You’ll have no one to blame but yourself.
“What’s all this?” he asks, motioning toward the whiteboard.
“As you may have guessed, I saw Stefano tonight. He told me about Belina being his daughter. And that he had an alibi. Stefano and his wife believe Ricky met Belina that night. My biggest mistake, among several, was not using my expertise. This is applying the facts to a system called the fraud triangle. I know we’re talking about murder, not fraud, but it could help.”
“All right,” he says. “Walk me through it.”
That is easier than I expected. I head over to the board, starting at the top of the triangle. “First you ask, does the suspect, Ricky, have pressure to commit the crime?”
“Pressure,” he says with a frown. “Another term for motive?”
“Right,” I say. “But because much of this case is tied up in money, let’s consider what financial pressure he had. Belina introduced Alec to Stefano. She’s in charge of keeping the books for Alec. She helps them clean the dirty money. Gets it back to Stefano. So to get to the money, Ricky needs access to Belina, which he definitely had.”
“Okay,” Detective Ramos says. “What’s next?”
“Alec needs more money, and the stakes keep getting higher. Things are going great. Stefano trusts them with a half million. It’s right when Alec decides he wants a clean break to be with Belina and their baby. He spends it, thinking he can make it up with the captains. But for some reason, they don’t make as much as they should.”
“His fishing business mysteriously tanks?” he says with a grin.
I smirk at the lame joke and continue. “If they’re underwater and on the outs with Stefano, Ricky could convince Alec to sell the licenses to Miguel. Take more control. Level up to Stefano. You need to interview some captains.”
“I can do that,” he says. “But was Ricky’s plan to frame Alec for Belina’s murder all along? Surely, with a guy like Alec, there are easier ways to get him caught.”
“Murder was not the idea,” I say. “That’s why Ricky started informing on Stefano to the FBI. He wanted to take down Alec and Stefano for the money laundering. And shift all their lost profit to a partnership with Miguel.”
Detective Ramos lets out a long breath. “If Ricky was working with the FBI and the Rossa family, he’s double-crossing Stefano to get those fishing contracts. So that’s a lot of pressure, if we’re using your fraud triangle.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“Then you ask if there was opportunity to commit the crime?” he says.
“Belina herself gave us that information,” I explain. “Her planner. She was meeting Ricky. The A with a circle was a code she used.”
“According to who?”
“Stefano and his wife,” I say. “It’s possible Tina and Lee heard it a time or two. Tina gave me a book with the nickname she used. I can also cross-reference Belina’s use of meeting with the nickname to Ricky’s credit card statements.”
“But going from a hustler to a murderer,” he says. “That’s a leap.”
He thinks you’re so stupid.
No one will believe you.
Shameful little liar.
I swallow my anxiety and push forward. “The last question is if there’s enough in his life to rationalize doing the crime and living with it.”
We’re quiet while I think of what I’d have done to leave my town. I didn’t have to cheat the SATs or LSAT, but I would have. I didn’t sell myself for money—I got loans and a job—but I would have. Ricky doesn’t see right and wrong according to the law, but his own justice matters.
“Taking down Stefano,” I begin. “The boss man who ignored him.” I pause because something about it doesn’t seem quite right. “Ricky knew about Stefano’s moonlit fishing trips with Belina. That’s how he pushed me so hard in that direction. He knew everything about him. He was almost obsessed.”
Detective Ramos points to a folder on the conference table. “It’s my turn to use real evidence,” he says. “The blood from your dress matches the DNA from the hairs found in your home. Has Ricky been there otherwise, to your knowledge?”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
“Miguel says it was all Ricky’s idea to break into your house to get the planner. Miguel says he was there but stayed on the porch while Ricky tossed the place. That Ricky asked him to keep what they stole.”
“Okay,” I say, waiting for the rest.
“Miguel is willing to talk. Ricky forced him to hide the alibi tape clearing Alec. He bragged about sleeping with Belina and said some pretty awful things about her. It won’t look good in court for Ricky with Miguel’s testimony. I’d like to make a deal and move forward on nailing Ricky.”
