The Easy Way Out (Jake Travis Book 9), page 17
35
Kathleen, head bent and red pen poised, was reading essays from her class. A neglected glass of wine rested next to her, condensation trickling down its sides like it was crying.
Brittany had called me earlier. No, no new leads. Yes, I’m working on it. Yes, I’ll keep in touch. Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine.
I found him. Snuggled up like a rabbit in his writing hut. But I made a terrible mistake, and now a monster has him. Turns out I can’t break the family cycle, but I can sure kick that sucker into second gear.
Heavy as that was, it took a back seat to my decision to meet with China. Was I doing the right thing by going behind Kathleen’s back? Evan said our truest desire is to have someone desire us. But I believe there are strains of desire. Mutations of lust. We all desire for someone to tell us what is right. To take charge. To act without hesitation, for timidity only breeds regret.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Kathleen said.
My gaze was hard on the new bridge across the bay. Its concrete structure arched over the water, its streetlights forming a gilded canopy in the sky. I missed the old drawbridge, its medieval arms rising and falling, the ghost ships of my imagination passing underneath.
“Fine. I’ll go a nickel, but not a penny more.”
I looked at her.
“You good for it?”
She stood, went to the kitchen, came back, and plunked a nickel on the glass table.
“Speak,” she said.
“You haven’t touched your wine.”
“Now”—she took a sip—“you’re out of bullets.”
I filled her in on my visit to Giancarlo. A nonstop flight of words with no commas, periods, or paragraphs.
“You think Angel has both Evan and Rachel?” she said when I’d finished.
“I do.”
“Why?”
“As blackmail to take over Vargo’s business.”
“But you’re guessing, right?”
“I am.”
“And in some manner Giancarlo is helping his old client?”
“Right.”
“And you think—what? Angel might have inside help?”
“Giancarlo insinuated as much.”
“Any ideas?”
“Just ideas.”
“You really grabbed him by the collar?”
“I did.”
“How did that feel?”
“Desperate. Stupid.”
I hadn’t really felt stupid, but after my mistake with Evan, the word popped up every time I referenced myself.
“Well, I certainly got my nickel’s worth.”
“No refunds.” And then, to redirect the conversation to where my thoughts were cowering, I added, “Have you reconsidered meeting with a private adoption attorney, or are you still sticking to your guns?”
“Sticking to my guns. Morgan agrees with me.”
Morgan’s opinion, on anything, was the OFFICIAL STAMP OF AUTHORITY.
“You both worship fantasy.”
“I know,” she said in a breezy tone. “But we’re happy little believers. It just irks you that we can be right with no reason to be right.”
“I don’t know what you said, but you said it well.”
She leaned over and pecked my cheek. “You’ll find him. And Rachel. How’s the doorbell coming?”
“Working on it.”
Kathleen had been after me to fix the doorbell. I saw no reason, as anyone who ever rang it was either looking to trim trees or sell Jesus. She’d countered that cynicism is not an admirable trait and that there was something basic and civil about someone announcing their presence at your house. Who knows who might present themselves?
Hadley III came in the cat door. She took two steps to her right and sat down with her front paws curled under her. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, searching for geckos, the boundless curiosity of her life. Kathleen returned to her essays, and I made a pass through the kitchen before hitting the bed. A spotless kitchen greets me each morning.
Evan’s bloodstone ring rested in the bowl where we place seashells. I’d left it there earlier and had forgotten about it. I reached in my wallet and took out the picture of Liana Castillo. Next, I retrieved Sally’s glasses out of the glove box of the truck. I placed the trio together. I am embarrassed to admit that I—a fully decorated veteran of booze-induced philosophy—pondered their meaning. You’d think I would have learned.
When my eyes finally released the day, I got what I deserved. A real zinger. One for the ages.
A DISCO BALL SPUN sparkling white-and-silver light. Wood caskets lined the circumference of the room. They were closed. Music played, but it was nothing I was familiar with. The tempo accelerated—accelerando—until it was a frantic combination of sound and primal beat.
