Little Voices

by Lillie, Vanessa

  “Yeah, most old stories are,” he says. “I gotta check in the back for some lemons. Sit tight.”

  I sip the drink with just honey, whiskey, and hot water, not minding the strong taste. The bartender returns, squeezes a lemon in my drink. The couple at the end, who now have their Newport map out, leave some cash and exit quickly. The bartender picks up the money and grumbles as he puts it into the drawer.

  “Off-season tourists not the best tippers?” I say.

  He laughs and drops some change into his pocket. “I didn’t say it.”

  “I remember. I worked as a server in Providence for almost ten years,” I lie. He has a Rhode Island accent, and because of it, there’s a 99 percent chance that he’s lived and worked only in Newport.

  He nods as if we have a bond. “I’ve been in Newport and Jamestown off and on for about thirty years,” he says. “Pete.”

  “Devon,” I say.

  You use everyone.

  “This state is such a funny place,” he says. “I probably talk to more people from Spain than Providence.”

  “People won’t drive across town for the best Italian on the East Coast,” I say with a Rhode Islander’s authority. “Newport might as well be the dark side of the moon.”

  He waggles a finger at me. “You holiday shopping? Couple nice stores havin’ some sales.”

  “Nope,” I say. “A friend of mine used to come here. I was wondering if you’d recognize her.”

  I pull out my phone and show him a picture of Belina from her Instagram account.

  He looks at me as if I’m telling a joke. “That’s the girl who was murdered.”

  “You remember her?” I ask and take a sip, trying to seem casual.

  He picks up a glass from the washing area under the bar as if it were screaming for his attention. After beginning to dry it with a towel, he finally sets it down. “You a cop?”

  “She was a friend of mine,” I say. “They arrested the wrong person. I’m trying to figure out who really killed her.”

  Pete whistles. “I’ve heard a lot behind this bar, but nothing like that.”

  “Ever heard of someone taking a restraining order out against her?” I ask.

  Pete’s eyes widen, then focus, and I relax at his resistance. This detour isn’t a waste of time.

  “They’ve got the wrong guy for her murder,” I continue. “He’s sitting in jail right now. His wife and kid at home because the police won’t dig around on . . . the guy who would have taken out that restraining order. Someone she met here often.”

  “Look, I still see . . . him a lot. I don’t want word to get around. For a lot of reasons.”

  I’m not surprised Pete doesn’t want to say Stefano’s name. “The restraining order. What do you know about it?”

  Pete’s gaze makes a full circle of the room. It’s just us, but he pauses and leans close. “About three years ago . . . this guy . . . he thought she was around too much. Popping up at his job after she didn’t work there. She’d drive by his house. Run into his wife and daughter when they were out shopping. He threatened to file a restraining order. Or at least that’s what he told me one night when I asked where she’d been lately. He was pretty drunk but told me and the manager to keep her out if she showed up.”

  I know from Belina’s journal that she did meet Stefano, or CF, as of two weeks before her murder. “But she did come back. She was here with him right before, actually.”

  “Yeah, guess he got over it.” Pete sighs, and I feel a little guilty, but it’s not going to stop me.

  “Were they sleeping together?” I ask. “Was he worried about his marriage? Maybe his wife knew?”

  “I really don’t know. For a while, he seemed uncomfortable around me. Happens sometimes with regulars who drink too much one night. They stay away, embarrassed. I didn’t think much of it.”

  “When they came back after, did their relationship seem different?”

  He shrugs. “He’d get his private table with her. I didn’t listen.”

  “You watch people all day and night,” I say. “You don’t remember any details?”

  He leans closer. “I don’t want what I say spread around and ending up on TV.”

  So he is following it closely. “Are you one of those bartenders who thinks if he kisses enough ass, some rich guy will come through on drunken promises to take you up the ladder with them?”

  “It’s not like that with him,” he says.

  “Then what do you remember about her? About them?”

  “She seemed into him,” he says softly. “Hung on every word. Always dressed up. Trying hard, I guess you could say. She didn’t drink much but always kept on me to refill his glass full. She wanted him to have fun. Or keep having fun, I guess. They always left together.”

