Chapter 33
Nothing good comes from a ten a.m. exclusive interview on a Friday. It’s intended to drive news cycles all weekend. In Stefano’s case, he will likely do that and more.
That’s your fault.
He goes nuclear, accusing everyone of harassment: me, Jack, the mayor, the police, Phillip, the FBI. There’s even a B-roll package that is polished and ready. My guess is he had a rapid-response PR team get everything loaded after I gave him the tip-off that Phillip and I were nosing around.
That’s your fault.
Police footage, nothing I’ve seen from Max, shows Stefano alone in his boat. It fast-forwards through the evening and into the night, showing him at different places along the river. There are several blocks of time circled in bright red, including one where he was within a mile of the cemetery, but it’s positioned as proof. I’m not buying it.
But everyone else is.
Then it cuts to an interview with Tina Cabrala, looking buttoned up and polished. She’s tearful and explains how the life insurance policy, which Stefano pays for personally for all his employees, saved her apartment. That Belina had been supporting them, and without Stefano, she’d be on the street. Then Stefano’s interview with the friendly blonde anchor who once fell all over herself for Phillip’s story. She’s looking somber and serious, ready to throw anyone to the wolves for ratings. Stefano ends the interview going after Phillip, saying he is an antibusiness reporter with ties to unsavory sources in the past (my fault).
That’s right. It’s all your fault.
We sit in the mayor’s office for a few quiet seconds, and then the phones start ringing. Office, cell, text alerts, the room erupts as if taken over by technological poltergeists.
Poor schlubby Barry is really sweating now, probably panicked at the thought of drafting the dumpster fire of a press statement while fielding calls from every reporter in New England, possibly beyond.
My phone is buzzing, and I’m sure it’s Phillip. Or maybe Max. Or maybe any reporter I worked with during my time with Uncle Cal.
We are in the shit.
The mayor continues to stare at the muted TV and finally speaks by quoting Stefano in the interview. “‘Even now, the mayor’s chief of staff has employed his wife, a hacker with a suspicious legal background, to brief the mayor on how to frame me for these crimes.’”
“I was only almost disbarred. Once,” I say. “I stalked an accused pedophile to find more evidence against him. Sorry, not sorry.”
“I need some distance,” she says to me, but then her hard stare finds Jack, arms crossed, standing beside me. “Jack, you’re poisoned by association. I need an adviser who isn’t a neon sign to my liabilities. You’re suspended until we get this under control.”
“Mayor,” I say, “Jack had nothing to do—”
She holds up her hand, cutting me off. “Get out and fix it.”
“I will.”
Lie to yourself.
Lie to her.
You don’t have what it takes.
Jack gently takes my arm, as if he’s been waiting for her to kick us out. I follow, but we don’t speak. We walk down the three flights in silence, then cross the street and head over to the entrance of the Biltmore. The wind is bitter cold, and we both shiver but don’t move.
“Are you coming upstairs?” he asks. “Please, we need to talk.”
I shake my head. “Give me today. We’ll talk tonight.”
What a terrible mother.
With her terrible child.
He doesn’t want to be with your crying freak baby.
Leaving this family you don’t deserve to fail again.
He searches my face, and I don’t know how to look, what pose or smile or sparkle in my eye will reassure him that I’m capable. That I can still do this, but he has to trust me.
There’s anger in his gaze and, I realize, longing. He wants to tell me something, but instead, he turns away, disappears through the door. I grab my phone and see Phillip is one of a dozen people who have called since Stefano went nuclear. I hurry into the parking garage and get into the car before calling him back.
“Devon,” he says, his voice a tight panic. “This is bad. My producer thinks NBC might get sued.”
I bite back the “I told you so,” counting to five until I find, “I’m sorry.” We’re quiet, and then my brain finally starts to work again. “There’s a gap in time while he’s on the boat. I think it’s possible he still could have met her. Still killed her. When are you back in town?”
“Another hour on the train,” he says. “Then I’m never leaving my house again.”
“Phillip, this is a setback. Go find Miguel. He’s likely at the guesthouse at his father’s place on Blackstone and Rochambeau. Tell him he’s in the journal. That you’re going to drag the Rossa name into this mess if he doesn’t give you all the security videos from his father’s business related to Belina.”
He’s paying the price for making a deal with you.
Like a deal with the devil.
As bad as the boys, girlie.
“I don’t know, Devon—”
“I’m going to Stefano’s house,” I say. “I need hard evidence. I need him to confess.” I got a few confessions when I was a prosecutor in DC, but they’re not easy like on television.
“You’ll have to wear a wire,” he says as if it’s a secret. “Are you sure?”
“Not really,” I say. “Find Miguel.”
He’s quiet, weighing us like when we met at the cemetery. Luckily, we’ve got nothing to lose.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll call you when I get it.”
I blast the heat until I can unbutton my shirt and pump. As the pressure in my breasts lessens, I outline my questions and possible tactics to get Stefano to talk.