I appreciate that he’s pretending to ask my permission. “Whatever you need to do. Ricky is what matters.”
“Good, good,” he says, nodding as if relieved. “Now, I had the lab run all the DNA we’d collected for this case. It includes Stefano’s, who volunteered it when we brought him in for questioning.” He motions for me to open the folder.
I see the dotted bars of DNA: Belina, her unborn child, Ricky, Miguel, Alec, and Stefano. Someone has circled 100 percent match and drawn lines from Ricky to Stefano. Then Belina to Stefano. Then from Ricky to Belina’s baby.
“What the hell does this all mean?” I whisper.
Detective Ramos stands with his arms crossed. “Ricky was Stefano’s son too.”
I suck in air through my clenched teeth. “But . . . they were . . . together.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Ricky knew that Belina was Stefano’s daughter. I don’t think anyone thought she was more than a mistress.” Detective Ramos clears his throat. “But it’s worse than that, Devon. Belina was pregnant.”
“I know,” I whisper. “Alec told me . . . oh my God.”
“It was Ricky’s baby.”
“No,” I say but realize, of course, that’s why she transferred money. She tried to buy her way out of this mess she’d created. First Stefano, the failed father who she was still trying to save from the FBI and make some kind of peace with over Alec’s mistakes. Then Ricky, the lover she should have never had, who knew about the black market, the money laundering, all she’d done for her father, and likely, used it to control their relationship. And Alec, the man who loved her, and who despite his faults, she could see being a father to her child.
“But we don’t have Ricky’s DNA at the murder scene. Maybe if we book him, we get his prints, and there’s a partial, but—”
This is why you’re here.
There is only one way to get to justice, I realize as the anger kicks in. “I can confront Ricky. I’ll wear a wire and get him to confess.”
Justice at last.
“No, that’s too dangerous.” Detective Ramos holds up his hands, his gold wedding ring catching the light. “Ricky will know you’re up to something.”
You’ve got to try.
“He thinks we’re friends,” I say. “If I’m upset about Stefano, he might try to calm me down. Then I’ll get him mad enough to confess.”
“He might check for a wire,” Detective Ramos says. “He’s on edge. The break-in was sloppy. He knows we’re close.”
Motive is a strange legal concept. I liked uncovering motive in my corporate fraud research, building upon what I imagined a person could do to get something they wanted. Wondering when I found enough on one side of the scale to justify tipping from my theory to the truth. I see the real Ricky, not just because of Derek. We’re shades drawn from the same colors. The bleeds are different, but like understands like.
You know him.
You can reach him.
“Ricky won’t open up in here,” I say. “But he might to me. I’ve gotten confessions from men like him before.”
He scrubs his face. “He’ll need to feel powerful. Believe he’s in total control over you.”
You know what to do.
Why she was given to you.
Detective Ramos can’t bring himself to ask me, but it’s the only answer. I hear Ester crying, even though she’s not here. She’s a part of all this; she wants to help. “I know how I can wear a wire with Ricky.”
Chapter 37
Saturday, December 17
I told Uncle Cal I was out of the excavation business, but as I hurry down the dock toward Ricky and his boat, I’m right back in the mud and dirt and shit dumped by the hands of these men. This is my last chance to burrow out, swallow some air, and unearth justice for Belina.
I’m a good twenty yards from Ricky when he sees me, darkness wrapping us tight on this cloudy, starless night.
There must be a sacrifice for all you’ve done.
For the terrible mother you’ve become.
“Coming aboard finally,” he says from the distance, but I can see the half grin. He’s too eager, on edge as if he feels the reckoning, like a seagull attacking the wind, sensing the storm.
Ricky steps from the boat to the wet dock. He blows out a long breath of smoke, and his eyes go wide as his stare stops at my chest where Ester is wrapped beneath my coat. He tosses the cigarette onto the ground, not hiding his disgust. “Didn’t realize there would be two of you.”