One of the caskets sprung open. Not the whole top, but the half that held the upper torso of the deceased. Victor, a man I’d killed years ago, popped up. His face had a Shining Nicholson grin. He fell back in the casket. It slammed shut.
Another coffin lid popped open. It was the first man I’d killed. A man in Afghanistan, a different life ago. He was the enemy, but he’d looked only human on the ground, not enemy-like at all. His upper half sprung upright, still wearing the bloodied battle garments he wore the day I put him in the ground. Note: Eternity doesn’t come with a change of clothes.
He, too, fell back into his casket. The lid slammed shut.
Behind me. Another casket opened. The man who had kidnapped Kathleen popped up. I wanted to kill him again. Some men are too evil to die only once. The son of a bitch fell back into his tomb.
One after another, the caskets opened. The Cardinal—he crossed himself. Phillip Agatha. Didn’t Garrett kill him? The dead popped up and down. Laughing. Grinning. Some I’d put in the casket. Others I only felt that, in some manner, I’d been responsible for their death. Andrew Keller was there. I took a step toward him. I wanted to ask him if he remembered that I visited him a few days ago and if he smelled the roses. But he was back in his casket before I could talk. I realized I couldn’t talk.
Another casket opened. But instead of a body, the picture of Liana Castillo flashed up, beaming in her school dress. I felt terrible for her, having to be in the circus of the macabre. A carnival of death. She was too young. Too innocent. Sally sprung up, wearing his glasses. A camera around his neck. Food on his lips.
Evan popped up. He quacked.
“No!” I shouted, but I couldn’t hear my voice. Why wasn’t the damn thing working?
I searched for Evan’s casket, but it had slammed shut. I couldn’t find it. The disco ball spun at a madding speed, the music a runaway carnival track.
The finale: The caskets exploded. Opening. Shutting. Torsos popping up and down. Down and up. And then I saw it: the casket next to Andrew Keller had never opened. Was it empty like the plot next to him in the graveyard? I walked to it. I started to open the casket.
“Jake. Jake. Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
Beat it. I need to know. I reached for the—
“Stop it. You’re hitting me.”
I rubbed my hand over my sweaty forehead, my eyes finally unfastening. The caskets were spinning in my head, but they were no longer caskets. It was the ceiling fan. I lay there, trapped in hypnagogic hallucinations, that bridge between dreams and consciousness, between the world we think we know and the world that knows us.
“You okay?” Kathleen said.
“Never better,” I mumbled.
“What were you dreaming?”
“I was at a disco,” I said, still coming out of it. “I heard a duck.”
“Really?” she giggled. “Hey, remember ‘Disco Duck’? Was its something like that?”
It was a disco for the dead.
36
China and I met again at the student center. I wanted to test her resolve. Give her a dozen reasons to back out. I told her that Kathleen might not hear of it. That it might blow up in our face because it always blows up in our face.
“I understand,” she said. “But that just confirms that I’m making the right decision. It makes me admire Dr. Rowe that much more.” She humped her shoulders. “Besides, you’ll bear the brunt of her wrath.”
We discussed when, and how, to tell Kathleen, but no obvious choice surfaced. I reviewed legal considerations. Adoption rules. How the courts would favor her if she changed her mind during the first year and that we would support her. I told her I would pay for an attorney to represent her. None of that budged her off her position. She seemed infatuated with the idea of Dr. Rowe raising her child. She seemed more infatuated with, and relieved by, not having to raise a child herself.
“The shit of it is,” she said, “I’ve never been into kids. I’ve always known that.”
When we parted, I was less enthusiastic than when I’d arrived, but I didn’t know why.
37
Donna Novak, who had the office next to Sally Russo, finally returned my phone call. I felt a tad guilty deceiving her—I told her I was interested in her listing—but the feeling never grew roots. I’d looked further into Sally Russo and couldn’t find any family outside an older brother in Sacramento whom he had not talked to in over two years. Maybe Donna Novak knew Sally, maybe not. But if so, I wanted to know if Sally had uncovered anything else that might shed light on Giancarlo and lead me to Angel. Angel was my path to Evan. Plus, he stepped on my face. I struggle with forgiving.
