Little Voices

by Lillie, Vanessa

  I spot Cynthia toward the back, showing someone how the register works. She finishes her point and then strides my way.

  Her gaze darts over the room, and she seems satisfied, though uneasy. “Your uncle has been sitting in his car for a half hour,” she says, cutting me a look.

  I wave at Uncle Cal through the glass door, but he doesn’t get out of the car.

  “Real quick,” I begin. “Can you talk to anyone you know at Ivy Tavern who can confirm Alec’s alibi? The police didn’t get anything. My guess is their staff don’t want it getting around that drunk patrons are ratted out to cops.”

  “Or maybe they don’t care that much about some rich guy on the East Side?”

  I nod, her reasoning sounding more likely. “Do you mind digging?”

  “No problem,” Cynthia says. She brushes a tangle of my hair behind my ear. “Are you sleeping?”

  I start to lie but stop myself. “Not really.”

  She takes my hand, squeezes it, then holds our hands together. “Not everyone can be saved.”

  She’ll tell Jack.

  You’re going to lose everything.

  “I can’t leave it alone,” I say. “It’s too close to things that matter.”

  She inhales, pulling me closer. “You see so much of yourself in people. Find connections that aren’t . . . exactly there. I know it’s from a good place, but . . . be careful.”

  I hug her quickly, not sure how to refute what she’s said because it feels true. I see Uncle Cal getting out of the car and pull back. “Thank you.”

  He knocks snow off his shiny loafers on the side of his Mercedes. Buttoning his long double-breasted tan coat, he strides toward us.

  Cynthia tips her chin at the manager across the room, who quickly straightens the counter case.

  “It looks great,” I assure her, but she doesn’t react.

  “The Council meets in one week,” she says. “The financials don’t work for my second location without their support.”

  She’s never admitted that before, though it’s something I suspected. “You’re going to do this.”

  She touches my hand one more time, lightly, and I can still feel a tremor. It’s as nervous as I’ve ever seen her. “I’ll get him seated,” she says. “Can you check in with the kitchen?”

  I head over to the assistant manager, waving at a couple of people I recognize in the back of the kitchen. “Hey, Lila,” I say. “Got a special order for you.”

  “Good to see ya, Devon.” Lila crosses in front of a metal table with a lump of floury dough resting on it. She’s a whiz at pastries, which is good, since she’s got a sleeve of pie tattoos on both arms. “What d’they want?” she asks.

  “Creamy cheeses, grass fed, and dark chocolate. He likes espresso too, with a drop of whole foam on top. Lemon peel on the side. Any herbal notes that would pair with a martini, basically.”

  Lila moves quickly, and I don’t hover. Cynthia takes Uncle Cal’s coat and escorts him to a seat in the corner but still in the window. There are empty tables around. The table she leads him to is marked with a RESERVED sign. She points out a few things on the menu, laughs at a joke, and then Lila hands me the board. The chocolates, cheeses, and espresso are served on a thin slice of oak cut in the shape of Rhode Island. It’s beautifully done, exactly what he’d want, but I hesitate.

  You’re going to fail her again.

  You’re going to fail Uncle Cal and Jack and Ester.

  All you’ve ever done is fail.

  I take one step and then another. Uncle Cal raises his neat eyebrows as I approach. “Are you my food taster?” he asks.

  Cynthia lets out another generous laugh and leaves us to our table. Uncle Cal flips over the menu.

  “No booze,” I say. “Real shame.”

  “Gotta know someone to get a license,” he says without a whiff of sarcasm.

  I don’t take the bait and pull out the folder I put together. “Here’s everything I’ve compiled on Alec’s business that’s tied to your Economic Development Council.”

  He takes the document and quickly scans it. “All related to Stefano?”

  “He was only on the board one year, and yet he continued his ties to Alec’s business. His offshore corporation is easy to link to the payments Alec has been receiving, washing through his fishing business and then back again.”

