I don’t respond to the joke because this question is the opposite. I know Detective Ramos needs this evidence and some eyewitness testimony of their relationship. Otherwise, the DA will have a tough sell.
“That’s not enough for a conviction,” I say.
“Let’s try this a different way,” he says as if he’s picturing someone reading this transcript aloud to a jury. “Belina was leaving her position as a nanny. She’d sent her resume around and accepted a new job. Did you know that?”
I shake my head, trying not to give away my shock. “I didn’t.”
“Alec was angry, got blackout drunk as he’s already admitted. They had a confrontation, and he killed her. His DNA is at the scene. Her blood is in his car. I got a captain on the dock says he had a black eye the day after. Her knuckles were bruised. Did you know that?”
You’re all guilty.
Take away the baby.
Lock her up.
I want to lay my head on the table to think, but I can almost see the germs in the old wood. Nail scrapes and handcuff scratches. I try to regroup. “You don’t have the murder weapon,” I say. “And your motive is thin.”
“Not as thin as it was. Thanks to the planner.”
“That’s not why Belina left it behind,” I say, sharper than I should. “She wanted to catch the real killers. This is lazy police work.”
“Tell me about your memos.”
He’s cutting me some slack. Or trying to push me to act crazier. Either way, I can’t stop. “The first memo details Belina’s movements over the past eighteen months. The second summarizes why I don’t believe Alec was listed as meeting Belina that night and couldn’t be the killer. The third is about the A with a circle and CF, who were supposed to be there. I think she was working for one or both of them.”
It’s a lot of guessing, but I feel good about why Alec shouldn’t be a suspect. That memo is strongest, and if Detective Ramos is serious about finding the killer versus closing the case, he’ll at least look into who and CF are.
That detective sees your memos are nonsense.
“You don’t think Alec is the A with a circle?” he asks as he scans the second memo.
“She wrote his name out. Why change it to A with a circle? Also, her meetings with that person don’t fit with Alec’s schedule.”
“You know his schedule?”
“She met with CF in Newport from the very beginning of her nannying job. Thirteen meetings were noted. She also introduced CF to Alec. Later, there’s A with a circle, but she also notes leaving Emmett with Alec. They’re two different people. We need to find out who.”
He turns off the recorder, spinning it around a few times. Then he picks up the charts I made and flips through them. “These are pretty good,” he says. “I talked to a guy at the FBI you worked with a while back to bust the Rhode Island Speaker of the House.”
He is likely talking about Agent Max Fincher, but I don’t ask because that’s not the most interesting thing he’s revealed. “The FBI is involved?”
“These memos seem like decent guesses,” he says, ignoring my question as he taps the stack. “I’m sure big corporations paid you a lot to poke holes into cases. But this is a murder investigation.”
My ego wants to go into my work in DC, but that’s not what matters. “If Belina was working for someone else, likely CF, we need to know. We need to talk to them. They were supposed to be there the night she was murdered.”
“I have a suspect with DNA at the crime scene, the victim’s DNA in his locked car, and a motive that’s already playing in the media. We’re understaffed. There’s no money for overtime.”
“How do you think your budget will look when the mayor has to explain an overturned conviction of the most prominent murder in twenty years?”
“He’s guilty.”
You’re the only one stupid enough to believe otherwise.
Letting him use you.
Ignoring your tiny crying baby for this nonsense.
“But there’s a chance he’s not. He doesn’t feel right for this crime.” I pause as he frowns as if I’ve hit a nerve. “Alec has a four-year-old son.”
“I know.” Ramos shifts in his chair. “I appreciate your efforts and the planner. But I see this information another way.”
“What way?”
“There’s intimacy.”
Shit.
“I’ve seen guys nicer than Alec do some terrible things,” he says. “If he was drunk, maybe he can plea to manslaughter. I’m sorry.”
“There are other suspects,” I say in a rush. “I analyzed Alec’s financial data. What he emailed you, plus his application and reporting for his small-business grant. Alec was running an all-cash nonprofit. He had business ties to the fishing industry. He was trying to organize the captains. Maybe he was framed?”
He crosses his arms. “Framed for murder?”
I want to cringe, but I push forward, ignoring the sound of the panic in my voice, how hard I’m gripping the edge of the table. “Why else would there be blood in the car when she was murdered in the cemetery? The killer sliced her arm and drained enough to plant later.”
“Whoever killed her had access to his car?” he says slowly, kindly.
“Phillip had reported the alarm was broken,” I say not slowly, not kindly. “His source at the police department said it could have been for several weeks. If the killer planned to do it, he may have even dismantled it. Popped the lock and dumped the blood that night.”
“Or,” he says in a soft tone, “Alec killed her.”
Voices begin in my head, but they are not from my broken mom-brain voice but echoes repeating from a real terrible day. I slide my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t stop. I’m the girl again, but instead of a police station, it’s a courtroom. The defense attorney’s voice, the southern Kansas drawl with a hint of aw-shucks, reverberates every nerve.