  “Does he have a lot of girlfriends?”

  “Not anymore,” Pete says. “He used to really chase ladies way back when. Brought a few here. But Belina was his regular for a long time.”

  I try to picture Belina here, dressed up and flirting, trying to keep this married man’s attention as he’s watching over his shoulder for his wife.

  Just another whore.

  She doesn’t deserve justice.

  Neither of you do.

  “When’s the last time he was here?” I ask.

  His shoulders relax as if he knows we’re almost done. “Every Wednesday. Mass in the morning, buck a shuck for lunch after.”

  “Thanks, Pete.” I pull out my wallet and pay. “I have a weird question.” Ricky’s sushi offer still niggles in my mind. “Do you have black sea bass on the menu?”

  He shakes his head. “No way. Damn government regulations keep fishermen from getting it this time of year. We can’t until the spring. Throw you in jail for it, if you can believe it.”

  “Why would someone fish it if they can’t sell it?”

  “Black market pays triple, maybe more.” Pete leans close. “You’re looking in the right direction for that too.”

  Chapter 23

  The car ride back from Newport is quiet except for Gillian’s soft singing, which seems to calm Ester. It’s a welcome distraction from my guilt about having my baby in the car most of the day. When we turn off the highway onto North Main Street, Gillian stops singing, but the car isn’t silent.

  What kind of mother coops her baby up?

  Doesn’t do tummy time?

  She’ll never sit up or pull up or crawl or walk.

  You were never meant to be a mother.

  “What songs are those?” I ask, desperate for distraction. I like the melancholy lyrics, wife leaving a candle in the window for her sailor husband or desperate crew crashing their ship into rocks.

  “Sea shanty songs,” she says. “My grandpa worked the docks, and they’d sing them while havin’ a pint at home. They go back further. Them old songs were a way the masters kept the rhythm of work goin’ on a ship. Anything for the bottom line.”

  We grin at each other in the rearview mirror before I focus back on the road. “Did Jack tell you I’m trying to find out who killed my friend? And help another friend arrested for it?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she says as she’s adjusting Ester’s blanket. “Nothing much surprises me anymore.”

  “Looks like my friend was seeing Stefano.” I glance back for a reaction, but she doesn’t give one. “I was thinking about what you said, about how expensive divorce would be.”

  “Lots of things are expensive,” she says. “Not always about money. At least not deep down.”

  Her comment sits heavy on my chest, deflating the progress I’ve made. When there’s money involved—possibly the main motivator for framing Alec—both Miguel and Ricky could be suspects. It’s more digging, more guessing, more lies. Before Newport, I was so sure it was Stefano.

  You shouldn’t be sure of anything.

  I drop Gillian off at her condo in Wayland Square only a mile or so from our house. I offer to pay for her time, but she waves me off as she collects
her purse and zips her coat.

  “Naw, I’m all set. Not every Monday lunch I get a lobstah roll that fancy,” she says with a chuckle. “Puttin’ celery peels on top.” She pauses at the door handle. “About your friend. People are a mystery, even to themselves. Usually, in the worst ways. Just be ready for that, ya know.”

  I thank her again and wait as she hurries toward the entry door. It started lightly snowing when we left Newport, and it’s picking up.

  You wasted her time.

  You’re making everything worse.

  I turn the wipers up a notch more than they need to be and start toward home. Ester begins to cry, as if she can read my thoughts, hear the voice, and she agrees.

  I try to hum a sea shanty song, and it’s lame, doesn’t rhyme, and she keeps crying.

  She hates the sound of your voice.

  She wishes she was still with Gillian.

  I count to one hundred, thinking of all the time I’ve spent with Ester. Refuting the voice’s point. I’m calm by fifty, and Ester has fallen asleep by one hundred.

  Back home, I carry her in the infant car seat, which is relatively light. The house is still. Jack texted he’d likely be late tonight. Again.

  I leave Ester sleeping in the living room after checking to be sure she’s comfortable. I hear her soft snore, a light and puttering version of Jack’s.