  Uncle Cal lets out a long breath. “I asked Stefano to resign as soon as it came to light.”

  “I almost ruined Phillip’s career over the truth,” I say, referencing the information Phillip received about the Council. The information I blackmailed him not to use.

  Uncle Cal runs the lemon slice along the edge of his espresso cup. “The band is back together. And we’ve been able to continue the EDC’s important work. That may extend all the way to this very shop.”

  I lean forward. “See that it does.”

  He smirks at me as a person who hasn’t taken an order in thirty years would. “What else is on your mind?”

  “Tell me about the fishing industry,” I say. “What do you know of the Rossa family?”

  “An immigrant builds a security empire from the ground up to become a wealthy businessman and community leader. An American success story.”

  “And his son, Miguel?”

  He scoops some savory herb jam onto a cracker with a soft brie. “You’re acquainted?” he asks before putting the whole bit in his mouth.

  “He thinks I’m an investor in his new business. Miguel wants to build a business that rivals Venantius Ventures.”

  Uncle Cal wipes his mouth before answering. “There are a limited number of fishing licenses. I don’t see any more coming onto the market.”

  I watch him take another bite, this one ganache with espresso cream. “Miguel says he’s going to get Alec’s licenses. And by next season, Stefano’s.”

  Uncle Cal chuckles. “New money confidence,” he says.

  “Is he completely delusional?” I ask.

  He sips his espresso as if really considering the question. “If he and Alec had a deal, it’s possible. But Stefano is a warrior. He’ll die on his sword.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Uncle Cal chews slowly, his stare incredulous. “His business is worth over one hundred million dollars. Maybe two, depending on any other enterprises.”

  You’re missing everything that matters.

  I lean back in my chair, surprised at this valuation. His offshore account that paid Alec is a fraction of that amount. That kind of money may be worth killing someone. “How would Stefano lose those fishing licenses to Miguel?”

  He raises a shoulder, his suit looking baggier than normal. “Must I do all the work? Weren’t you creative once?”

  “Blackmail for the money laundering,” I say. “Or forfeiting them due to an FBI-level arrest. Or divorce. Wife gets half so he liquidates.”

  Uncle Cal waves at Cynthia and stands. “Or all three,” he says. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

  He’s pulling your strings.

  Playing you like a fiddle, busted or not.

  “And the black market fishing?” I say, thinking of what the bartender said and what Ricky was likely doing. Maybe he and Alec had been doing it all along. “Selling high-value fish under the table?”

  “Fish, coolers of cash. A boat is very convenient for all kinds of dark deeds.”

  I stand up too, handing him the folder but not letting go. “Will she get the grant?”

  “I never liked Starbucks,” he says with a grin, pulling it from me. “But remember as you dig, my EDC can’t go down with Stefano.”

  Chapter 25

  Wednesday, December 14

  “You’re sure this is right?” I ask Derek for the third time. He sounds fairly lucid, but I still can’t believe we got lucky enough to directly tie Belina’s last day to Stefano.

  “She transferred one hundred thousand to him the morning she died,” he says.

  “It can’t be a coincidence that
’s what Tina was paid,” I say.

  “It’s like Belina paid her mom’s own hush money,” Derek says. “That’s messed up.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “She’d never sent Stefano money before. Not from this account anyway.”

  It was a newer account, one she opened after taking the nannying job. “How did she get his bank details?” I ask. “She must have reached out that day.”

  “It’s pretty random based on how she spends her money,” he says. “She’s cheaper than me.”

  We both know where Derek spends his money. Drugs and organic cat food. But instead of needling him, so to speak, I click through Belina’s expenses. She was frugal to the point of spending only a few hundred dollars a month on food and the occasional trip to Savers thrift store.

  I probably should have talked to Derek a little longer, but I am restless to meet Stefano. To finally see this person at the heart of Belina’s murder.

  Gillian is already with Ester, happy to come over and babysit once Jack left for work. He asked where I am going but nothing more.

  He knows you’ll just lie.