The speech begins: “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a sad case of he said, she said. A pillar of this community, a preacher whose reputation is for givin’ back to us all, is being accused of a terrible crime. But worse, the accuser—”
I fight through the sinkhole in my chest that opens up with these memories and draws me down deep. Quickly the rage kicks in, and I claw my way back to it, not an erratic violence but a precise and focused need to destroy. It hasn’t lessened over the years. My hatred is always there, burning bright and hot, whether I’m a young girl hiding in the corner of the courtroom or a lawyer obsessing over a long-shot case or a new mother barely keeping it together in a police station.
Detective Ramos is hiding something. Everyone is. I think of how his face changed when I said CF at Uncle Cal’s happy hour. “You know who CF is, don’t you?”
“Devon, can you listen? There are things about Belina and Alec you don’t realize. Things that make a good case. I understand why you want to help him. But women are killed by men who love them every day.”
“A first-year law student could convince a jury that there’s reasonable doubt in this case.” I explode out of my chair, all that anger burning bright. “Imagine Alec on the stand, crying about Belina and how much he loves his son. No weapon, no motive, just a few vague diary entries and neighborhood gossip.”
Despite my shouting, Detective Ramos is calm. I imagine it’s the look he gives some methed-out tweaker with a box cutter.
“Damn it,” I whisper more to myself than him. He’s not going to listen. He’s going to use the planner against Alec.
You were always going to fail.
Detective Ramos stands and heads to the door. “An officer can give you a ride home. Or I can call Jack.”
The tears begin, but I stop them quickly. “Are you arresting Alec tonight?”
“He’s the only suspect.” He taps a knuckle on the door as if summoning a dog.
“Who is CF?” I ask, not obeying.
“I don’t need to explain anything to you,” he says. “Thank you for your time.”
&nbs
p; I shrug on my coat before calmly picking up my purse and letting the sound of my heels reverberate across the room. “No need to thank me now.” I pause in the doorway, putting myself in his face. “Save it for when I solve your case and catch the actual killer.”
It’s good I’m a short drive to Phillip’s place on the West Side. If Detective Ramos isn’t interested in the truth, it’s time to take Belina’s case to the court of public opinion.
Chapter 15
I’m driving too fast as I think through the meeting with Phillip. It took several hours, but we have a plan. He’s uploading the journal to his website, which is gaining views by the thousands, thanks in large part to a HuffPost link. He will tease the memos and post them after his Dateline interview tomorrow morning. We have to start creating reasonable doubt, pointing toward the mysterious CF and and not Alec.
That’s our focus now, reasonable doubt, planting suspicion before the jury is even picked. Because Alec is going to be arrested. I can’t stop it. He’s going to jail.
You both should be.
In the corner of my eye, I see the particular white shine of a police SUV and slam on my brakes because I’m going ten over.
You shouldn’t be driving.
You shouldn’t be allowed to do anything.
I whip into a parking lot on North Main to hopefully avoid a ticket and head toward the green-and-white glowing Starbucks sign. Relieved it’s still open at nine p.m.—God bless the USA—I order a large latte from the drive-through and pull into a space to pump and dump.
If you loved Ester, you’d drop the milk by the house.
Selfish bitch.
Tears start as I plug in the car pump. It’s less effective and takes twice as long, but my breasts are on fire. I drop my head back as the relief begins, but my heart is raw. Today is the longest I’ve been away from Ester, and it hurts so much I can’t imagine doing it again.
I check my texts and reread Jack’s check-in message that everything is fine. He wants to know more about the interview and where I am, but I don’t know how to respond. I type, delete, and settle on: Made things worse. Have to warn Alec now.
I start my car and get another text from Phillip. He heard from a contact that a judge signed off on the arrest warrant. It is happening within the hour.
My tires squeal as I leave the lot, turning too fast back onto North Main, not seeing a huge oil truck crossing. The driver lays on the horn as I swerve, the headlights bright in my eyes as we avoid the crash.
I can’t stop my hands from trembling against the steering wheel. Turning onto Olney Street, I slow down. I’m edging toward unstable and take small breaths to get my heart rate under control. My vision blurs. I’m nearing another blackout. I keep breathing.
Coo-coo, there’s blood in her shoe.
I will make this right with Alec. Or as right as I can before he’s hauled off to jail.
As I take the turn onto Cole Avenue, my brain shifts to keep up with my heartbeat, both going too fast. Questions and fears are stacking up as I struggle to catch my breath. This is my last chance to find out what Alec is hiding, if I’m going to save him from himself.
Save him from you.
As I bump the curb, my front tires roll a little onto their perfect lawn. I don’t correct it and quickly get out, glancing down the block for police cars. The streetlights are bright, and it’s quiet for now.
I knock on the Matherses’ door, and unfortunately, Misha answers. She puts a hand on a cocked hip. “Alec doesn’t want to talk. He’s putting Emmett to sleep.”
“The police will be here soon,” I say, my throat tight. “They’re going to arrest Alec.”
She frowns as much as she can with all her Botox. “They find something?”
I don’t admit, yet, that I provided this new evidence. “I have to see him now.”
“What’s going on?” Alec says behind her with a yawn. “Devon, I don’t want to get into it again.”