“That a problem?”
There’s a flinch of anger across his narrow face. “Kinda late to have a baby out.”
“My only option,” I say, patting her back. My hand pauses at how cold Ester is even though she’s wrapped tight against me. I run my hands along her familiar shape, reassuring myself she’s okay. There’s just her thick fleece outfit, the wrap, and a thin wire between Ricky and us. Her hair is visible, peeking out from beneath the white cap.
You deserve whatever happens next.
I stand at the gap between the dock and the too-small boat. Claustrophobia squeezes. The sound of a belt buckle in my ears, as loud as the waves bouncing us all with a rhythmic thump, thump, thump. I close my eyes. I breathe. I let the anger come.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” he says. “We’ve got a lot to figure out.”
I don’t see his eagerness to create connection anymore but rather, a shark assessing where to strike to drag me under.
“Lead the way,” I say.
The boat wobbles in the wind, a drunken mother’s loose arms rocking us back and forth. Ricky takes my elbow, too tightly, but I don’t want to risk falling, so I go along.
Both my feet on the boat, I grip the wooden rail, easing down into the main cabin room. It’s small and quiet, and I can almost see my childhood twin bed. Hear the creak of a heavy body on the edge of the mattress, closer, closer, closer. The sheets I’d strip off after he was done. The comforter I eventually burned.
I hold Ester tight against my chest. My fingers tickle the edge of the microphone hidden within one of the wrap’s folds. I focus on the room, how it’s actually nothing like my bedroom. The wood-paneled walls, small kitchenette, and pull-out bunk in the corner. I pat Ester and adjust my messenger bag, feeling the weight of the knife at the bottom.
“What’s up?” Ricky asks. “You seem spooked.”
“Small spaces,” I say, not hiding all the pain. “Bad memories.”
You could have stopped Granddaddy.
You knew enough to know better.
“Of course,” he says with a smirk. He would know exactly what I meant because he stole my papers along with the copy of Belina’s planner. But it’s not time for that now. “You want a drink?” he asks too quickly, and I shake my head. “Here’s to the late shift,” he says and takes a shot.
All along, I didn’t trust Ricky, exactly, but I let myself trust his information. Assumed too many connections to my brother that weren’t really there. Created a fantasy where Ricky was a survivor like me, someone who helped instead of hurt. But he’d gone the other way.
You are the same.
You deserve the same.
“Stefano really messed things up with his interview,” I say, trying to focus back on what’s really between us. Not the commonalities I imagined but the truth: he killed Belina.
“I saw it.” He doesn’t sit, but he leans against the edge of a table. “Got publicity people on payroll and journalists in his pocket. What a crock of shit.”
I shrug at him but see the anger I didn’t place before. The kind of hatred only a family member can bore into your heart. “I might press charges.”
“You mean for defamation?”
“No, you goddamn idiot,” I say, letting my tongue unleash some of my anger. “It has to be untrue to be defamation. Also, in the media, it’s libel. God, Belina was right. You are stupid.”
He rears back. “What? What?”
“I didn’t want to say anything to you when we met, but she talked about you all the time,” I lie. “Complained about you. In every single way.” I pause to wiggle my pinky at him. “You know what I mean?”
“I don’t . . . what?”
His stammering is a good sign. The shock will wear off, and he’ll get mad. Very, very mad. “So like I was saying before your dumb-shit question. I have to decide if I want to press charges against you.”
“What?” he whispers again, stepping toward me.
“Destroying my house to get to Belina’s planner. They found hair and even a partial print. You might as well have signed your name. If you can write. I’m not sure, based on how stupid you’ve played all this.”
The red is spreading across his sharp cheekbones. “You’re mad at me because of the break-in,” he says, as if he’s trying to rationalize my behavior. “Miguel was freaked out. I can explain. It was just to get him to chill.”