  I drive in silence; the sun is already bright and full in the sky over the Newport Bridge, even though it’s only seven a.m. I’m cutting it close to make the morning mass at Saint Mary’s. Pete the bartender’s casual comment about Stefano attending every Wednesday is too convenient to ignore.

  I eek through a yellow traffic light, passing Thames Street, the main shopping drag, before turning into the Saint Mary’s parking lot.

  Place should burst into flames with you darkening its door.

  Evil mother having an evil baby.

  My snow boots crunch against the two inches of slush still on the ground as I lean into the wind. Saint Mary’s is Gothic Revival, a stunning reddish brownstone that’s almost pink in the morning sun. I pause to stare up at the tall narrow tower beside the main entrance. Even though this is a beautiful church hundreds of miles from the one I grew up in, a heavy sickness settles into my bones.

  I shrug out of my coat, feeling stares that aren’t there. My thighs begin to itch as if I’m back in my yellow Easter dress. I can hear my grandfather’s voice, thundering scripture all the way to Derek and me in the back pew, my mother in the choir, father passing out programs at the door.

  Smoothing the front of my olive-green dress, I remind myself who I am and who I chose never to be again. I pull the knockoff Burberry wrap tight around my shoulders more for comfort than warmth. The ladies’ restroom is right by the door. I could go inside and throw up before I sit down. My stomach full of acid and memories of powerlessness; it’d take only a few seconds.

  Instead, I make the sign of the cross and bend a knee, entering like a Catholic, though I was raised Southern Baptist. The organ music begins on a high note, the perfect dramatic soundtrack for the stone archways and glowing stained glass above us. I remain behind the back pew as the procession begins. The boy carrying the gold cross goes first, and two candle bearers follow. An older man holds a Bible rigid, and the priest swings the incense behind him.

  The fires of hell will be welcoming you soon enough.

  I don’t believe in hell, so the voice’s threat is empty. It’s the hell people can create for you on earth that terrifies me.

  I pretend to study the program. The church appears to be a popular spot for wealthy Catholic Newporters, based on the cars in the parking lot, but it’s a shrinking group; I count only twelve families. Saint Mary’s does have the distinction of a local history worth touting: JFK and Jackie were married here. If the church leaders were smart, they’d see the appetite for the liberal nostalgia and cash in with tours and tote bags and Kennedy wedding toppers.

  My gaze lingers on a thick crop of silver-white hair above a tan neck and crisp white collar poking out of a suit. Stefano’s shoulder almost touches the thin woman next to him. She has a good haircut and a silvery-blonde dye job. The back of another blonde’s head matches with photos I’ve seen of their daughter, who is only a few years younger than Belina.

  If Belina was stalking him, she probably saw the family together like this, in church or maybe a restaurant. Did she feel guilty for hurting the family with an affair? Jealous that Stefano had this family with someone else?

  It’s too late now.

  You’re embarrassing yourself.

  I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I keep staring. Belina cared for this man. Spent the last years of her life working for him, seeing him socially, and likely, breaking the law for him.

  I move to their side of the church but sit a couple of rows back and over. They’re in line with the priest, so staring will be easy to cover.

  Stefano watches the priest like he’s paid for the robes and sacraments himself, which is likely. He glances at his wife, nods at his daughter as if checking on a ship’s sails. He casually drapes an arm behind them as if all is right for now, and he’s back to focusing on the priest.

  I like watching people when they’re relaxed. When they’re in a familiar place, hardly registering the expected faces and tastes and smells. Their guards drop quicker, and their natural rhythms emerge.

  I saw it with Alec playing with Emmett, joking with Belina. He is a man who likes to be cared for, to make others love him and be proud of him. As he is full of big ideas and enthusiasm, the attraction is hardly a stretch to understand for someone like her, like us.

  Stefano seems like a different personality. He worked day in and day out to build a successful business on the backs of fishermen. He took what he wanted, from women to illegal business deals, all the while going to the same buck-a-shuck lunch at the same bar for twenty years. Alec and Stefano could not be more different, and yet, they’re possibly the two men Belina cared about most.

