My chest constricts, aching from the truth of what he’s saying, but I still want to deflect. “You think I need a vacation?”
He works his jaw. “You’ve taken this . . . project to help Belina as far as you can. I’m sure it felt nice to use your brain. To think about something other than baby life. You wanted to help a friend.”
I keep from calling him a condescending prick but just barely. “I’m about to solve your case. I blew up your entire theory about Alec in one week. So you’re welcome, for saving your ass.”
“We’re not there yet,” he says, holding up his hands. “Let me do my job, and you can do yours. To start, you need to take care of yourself.”
“That couldn’t be any less of your goddamn business,” I snap, taking a long inhale to relish what I’m about to tell him. “Tomorrow morning Phillip is going on national television with a one-on-one interview with Alec. He’s cooperating with the FBI to build a case against Stefano. That’s not a part of Phillip’s interview. I’m just telling you.”
Detective Ramos curses under his breath and turns to look back outside for a second. “Keep going,” he says at last.
“Alec’s alibi didn’t hold up because you only got half. He did get blackout drunk, as he said, but not at the Ivy Tavern. He went two doors down to Hope Street Pizza Kitchen. The waitress was out for a while from knee surgery. But she remembers him. She’ll testify he was there until almost three a.m. And had a black eye. She remembered.”
“Why did he lie?”
“He met with a divorce attorney that night. He expected you to find the real killer. So he wouldn’t have to admit that he was going to leave Misha and lose them both. But you never did.” I stop it there, though I could go on.
But he is guilty.
You’re protecting a bad man.
Because you’re worse.
“I can’t believe my guys missed it,” Detective Ramos says.
“She didn’t think much about it until we brought it to her attention,” I say, not meaning it as an excuse.
He rubs his face with his hand. “What’s your theory?”
I picture all the pieces I’ve managed to uncover, see the threads and theories, and quickly order them from fact to best guess. “Belina is connected to Stefano Venantius. Both work and personal. He rented a boat the night of the murder, and her day planner indicated they were meeting. He’s being investigated by the FBI, who were close to charging him with crimes that would put him away for a while. But the day after her murder, Stefano went dark. Likely, she told him about the FBI. Or he knew he’d be watched as a suspect to her murder.”
I pause, let him sit with that.
“What I know for sure,” I continue, “is that Belina told Alec about the FBI before the meeting where she was murdered. So if she was working with the FBI, perhaps Stefano attacked her. They were linked romantically, but she and Alec were going to try to be together, if Alec left his wife—”
“That’s enough,” Detective Ramos says, holding his hands up. “We didn’t have this conversation. I’m clueless about what you and Phillip are doing on TV or otherwise. And when the DA and my boss come to kick my ass, I’ll act like I don’t know shit. Which I guess is about right.”
“Okay,” I say, surprised. “But Stefano—”
“We’ve questioned him,” he says. “He wasn’t involved in her death.”
Listen to the boys, girlie.
Go where they say.
Do what they want.
Jack steps onto the porch with Ester in the car seat, protected from the night air by a blanket. “Devon, can you get her packed? We should get settled in the hotel.”
I know Detective Ramos is going to give Jack an earful, but it doesn’t matter.
Every instinct says the bastards who wrecked my home killed Belina. The home I’ve been trying to build my whole life. This was the exact wrong move if they want me to back off.
Chapter 32
Friday, December 16
The security footage Max emailed me from his anonymous account is thirty seconds long and shows Alec stumbling down Lauriston Street, urinating in a CVS parking lot, and turning onto Cole Avenue toward his home. It’s time-stamped 2:55 a.m.
I sent it to Phillip from the hotel last night before I got a few hours of sleep. He’s in New York, also up late, working on his segment for the TODAY Show. Unlike previous times, he hasn’t emailed me notes to look over. I’m telling myself he’s busy, but he’s always busy. This segment goes beyond our agreement. It’ll likely get rebroadcast throughout the day, possibly even lead to a special.
I text him my fear: Keep Stefano out of it. Not enough evidence.
No response.
I curse but do it softly because Ester is sleeping in a Biltmore Hotel–issued crib in the living area of our suite where I’m working. Jack is not the kind of person to get a big room, but we both need space.
You better get used to lots of space.
From Jack.
Revisiting the data Derek sent, I see the link he found, connecting one of the monthly boat rentals to a local account Stefano opened decades ago. I start to text my brother, to say thanks, to tell him about the intruder, to tell him it split open old wounds from our shared past. But he’d be upset, and I can’t share like that with him anymore.
I stare at the dates when the boat was rented. It’s almost every thirty days and always for twenty-four hours. I look back at Belina’s journal: she met with CF each day he rented the boat, a pattern that continued to the night of her murder.
I sort through the data Derek sent about Stefano’s accounts. I need to make a case for money laundering that includes Alec’s business but leaves out the Economic Development Council.
The commercial break is over, and Phillip’s segment is opening the show. He lays out everything we’ve got to prove Alec is innocent. The video of Alec is particularly sympathetic and a little funny as Phillip makes a joke about CVS not having public bathrooms.