Misha shifts back so I can deliver the news. Alec is in a faded Newport Polo shirt, sleepy and disheveled. I repress the urge to hug him. “They’re arresting you tonight. I don’t know when but soon.”
His head knocks back, but there’s some relief in his eyes. Now he knows. “Okay,” he says. “The detective told you?”
“Why did you speak with a detective?” Misha snaps. “Come in, and explain what the hell is going on.”
Alec lets out a big sigh and leads us to the sunken living room. I don’t take off my coat but instead just launch into the awful truth.
“When I met Belina the afternoon she was killed,” I begin, “she left behind her yellow planner. I analyzed the data and presented a theory about why Alec is not the killer to Detective Ramos. But he’s not interested.” I pause to shift from Misha to Alec. “He believes the planner contains motive for the case against you.”
He runs a hand behind his neck, pinching at it for several moments. “What now?”
“No,” Misha says. “I want to see a copy.”
Ruin her life too, while you’re at it.
I pull a copy of the journal I made in my office from my bag. She snatches it and drops onto the end of the leather sofa opposite Alec. She slips off her UGG house shoes and tucks her feet under her.
I hand Alec a second copy. At first there’s a small smile as he begins reading Belina’s words, but then tears form in his eyes.
“What’ll hurt him that’s in this journal?” Misha asks.
I swallow thickly, unsure if this will lead to broken dishes or a yawn. “Belina writes about Alec in a way that makes their relationship seem romantic.”
“That girl had a crush on him,” Misha says. “He can’t help what she wrote.”
“I agree it’s a thin motive, but in combination with the jacket, DNA at the scene, blood in his car, and no one confirming the alibi . . . it doesn’t look good.”
A red flush spreads up Misha’s neck as she begins to read an entry aloud: “‘Today Alec brought me purple violets from the playground. We tied them in love knots with Emmett.’” She flips another page and taps the passage with a long manicured nail before she reads it. “‘I’m so glad Alec wore the blue tie to our meeting. It’s perfect for his eyes.’”
Misha loudly flips through the pages, small gasps followed by glares. “You took her to the polo charity match last year?” she hisses. “We had just talked about creating distance. She is . . . was clearly infatuated.” Ripping the page from the binder clip, she crumples it into her hand. “Your vanity is disgusting.” She throws the wadded paper at him.
She stands up, the flush fully reaching her face. “You swore you didn’t fuck her.”
He picks up the wadded piece of paper, smoothing it on his knee. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Why does she write about you like this? Why would she care about you?” Her expression softens at her harsh words, possibly some regret there, but she doesn’t apologize.
He’s on his feet, holding the paper up as if it’s evidence. “She brought something special to this house. Something we were missing.”
“Oh, really?” Misha crosses her arms. “What was that?”
“She was nice to me, okay? Interested in our son. It was refreshing.”
Misha’s jaw drops. “How dare you say that to me.”
“You act like she didn’t matter, but it’s not true. She mattered a lot.”
Misha trails her fingers across her mouth, but I can still see her quivering chin. “Now you decide to find some backbone?” she says calmly, recovering. “Over her?”
“Yes,” he says with a childish stamp of the foot. “Goddamn it, she mattered.”
Misha shows no reaction to his outburst. “How about throwing some of that courage into your businesses? My father doesn’t want to pay our mortgage again.”
“You’ll be fine,” he says. “You know how to climb your way out of anything.”
Misha closes the distance between them and slaps his face. I step toward Alec. “That’s
enough,” I say. “We need to work together. Figure out who really killed her.”
This is your fault.
You led Alec down this road.
You’ve ruined his life.
That’s all you do.
Misha’s eyes are full of tears. She raises her hands, and he flinches, but she gently touches his cheeks. “Do you want to do this alone?” she whispers.
His whole body slackens at the question. “No,” he whispers. “Please. Help me.”
She inhales deeply and pulls back from him. She turns to me. “What do you need?”
“Alec,” I say and wait until he turns from Misha to me. “If you’ll look at the last page, there are two initials for whoever Belina was meeting at Swan Point the night of her murder. CF and A with a circle. Does that mean anything to you?”
He stills, fumbling the paper. “I told you,” he says too loudly. “I have no idea.”
“The police are going to ask you the same question,” I say. “Work on your lie, if you’re going to try it with them too.”
“I don’t know who killed her.” He walks over to the bar to pour himself a large whiskey.
“You’re a good man, a wonderful father,” I begin, needing some drama to light a fire under his ass. “But this is the moment you choose if you’re going to fight for your family. For this life you’ve built. Tell me the truth so I can help you.”
“I have,” he says before taking a long drink. “She was our nanny. I cared about her, and she’s dead.”
You could have helped her.
This is all your fault.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Phillip texts: Cops there in 20. Big show. Media en route.
I squeeze the phone in my hand, scanning the room as I put my next steps together. Alec’s not answering my questions, and I need to focus on what I can get before the press and police arrive.
“The detectives are on their way,” I say.
“I’ll call our lawyer,” Misha says, picking up her cell phone and heading into the kitchen.
I slide up to Alec at the bar. “They’re going to turn your house upside down. I need to look at your computer.”
Little Voices Page 14