of ten who just sneaked out of church and walked four miles to the police station across town. My heels throb from remembered pain, how they were scraped and blistering from my Walmart clearance patent loafers, bleeding through my thin white socks with the ruffles on top.

  The feel of the blood down my heel, wetting my sole, reminded me of one of the only movies I’d ever seen, Grimm’s Cinderella, on a school outing to the movie theater on the last day of fourth grade. The stepsisters cut off their toes to fit into the glass slipper. A bird that witnesses their fraud warns the prince: Coo-coo, there’s blood in her shoe. There is justice. After the first mile, I was glad for the blood. Glad for the pain. Glad for the bird’s refrain that I said over and over. Coo-coo, there’s blood in her shoe.

  I stare down at my shoes, not clearance from Walmart but Louboutins Cynthia let me borrow. I am steadier staring at her kindness, imagining her intelligence and strength reactivating my own. I count a few breaths, and once they’re steady, I head toward the small line at security, which is cleared quickly.

  A short-haired woman behind the U-shaped intake desk motions me forward. “Ya here for Ramos,” she says, not asking, and picks up the phone before I answer with a nod. “Come get ’er.”

  I step to the side, and a man with a stack of parking tickets takes my place. Detective Ramos gives me a half wave as he approaches. “Back this way,” he says.

  I met with cops all the time while working sex crime cases in DC. But I’m not on the clean, legal side of things here. I’m the girl with blood in her shoes no one wants to believe.

  No one will believe you here either.

  But you won’t be a lying girl.

  You’ll be a woman in prison.

  We hurry down several hallways, a couple people glancing at me as we pass them. I pull my coat tight and try to focus on how I want this interview to go.

  There’s another long hallway before we come to a door marked number two. It’s clean with a wooden table in the middle and two metal chairs on each side. Belina’s yellow planner is in a bag at the center with a photocopy of the whole planner. I know that’s what it is because the first page has Belina’s cursive name staring at me. Next to it are copies of the three memos I wrote.

  He thinks they’re a joke.

  “My boss is angry about that blogger’s post,” he says as we sit. “It was not a good look, as they say on Real Housewives.”

  I smirk at the joke. Seems he’s trying to play nice. For now. “His name is Phillip Hale,” I say. “He’s going to be interviewed on Dateline tonight. Likely, your boss won’t like that much either.”

  Detective Ramos swears under his breath and then pulls a recorder out of his pocket. “You know how this goes?”

  “I do,” I say and lean toward the recorder as he presses the red button. “My name is Devony Anne Burges of 225 Lawrence Street in Providence. The evidence I’ve handed over to Detective Frank Ramos is a yellow day planner that belonged to Belina Cabrala. It came into my possession the afternoon before she was murdered, September 30.”

  The day you should have died.

  Detective Ramos clears his throat. “Ms. Burges told me that she’d forgotten she had the journal. She handed it over to the police when she remembered approximately three months after it was given to her.”

  “Correct,” I say and briefly explain my traumatic labor and how the journal was put away with my discarded possessions from the ER.

  Detective Ramos has a pen and small notepad that remains blank, which is good. I read hundreds, maybe thousands of statements. I know to keep it brief and to focus on knowledge within my experience. But now, the real questions will begin.

  “Tell me about your friendship with Alec Mathers,” he says.

  You let him use you.

  Because that’s all you’re good for.

  “We were classmates at Georgetown University all four years. We were friends, ate together, studied together. I didn’t know anyone when I moved to DC, so I appreciated his friendship.”

  “Did you date?”

  “No. He introduced me to my husband.”

  Worst mistake of his life.

  “Were you friends after you and your husband moved to Providence?”

  “Not like we were in college.”

  “Why’s that?”

  You’re a terrible friend.

  I take my time to answer honestly, as much for myself as Detective Ramos. “We were both married and building careers. Mine in law, and he had various projects as an entrepreneur.”

  “Your uncle Cal helped him with that?” he says.

  “Yes, the Economic Development Council,” I say. “He got their first grant. For a new business idea right after we moved here. It was almost three years ago.”

  “Did you know Belina then as well?”

  I ignore his question for a moment because I realize that when Belina started working for Alec, that was also when Ricky got involved in his business. And the Council got into some trouble. It was all around then, but I hadn’t put that together.

  Because you’re focused on finding Alec innocent.

  Alec’s not innocent.

  Just like you.

  “I met Belina six months ago,” I say. “It was a coincidence. I saw Alec’s son, Emmett, in his stroller and approached her. I still cared about Alec even though we weren’t as close. I appreciated Belina’s friendship. It came easy, but the two aren’t related.”

  “When was the last time you saw Alec?”

  “This morning, at the Newport Polo charity match.”

  “Cold for polo,” he says.

  “Any excuse to wear fur.”

  He ignores me and presses on. “Did you discuss Belina’s murder?”

  “Yes, we talked about Belina’s involvement in Alec’s fishing business. I also shared that she’d l
eft her day planner for me. I told him she didn’t indicate that she was meeting Alec the night she was killed. She listed two other people.”

  “Left it for you?” He frowns. “Couldn’t she have just forgotten the planner?”

  “I think the meeting that night, possibly the danger involved, was on her mind. First, she kept looking toward the spot where she’d eventually be killed.” I pause to let that sit. “The place where she’d meet with the two nicknames in her book. A with a circle and CF. In the dozens of times I’ve seen her with the planner, she’s never left it behind. She’s never left anything, in fact. Not a sippy cup or toy and certainly not something that important. She left it for me in case something went wrong.”

  He doesn’t believe you.

  He knows you’re crazy.

  “Back to Alec,” he says. “Did you see them interacting?”

  “Yes, he was usually home when I’d meet her there. We’d chat occasionally.”

  “Ms. Burges,” he says, tone shifting, some condescension in it. “I reviewed the day planner, and it’s clear what was happening. Belina and Alec were in a relationship.”

  He got there faster than I expected. Likely because it’s the only angle that makes Alec’s motive for murder stick. “I have no firsthand knowledge relevant to your question,” I say.

  After opening the journal to a dog-eared page, he begins to read. “‘Alec brought me soup. He wasn’t mad when he caught the flu too.’” He clears his throat and flips again. “‘Alec finally bought a blue suit, and his eyes are so beautiful.’” And flips again. “‘The boat ride with Alec was everything I needed.’” He crosses his arms, the sleeves too long and arms too tight. “Sound like normal employer-employee feelings?”

  “I have no firsthand knowledge relevant to your question,” I repeat. It was a gamble to let the detective see this planner. Maybe I should have kept it hidden. But I thought with the memos, maybe, he’d see that they were only friends as Alec said.

  No stopping stupid like yours.

  “Alec spent several hours each morning and sixty-three afternoons with Belina and Emmett in the past six months,” Detective Ramos continues. “His son still naps two of those hours in the afternoon, according to Belina’s own notes. You think they were watching Bravo?”