Then it shifts, Phillip sharing about the one on one in his car, how Alec cried about the woman he loved and whose death he’s blamed for. There’s some simple footage of Alec looking sad and contrite.
“But after we return,” says the anchor, “the latest suspect not even the police have uncovered.”
“Shit,” I say and call Phillip. It goes right to voice mail. I email him to call me immediately. Email the producer to call me immediately. Get put through by the receptionist to the voice mail of anyone I can find on the dial directory.
The segment is as awful as I feared. He includes every last piece of evidence against Stefano: the night fishing boat ride near where Belina was killed, his nickname in the journal, previous working and possibly romantic relationship with Belina, dozens of meetings together, the hundred grand Belina transferred, and his same amount paid to Tina. He even hints at the FBI case as another possible motive.
I put the TV on mute and stare. We’ve showed our hand completely to Stefano. He’s going to bury us. My phone buzzes, and I tell myself not to yell right away.
“I can’t believe you did that,” I say as calmly as I can. “We had time. You didn’t have to do this now.”
“Yes, I did,” Phillip says. “The producers wanted more than Alec’s exoneration. They wanted to know who actually did it. This was it.”
“There had to be other opportunities,” I say. “Take it to another network.”
“There was no time for that,” Phillip says. “And . . . Alec told me that Miguel was working with Uncle Cal. That they want Stefano’s fishing licenses when he goes to prison. So in the end, aren’t we just doing what we always did? Putting ourselves first?”
“I didn’t know that,” I lie, sort of. “I have only been trying to help Belina—”
“It doesn’t matter, Devon,” Phillip says, the emotion heavy in his low voice. “I had to make my move.”
I should have seen his desperation. He took me back too easily. Went along with every suggestion. He knew
he’d never have another chance like this. Maybe that’s what Cynthia was trying to tell me. It wasn’t just her fear that I’d screw him over again. It was her fear of two people who needed something so badly working together.
Too stupid to see it coming.
Or you let it happen.
Either way, you deserved to get screwed over.
“We’re even,” I say. “Good luck.”
Jack steps out of the bedroom. He’s shaved, his suit is clean and pressed, but the circles under his eyes draw the most attention. “Who was that?” he asks.
“Phillip,” I say. “We’re in some trouble.”
“If Stefano isn’t guilty—”
“He is,” I snap. “Sorry, didn’t sleep much.”
He nods, but there’s no emotion, not real consideration. I wonder if he’s in shock from last night. Or if he’s been in some form of shock since the night Ester and I almost died. “She’s fed,” he says. “Gillian will be here in an hour.”
I frown at him. I don’t plan to leave anytime soon. “Did the police give us the okay to go home?” Perhaps a day of cleaning will help my mind focus on how to really pin down Stefano.
“The mayor wants to see you,” he says. “I’m not sure . . . this is my last chance with this job. So please come.”
I nod quickly, but Jack waits for more of a response. I’m not sure what to say. I wish I were someone else. Why did you marry me? I told you not to.
Just leave him now.
Leave the baby. She’ll be better off.
Leave it all behind.
He picks up his coat, hefts it over his shoulder, and shrugs it together as he buttons it. As if his pockets are full of stones. He doesn’t say anything else, which is worse than if he screamed. I’ve always wondered at what point he’d regret marrying someone like me. Perhaps it’s today.
Let him go.
Let everyone go.
Ester begins to cry, so I change her diaper and get her out of her pajamas. Once she’s situated in a bouncy chair, I move her near the bathroom and take a shower. She’s just outside the door, and I wash and listen for her to get upset. I realize she’s been crying less and less. Maybe we’re rounding a corner.
One you can’t walk back.
I dig out a black dress and the only cardigan I brought over. With heels and some lipstick and undereye concealer, it’s all the armor I can slap together in an hour.
Gillian arrives, greeting me with a too-cheerful smile. As if she knows I’m walking into the firing squad, which she might.
I thank her for coming over but leave before any conversation can take place.
I push through the revolving door of our hotel. An icy blast of wind rips at my hair and scorches my bare legs. In my peripheral vision I see past Kennedy Plaza, full of loud bus traffic and a mix of commuters and vagrants.
Leaning into the wind, I cross the street to Providence City Hall. It’s exactly how I pictured every city hall. Built in the late 1800s, the exterior is made of pale limestone blocks that shine on this bright winter morning. The iron flourishes are a vibrant weathered green. I hurry up the steps through the entryway, but there’s not a big change in temperature inside. It’s a large, drafty building, with open staircases rising three floors. My heels click against the mosaic tiles. I hope the sound communicates confidence rather than the trepidation I really feel.
This is where you lose him for good.
You’ve taken away his home.
His job.
He’ll never forgive you.
On the third floor, I approach a large wooden door that reads MAYOR’S OFFICE. I knock lightly, and the door swings open. The communications director, Barry Kapps, moves over so I can enter. He’s already sweating and nervous but fakes a grin. “This way please, Ms. Burges.”
“Thank you, Barry,” I say and follow him into the office. Jack is there, sitting rigid in one of the two chairs in front of the mayor’s empty desk. I sit in the other, and he doesn’t look at me. We both pretend to be really interested in staring at the downtown buildings and the top of the giant decorated holiday tree.