  In my office, I put on my hands-free pump and start to work.

  I write Alec and Stefano on my whiteboard and draw a long line in between them. I dial Phillip, putting in my Bluetooth, feeling more like myself despite the pumping.

  “Hey,” Phillip says. “How’d it go?”

  “We’re getting there.” I can hear the distinct rumble of the train. “Where you headed?”

  “Back home,” he says. “But the TODAY Show producer wants to work on a Stefano exposé ASAP. We’ll wait for evidence before airing, of course.”

  “Sure,” I say, but my gut sinks. “We need to be careful. It’s a ‘You come at the king, you best not miss’ situation.”

  “Is that from The Wire?” Phillip says with a laugh. “Are you Omar or McNulty?”

  “All right,” I say. “Every person I spoke to today, Tina; her boyfriend, Lee; Miguel; Ricky; and the bartender at Clarke Cooke House—”

  “Ah, that’s CCH,” Phillip interrupts. “How’d you figure it out?”

  “Ricky,” I say. “He was at the dock this morning too. My point is everyone is afraid of Stefano.”

  “That’s good for us,” Phillip says. “What’d you think of Miguel?”

  “He has a lot to gain with Alec in jail,” I say. “He hinted that Stefano might be in some kind of trouble.”

  “Really?”

  “The kind that would put his fishing licenses—that’s tens of millions of dollars—up for grabs.”

  “Wow,” Phillip says with the enthusiasm he used to share with me when we were digging into a Rhode Island politician. He’s in a good mood and rightly so. The TODAY Show interview went great. His Twitter feed was blowing up last I checked. I’m sure his inbox is full of media requests.

  “Stefano paid Tina one hundred thousand dollars after Belina was murdered,” I say. “He said it was an insurance policy, but not the kind you pay taxes on.”

  Phillip whistles into the phone. “What’s worth that kind of money?”

  I refrain from saying that it’s the hundred-thousand-dollar question. “I don’t know.”

  There’s a rustle of fabric, like Phillip’s on the move. A door slams, and a metal lock clicks. He’s just locked himself in the train bathroom. “Okay, let’s talk it through,” he says. “Belina is cooking the books for Stefano. He moves her over to Alec’s business so he can start washing money there. She’s getting paid as the nanny, doing that work, and then also watching Alec for Stefano. Then there’s the relationship complications. Belina was likely having an affair with Stefano. Maybe with Alec.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Fine,” he says. “Maybe Stefano is unhappy with her work. She doesn’t have great control over Alec, who spends that big chunk of money instead of washing it. Belina hides it from Stefano. He kills Belina and frames Alec.”

  “Sure,” I say. “But we’re pretty far from proving any of that. Good TV can also make a good libel lawsuit.”

  “But they’re cleaning money connected to Stefano. The crimes must be linked.” Phillip hasn’t asked how I found out about the laundered money. Likely he knows it’s Uncle Cal and hacking. But like last time, he’s enjoying success too much to ask.

  “The motive is weak,” I say, staring at my board. “Would Stefano kill Belina because she was threatening him? Maybe about the affair, but I’d say business is what matters.” I think of Uncle Cal, how “legacy” means so much to people of a certain age and personality.

  “Alec was in the middle,” Phillip says. “Easy enough to frame. What about Miguel?”

  “Miguel needs the licenses Alec and Ricky managed,” I say. “Then he’s got his eyes on Stefano.”

  “Ambitious,” Phillip says. “But that’s hardly a crime.”

  “Stefano doesn’t strike me as a person to give those up without a nasty fight.”

  “Can we get more information from Miguel?” Phillip asks.

  “We better,” I say. “His father’s security company monitors most of the East Side. If there’s footage of Alec to create a real alibi, he’s our only chance.”

  “Damn,” Phillip mutters. “Amtrak stopped.” An announcer comes on, saying they’re clearing the track as fast as they can. “Well, I’m not going anywhere, so let’s keep going. What happened with Ricky?”