My big play is revealing that Miguel and Uncle Cal are working against him. That the licenses will certainly be frozen once Alec’s testimony goes to the grand jury and Stefano’s indictment rolls in. He is cornered. It’s over. If I can get him mad enough, I may get lucky, and he will confess. Or attack me. That’s why I have the knife in my bag.
Let him stab you.
Your family’s better off without you.
After I finish pumping and put the milk in the minicooler, I drive slowly toward Jamestown. My mind is a loop, back and forth, evidence and voice.
This is finally too far.
Jack will leave you.
Ester gone.
Everything gone.
A few blocks from Stefano’s house, I pull over. After opening my trunk, I lift up the spare tire and remove a locked kit. Inside are the few things from my past I can’t throw away, no matter my promises to Jack. My lockpick kit, a few small tools, and a center punch for breaking into windows, if I’m really desperate and don’t mind glass shattering. There’s also my knife and a wire kit, a loan from the FBI I never returned.
The transmitter stays in my car, recording what’s broadcast from what appears to be an older model iPhone but is actually the wire. There’s also a small microphone in my bra as a backup.
I wait in the cold, watching my breath, reminding myself that I’m breathing, that I can help Belina, who is not. It takes an hour of silence, breathing, and thinking to get my mind right. To find my old confidence to approach Stefano.
Phillip finally calls. “I’ve got the footage of Stefano in the boat,” he says. “Are you okay?”
“Nervous,” I say. “We’re close.”
“Miguel had everything. Stefano was right by the cemetery, that missing block of time from his interview. But there’s no evidence that he actually got out of the boat to meet her.”
“It’s enough,” I say. “He’s hiding something. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Wait, Devon—”
I’ll call him back as soon as I have the confession. I test the recorder and wire, the one I used with several Rhode Island politicians. I relace it through my bra, test it a few times more. Clear as a bell.
I hear Ester crying and freeze. I whip around and see the empty car seat through the back seat window.
Something has happened.
She needs you.
What a worthless mother.
I try to shrug it off, hurrying the few blocks down the street. The crying follows me, and I am confused, terrified. Her little cry is not the same as the voice. We are not the voice.
I keep scanning the bushes and road and houses on this affluent block, looking for a baby, but no one is there. Perhaps it is someone else’s baby. Perhaps the voice is not turning into Ester. I close my eyes, breathing, listening to the bitter wind off the water.
Finally it is quiet. I walk to Stefano’s house, large and boxy, mostly windows from the side that can be seen heading over the Jamestown Bridge. It’s stately and wood shingled, and the water views are tough to beat. I’m sure it’s what his wife always wanted when she married him thirty years ago. Somewhere to have graduation parties and family cookouts. A place to live and show off.
You can’t stop a man like him.
You’re too stupid and weak.
Who will believe you?
“Devon Burges,” says a man’s voice across the lawn. “I thought you’d be coming by.”
I jump at his voice, a new kind of terror arriving. My chest tight, I face Stefano, frazzled but unwilling to back down. The wind is strong, and I have to keep myself from adjusting the microphone. “That was a hell of a response,” I say as I walk closer. “Well played.”
“Thank you,” Stefano says. “What’s the point of having a PR person on retainer if you don’t use her once in a while?”
I’m not in the mood for banter. “Can we talk in the house?” I ask, worried the wind will interfere with the wire.
“I’d rather not,” he says. “My wife is taking a nap.”
“I hear Agent Fincher has a lot of your financial records,” I say. “But he was unfamiliar with accounts tied to Belina and regular boat rentals. Care to discuss?”
His smug smile falls. “This way,” he says.
Chapter 34
Stefano leads me through the entryway into his giant kitchen. The Italian marble shines from several soft, dim lights over the counter where the coffee maker is gurgling. The whole first floor is open concept, the dining, living, and family rooms all connected with nothing ahead but sparkling water and a bridge to the mainland.
He pulls out a stool at the counter and gestures for me to sit. He walks over and pours me a cup of coffee. “My wife insists we’re civil to everyone in our home.” He slides a carton of Rhody Fresh milk over to me.
“Thank you,” I say but hesitate.
Breaking bread with the man who killed your friend.
Anything to get what you want.
Blood on both your hands.
“I knew you’d show up,” Stefano says. “You finally figured out who was responsible for killing Belina?”
I hold my breath, wanting every syllable on the wire.
He sneers. “You.”
I half laugh. “Excuse me?”
“Cal’s precious EDC was almost exposed by you and that Hale guy a few years ago. He was all over my ass about it.”
“What?” I whisper. My heartbeat speeds up as the wave of panic threatens. Phillip was so close to blowing up Uncle Cal’s Council, which created an information arms race. Each tried to destroy the other. I stopped them because I thought it was the right thing to do. I never considered that if I’d just let them all be taken down, Uncle Cal and his Council, including Stefano, that would have stopped Alec’s illegal activity. Stopped Belina from working for him.
“Belina would be alive.” Stefano spits the words out, the disgust in his tone something I already feel deep in my constricted chest.
As bad as the boys, girlie.
The cup falls from my hand, and I don’t react, not even when it shatters. Not even when Stefano scrambles for a rag and I’m watching him on his knees.