  I glance around, seeing one other person alone. He’s got a buzz cut and a bad suit, and he probably benches 250. An FBI agent out of central casting, but that’s not a guess. His name is Max Fincher. We worked together to put away the Rhode Island Speaker of the House.

  He’ll laugh at you.

  You have no real reason to be here.

  I quietly cross to the back of the church and scoot in close next to him. “Found Jesus?”

  He glances at me, the slow blink of recognition and alarm. He lets out a deep grumble, a sound of frustration, one he often made around me. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, leaning close.

  “I have as much a right as you,” I say, tucking some errant hair behind my ears. “Rhode Island was founded on religious freedom. Take that, Puritan Masshole.”

  He smirks because he’s a proudly born and bred Boston, Massachusetts, Masshole.

  I dig one thumbnail into the other thumb’s cuticle. Max always makes me fidgety, chatty, as if it’s high school all over again. He’s a little too close to the popular dickhead football players I avoided in high school. But I’m happy to do something other than listen to an old white man talking at me from a lectern. “You know Rhode Island was the real birthplace of the American Revolution?”

  Max puts one arm over the back of the pew. “Really?”

  “We burned the British Army’s ship, the Gaspee, as a protest six months before your precious tea party. Not sure Gaspee party sends the right message, though.”

  His mouth quirks to hide a grin.

  I pause to watch Stefano with his family. As Max’s gaze finally makes it there too, I press my luck. “When you arrest him—”

  “Who says he’s going to be arrested?”

  “I’d guess Frank is outside,” I say about his partner. “Unmarked car, inhaling an Awful Awful chocolate malt despite the cold temperatures?” I don’t blame Frank. The local dessert is nicknamed for being awful big and awful good.

  “Dunkin’ Cronut, actually,” he says.

  I frown at him. “A what?”

  “It’s part croissant, part doughnut. All wicked disgusting.”

  “Right,” I continue, picking at the other thumbnail. “So again, when you guys arrest him, who wi
ll take over the fishing licenses?”

  He shifts closer, leaning down to my ear. “He knows we’re on him. Puckered right up. Arrest at this point is unlikely.”

  “When?”

  “He stopped everything we were tracking cold two months ago.” He shakes his head. “If we don’t get creative, they’ll shut down the whole operation. It’s not just the year of work and people who have stuck their necks out to get him. It’s that this guy is as guilty as they come.”

  I hear the frustration in his voice, which is unusual. Max and I had at least a dozen interactions when I was building the first case Uncle Cal gave me as a “Welcome to Providence” gift—or test, as hindsight taught me. No matter the surprise or setback we experienced, Max was a cool customer. Back then, I could really walk the line of leaking information to Phillip but not obstructing justice. Max was quick to accept my methods, focused on the career-making optics of hauling a top Rhode Island political official out of his statehouse office in cuffs. Those were the early, good days, when Uncle Cal’s enemies were actual criminals and not just people he wanted out of his way.

  You were too stupid to see how he used you.

  That’s all you’re good for.

  Use and throw away.

  “Operations don’t run any quieter.” Max rolls the mass program in his hands. “I’m not sure where the leak came from. I even looked at Frank for a desperate minute.”

  I almost laugh. His partner inhaling the Cronut lives and breathes the FBI. No close family, no expenses, no vacations, just working cases and eating shitty food.

  “How many people knew?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “I was venting. Drop it.”

  “Aren’t you curious why I’m here?”

  “I know why,” he says. “Detective Ramos warned me you’d be sniffing around Stefano.”

  “Did you interview Belina?” I ask, the possibility raising even more questions about what she knew.

  “We left her alone. She was too close to him,” he says, giving me a look. “Very, very few people knew about our operation.”

  “Did the Rossas? Miguel? They’re positioned to take over these fishing licenses. At least according to Miguel.”