It’s a twist in my gut because we don’t have a tree this year. Not even for Ester’s first Christmas.
Even if you had, it’d have been destroyed, like your home and your life.
My eyes burn with tears, but I’m able to breathe them away. The door opens, and the slow-moving but loud-heeled steps of the mayor tap behind us.
From the corner of my eye, I see a manicured hand squeezing the leather back of my chair.
“Marriage counseling is not my forte,” says Mayor Samantha Soriano. “As you well know, I’ve had three men divorce me.”
I smile, even though I’ve heard the line a dozen times. Her marriages led to us working together after she was elected. Well, one marriage, in particular. Husband number two had photos and several videos that needed to be erased. Thankfully she did not marry him for his smarts. Her motivation was more related to the contents of the photos. The task took less than two days total, with a little help from Derek after my own light breaking and entering.
But now I will have to test the limits of her gratitude. Despite what Phillip has done, I’m not backing down from this case.
The mayor’s nails tap on the back of my chair. “How do you see this ending?”
I don’t turn around. “This?”
She steps around the chair, leaning onto the front of her desk to face us. Her suit is navy, tailored, and almost tight. “This woman’s murder is drowning my administration. I can’t get a reporter to ask about anything else. All my statements are defending fuckups of the police, who are fighting me on pension reform. I thought they had the guy who did it. You and the TODAY Show tell me differently this morning.” She flicks a glance at Jack. “A heads-up would have been nice.”
“We’re working separate tracks,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.
He can’t control his own crazy wife.
You make him look like such a sucker.
He’s done in this town.
She focuses back on me. “When is this over?”
“As soon as I can get enough evidence against Stefano,” I say. “I’m trying to help.”
She tilts her blowout to the side toward Jack, giving him a look that says, Are you fucking kidding me? He glances up to receive it but doesn’t react. “Undermining the police department,” she begins, “is not the help I need.”
“They screwed up,” I say.
She turns on her heel, heading behind her desk as if it’s higher ground. Before I lived in DC, I’d had a general respect for elected leaders. I thought they were smart, connected to their voters. But happy hours on Capitol Hill with staffers and a few too-drunk and handsy members of Congress dissuaded me of that notion. Best case, they’re smart egomaniacs who want to help people according to their own values. Worst case is sitting in the Oval Office right now.
This mayor is certainly closer to the former, but she’d made a mint on Wall Street before returning to her hometown of Providence, ready to tell us how to live. I feel a bit of pride at the observation because it’s about the most Rhode Island thought I’ve ever had.
But that’s not why I’m here. She’s going to want me to back off, and that’s not an option. “The TODAY Show could just be the beginning,” I say, bluffing a little. “Phillip Hale will be discussing this case and putting the Providence police and your administration front and center for many, many news cycles. You want my help.”
“Unbelievable,” she says. She impatiently tips her head toward Jack as if waiting for him to say something, but he only turns back toward the view of the holiday tree. She shakes her head, pursing her lips, putting a hand on a slim hip. “I’m in goddamn union contract negotiations. This distraction could cost the city millions in pension payouts.”
“It’s much worse than that,” I say. “You and Cal started the Economic Development Council. It’s about to go down in flames.” I pause at the threat. One I don�
�t plan to keep, but she doesn’t know that. “If you try to protect Stefano—which, let’s be honest here, that’s the direction this conversation is heading—you won’t survive.”
“Detective Ramos told me that Stefano wasn’t involved,” she says. “He’s emphatic, so you see my dilemma.”
“You want it both ways,” I say. “Stefano is a huge contributor, obviously, but even if it’s not murder, he’s going to be charged with other crimes. Have FBI Agent Max Fincher in here to brief you on Alec Mathers’s deal with them.”
She curses and nods toward Jack. “Can we afford to give back Stefano’s campaign contributions?”
“It doesn’t matter. We have to,” he says. “The Republican nominee already paints you as a crooked Hillary liberal. This is exactly what they need.”
I stand up, the righteousness of my tone a bit too delicious. “You want me in the middle of this, so I can keep you and Cal out of it.”
She leans over her desk. “Are you threatening me?”
Jack will lose his job.
You will lose Jack.
“I’m advising you to back off. We’re near the end. I’d prefer the EDC stay intact. You need me to navigate that outcome.” I think of Cynthia and what it means to her. Uncle Cal’s reputation with whatever time he’s got left. How much Jack believes in the mayor and her vision for Providence. How he wants to learn from her and possibly run for office in the future.
“Why are you doing this?” she says.
You ruin everything.
“Because I’m the only one who seems to care about justice. Or is willing to do what it takes to get it.”
She puts both hands on her hips now, rearing her head back as if she can’t reason with me. Which is correct. “Keep the EDC and my name out of Phillip Hale’s mouth.” She turns to Jack. “And you—”
Barry bursts in through the door, the pit stains now dark rings. “I’m sorry, Mayor, but it’s Stefano Venantius.” He pauses to fumble with a remote and aims it toward a TV in the corner. “It’s live on the local Fox affiliate and getting picked up national. He’s accusing our office of harassment.”
Little Voices Page 26