  “He’s looking into Tina’s boyfriend, Lee,” I say. “If Lee knew there’d be a payday with Belina’s death, that’s motive.”

  “And the bartender?”

  I want to keep the stalking private, but that’s what the old me did. “Belina was stalking Stefano for a while. Lee said it, and the bartender confirmed it. But they made up, and she took the job with Alec and Misha.”

  “What can I post on TheHaleReport.com now?” he asks.

  “Let’s humanize Belina a bit more. I’ll email you some details from Tina. Notes from books she had growing up. I’m sure you’ll know what to do.”

  “That’s good,” he says. “Oh, I forgot. The producer said a PR person from the Providence Police Department will be on tomorrow.”

  They’re feeling the pressure. “I’m sure it’ll be a female, probably blonde and white.”

  “Without a doubt,” he says. “I’ll push on Belina’s business ties and background with Stefano.”

  “Phillip, you can’t mention him by name.”

  “I won’t, but I’ll allude. So they know we know.”

  You’re doing it all wrong again.

  You’re going to ruin Phillip’s reputation again.

  Cynthia will hate you again.

  This time, no one will forgive you.

  “Hey, Devon,” Phillip says, his voice sounding hesitant. “Alec’s bail hearing is tomorrow.”

  I hear the implication. “We need him to post,” I say for him. “They don’t have enough for a bond in their bank account. Maybe Misha’s parents will help?”

  We’re silent, aware that we’re getting to the heart of this conversation.

  “What will it take for Alec to flip on Stefano?” Phillip asks finally.

  “I don’t know,” I say quietly, thinking that that’s the real one-hundred-thousand-dollar question. “We need Alec to explain the payoffs and why they stopped. Money laundering may just be the beginning.”

  “But if Stefano killed Belina,” Phillip says, “Alec has to cooperate, right? He loved her.”

  It is what Phillip needs for his TODAY Show producer, but I am not so sure it is true.

  I get the sinking feeling in my stomach that I’m guessing instead of verifying when I hear Ester crying. I glance at the time and realize I should have already given her an evening bottle. I want to f
eed her before Jack gets home and I leave again.

  “Hope your train starts moving,” I say. “I’ll say hi to Cynthia for you. I need her to charm some alibi information out of the Hope Street bartenders.”

  I feed Ester upstairs, and as I get her settled on her mat, I hear Jack downstairs. He stomps the snow off his boots and soon after finds us upstairs in the nursery. I pick up Ester, cuddling her against my chest, and follow him to the bedroom so he can change out of his work clothes.

  He wishes you were already gone.

  Wishes you’d never come back.

  “You’re going to see Cynthia?” he asks, referencing the text I sent earlier.

  “I’m working on Alec’s alibi,” I say. “If he was getting drunk on Hope Street, someone saw him.”

  “Cynthia knows everyone,” he says.

  I sense the day is still heavy on his mind. “How was work?”

  “Phillip’s interview didn’t help,” he says. He exchanges his tie and collared shirt for his Georgetown Law hoodie.

  I’m torn: I want to apologize because his day was difficult, but I want him to tell me he’s proud I made it that way. “We’re not slowing down.”

  “I know,” he says, tired. “I want this to be over.”

  I place Ester in her bassinet. I stride around to the foot of the bed to pull him into me. He inhales before I kiss him deeply for the first time since Ester. I’m greedy for the taste of him, restless to close a little of the distance. I picture what our evening could be, me curled next to him on the couch, discussing his meetings, sharing how good Ester was with Gillian today. We could order meatball subs from Sandwich Hut delivery and open a bottle of Sangiovese. We could be together, enjoy each other, connect.

  I don’t pull away from the kiss. He does.

  “You better get going,” he says softly. “Is anyone else meeting you there?”

  “No,” I lie.

  Chapter 24

  The evening crowd is gathered at Chip. A few families, but mostly people in their work clothes having a coffee and snack before heading off to dinner. This time of day frustrates Cynthia because she’s leaving money on the table by not having a liquor license. A lot of money.

  The person I’m meeting could make that issue go away.