“This is goddamn Italian marble,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping backward. My arguments about justice, about saving Uncle Cal and Phillip from destroying each other, are suddenly light in my hand when weighed against Belina’s life. If only I’d let real justice be served. I knew Uncle Cal was guilty. I just didn’t want to accept that him going to prison was the right thing. When I could have stopped it all.
Stefano drops the coffee-stained rag and chunks of porcelain into the trash. “You should go.”
Was this a tactic? To get me off-balance so I leave him alone? “You were on a boat right by where Belina was murdered. Why?”
He takes a step toward me, the large marble counter still between us. “I’m there every full moon. I like to night fish and watch for bald eagles. I’ve done it since I was a boy.”
“Then you know those waters well,” I say.
“I had no reason to kill . . . her.”
“The motive they have for Alec is the exact same as you.”
He blinks rapidly as if astounded. “Is that so?”
“Detective Ramos can use diary entries by Belina as evidence of your relationship,” I say. “There are witnesses putting you both together.”
“Not every little thing I do is on the up-and-up. But the idea I’d murder Belina is so offensive—”
“My guess is it leads back to the FBI,” I say. “She told you that you were under investigation. She knew what the FBI wanted.”
“She told me to protect me,” Stefano says, his voice rising. “I would never have hurt her. Certainly not for that.”
“She had a lot of boyfriends,” I pivot, hating how I sound like an online troll in my desperation. “Alec certainly was ready to blow up his life for her. And Ricky, well, he seemed pretty in love with her.”
He pales, hands trembling. “Watch your fucking mouth. She would never go near an ungrateful piece of trash like him. They were . . . they hated each other.”
“It’s a thin line,” I say. “You must have had a suspicion they were screwing—”
“You’re wrong—”
I see the anger and jealousy. He’s close to breaking. “You’re so great she could never look at another man? You must have really been angry when Alec told you he was leaving his wife for her. Let’s see, that’s three guys she’s involved with—”
He smacks his palm flat onto the counter. “Shut your goddamn mouth.”
“Belina was scared enough of you to bribe you with everything she’d earned. The hundred thousand you gave to Tina to keep her quiet after you killed her daughter.”
“That miserable woman was supposed to keep her mouth shut.” He steps toward me. “Something you should consider.”
My heart drops at the threat, but I live within the fear and stand up, stepping toward him. “Or what? You’ll stab me and frame someone else?”
Let him do it.
It’s time.
“You were fine with your girlfriend running away with Alec, an employee?” I say. “One who stole from you? One who is now working against you with the FBI?”
Every vein in Stefano’s neck flares, and his face flushes to a purplish red. He tries to control a violent tremble. As if something invisible is holding him back from speaking, something warring within him. Something familiar to me: guilt.
“You can blame me for protecting Uncle Cal,” I say, “but whose hands were on the knife? Belina could have told the FBI everything, and you knew it. You had to stop her. Stop her from leaving you. And having your baby.”
Stefano’s eyes are wide and bulging, and if he’s ever had enough rage to stab someone, I’m witnessing it now as he moves toward me, hands out.
Closer, closer, closer.
Let it all end.
It’s the only way.
“Stop this,” says a woman’s angry voice behind me in the kitchen. She is standing in a sleek pantsuit with her hands balled on her hips. “Tell her.”
He doesn’t seem to register her demand and contin
ues his pace toward me. When he gets here, I know he’s attacking. I move closer.
Good, girlie.
“I said stop.” The woman’s icy tone is so forceful it sounds as if it’s always obeyed. “I had to endure this embarrassing secret long enough. He gave Tina that money because he felt guilty for never being there for Belina.”
Stefano’s face contorts in pain. “Stay out of this, Patty.”
“I’m the one who looks foolish,” she says. “I let you try to be there for her. But all you did was get her mixed up in your dirty business.”
“That paid for this house and your—”
His yell is cut off when she holds up one finger, her rage causing her tight face to twitch.
“I’ve been watching you give that Newport whore money for twenty-seven years,” she says. “I doubt poor Belina ever saw a dime.”
Shit.
I close my eyes, cheeks heating. I think of the inscriptions in Belina’s books from her room. And it’s so clear what I missed. They weren’t all given in the past few years as part of an affair, but over decades. The first one, the book of myths, had Belina’s childish scribbles. Years must have passed, birthdays, Christmases, and she’d kept them all.
“Belina night fished with you,” I say, realizing. I see the chart I made of Belina’s meetings with CF. There were late ones, scheduled regularly.
“She never arrived,” he whispers. “I waited like usual, but . . . she was being murdered in the waters we’ve fished . . . since she was a girl. I was just sitting there, angry she’d forgotten, but she was . . . dead.” Stefano puts his head onto the counter, shoulders slumping, and slowly the sobs begin.
Now I see Belina.
She worked for Stefano all along. Maybe they fell out for a while, but this idea from Ricky to organize the captains brought Belina back to Stefano. She could handle a man like Alec, make him focus and earn Stefano money. She managed the accounts and kept Ricky in check. But then someone told her about the FBI, and she chose to warn Stefano. And to be with Alec.
Little Voices Page 27