“Great defense. That’ll definitely hold up in court.” I take a step toward him.
But he sees weakness, my vulnerability. “Your grandfather really fucked you up good,” he says with a grin. “Imagine a preacher molesting his own granddaughter. In his daughter’s house. Over and over and over again. Damn, that is messed up.”
You could have fought back.
But you didn’t.
“He got what he deserved,” I say.
“Really?” Ricky smirks. “He died of cancer. You cut him with a knife, I guess. That’s what the defense said to make you seem crazy. But he got off.” He laughs. “Well, obviously. But the case was dismissed. Seems like he won.”
I cut my grandfather’s arm when he reached for me for what would be the last time. He slapped my face, ran away screaming. Used the attack as proof I was crazy. Violent. Making everything up.
“Bad stuff happened to both of us,” Ricky says, too easily. As if he’d rehearsed this connection between us in preparation for the big show.
“I feel sorry for you,” I say. “You think we’re the same, but we’re not.”
“There’s a lot of money in this,” Ricky says. “It’s our turn to win. Not them.”
“Them?” I throw a haughty laugh his way. “You are going to prison. I am going to take every last fishing contract. Miguel would much rather work with someone like me. He’s happy to throw you over. We will make the money. You are done.”
His eyes are wild, the rage and adjustment to this version of me. As I shift from friend to another bitch in the way of what he wants. “All this is Miguel’s fault,” he says.
“Please. Miguel is a puppy. You tried to play every side. But you’re way out of your league. That blood in Alec’s car was such an obvious plant.”
“Fooled the cops,” he hisses. “And she was such a slut that she brought Alec’s DNA with her to the cemetery. That’s destiny right there.”
“But Alec is out of prison,” I say. “So guess it wasn’t so smart after all.”
He lets out a breath as if trying to regain control of the conversation. “You’re kind of sexy when you’re mad. Wish you hadn’t brought your fucking child here. You’re a real shit mother.”
He’s got that right.
Tell him it’s all going to end.
Tell him it’s what you all deserve.
A
child of yours should never have been born.
“You know a lot about shit mothers?” I say.
“Yeah, I do,” Ricky says. “Mine killed herself.”
The pain in his voice gets me for a second, even though I pushed the button. “And your dad? Stefano?”
“Clever, clever.” Ricky winks, but there’s so much disgust in his face. “Who else would I try my whole damn life to impress? Work my ass off at his dock, for years. Scrape together enough to go to those stupid charity polo matches he loves. Kiss ass long enough to get someone like Alec to work with me. Someone he actually gave a shit about. Fuck him.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, understanding that loneliness and longing. “Did you kill my friend?” I ask simply, with some compassion, surprised I feel it.
Ricky leans on the doorway, cocky. “You don’t want to ask questions like that, Devon.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I can see that,” he says. “But I like you—”
“Bet you liked Belina too,” I say, shifting back to aggressive, where I was making real progress. “I saw her post the word saudade, ‘a pleasure you suffer, an ailment you enjoy.’ Maybe that wasn’t Alec. Maybe that was you.”
“You don’t need to be jealous,” he says with that lopsided grin that now makes my skin crawl.
“Was that part of why you decided to kill her that night? The chance to hurt someone your partner cared about? Your father?” He grunts as if I’m the dumb one. I close my eyes as the room blurs. I swallow down the You dumb shit scream in my throat. I can do better than that. “When was the last time you slept with Belina?”
He’s quiet, measuring me.
“When was the last time?” I snap.
He shrugs. “A couple months before . . . she died. She’d come by my boat with papers or whatever excuse. Like I said, she insisted nobody find out. It’s fine, though, not good to screw the boss’s girl.”
“You’ve got that right.” I lean against the counter and note a block of knives about three steps from Ricky and four from me. “So Stefano never knew?”
“God no,” he says. “Stefano hated me. I never told her the real reason. I didn’t want her pity.”
“Real reason?”
Little Voices Page 29