Donna and I stood on the back balcony of a second-floor unit overlooking a manicured courtyard. It held a small pool that would have frustrated anyone who attempted laps. Donna tried hard to be a refrigerator-magnet-worthy realtor. Lipstick. Sprayed hair. Long earrings. A loose-fitting dress trying to hide a figure that had gotten away from her. Spouting off multimillion-dollar deals as if they were her listings. Her emotional anxiety swung between fear of being exposed and courage to carry on. She toddled in her high heels worse than Kathleen. But her smile was authentic even if her war-paint-mulberry cheeks were not.
“Notice the stainless,” she said when we returned to the kitchen. “You won’t need to put a penny here, that’s for sure.” She wore no wedding ring but a collection of bracelets that didn’t go with her outfit, as if she’d forgotten to take them off when she switched to her realtor persona. “Where do you live now?”
I wanted to expose myself before we got too deep into the ruse.
“In Pass-a-Grille. But—”
“Oh, I just love it. I’d die to have one of the cottages, but those prices just rocketed. Do you ever get to Eighth Avenue? There’s an art shop there. I have some paintings and jewelry there on consignment.”
“I’ve been to that shop.”
Kathleen, who had killed every green plant so unfortunate as to have come under her purview, had, years ago, purchased a small sign from the store. The sign read “Grow, Damn It.” That was the extent of my wife’s gardening skills. But unlike her bafflement with kitchens, I sensed Kathleen harbored a secret desire to be a gardener. To be one of those smiling women in Southern Living surrounded by blossoming blue hydrangeas, a spade in their hand—not a speck of dirt on their summer dress—standing in front of a shaded porch. A porch with white couches framed with colorful pillows and a pitcher of lemonade on a pollen-free glass table.
The Grow, Damn It pot sat next to my outdoor shower, a reminder of why I’m totally batty for my wife and a testament that it’s okay not to worry about trying to be what you will never be. I wanted to impart that to Donna Novak. But we don’t touch people that fast, although that would not be the case with Donna Novak and me.
“Actually, Donna, I wanted to meet to discuss Salvatore Russo. I noticed your office is next to his.”
“Sally?”
Sally.
I blurted out that I was working with one of his clients. That I was searching for information that might be beneficial in finding who killed him. I dropped Detective Rambler’s name to add legitimacy to my request. Rambler had questioned Donna, but only to the extent of whether or not she’d been in her office the day of the murder. She had not. He had not pressed further than that. I thought that a mistake on his part but would never say as much. Rambler’s caseload was nothing anyone would want to punch an alarm clock for.
“You’re not interested in a condo?” she said, unable to hide her hurt. I felt bad and wondered when was the last time Donna Novak sold a condo. Or a necklace at the art shop.
“I am not. I need to know more about Sally Russo.”
She furrowed her eyebrows. “Because you want to find out who killed him? Why?”
“It’s possible Sally was murdered because of what he unearthed while working for his client.” Then, as she eyed me with skepticism, I added, “Maybe you can help. Maybe you can’t.”
“Who is the client?”
“Erica Giancarlo.”
“You know Erica?” she said.
“I do. And you?”
She ignored my question. “I don’t know how I can possibly help.”
“Anything you can add about his work—about Erica—could be beneficial.”
“So, you’re sorta taking over for Sally?”
“You could say that.”
She flashed a sassy smile, uncharacteristic of her. “Then you should have been the one to say it.”
“I need your help, Donna,” I said with all the sincerity I could muster.
“I told that detective—Rambler—that I wasn’t even there that day. I’m rarely in that office. Meaning never. I signed a cheap lease years ago when I had aspirations of being some top-dog realtor. Before I realized there are a hundred realtors for every listing. I’m not renewing the lease.”
“You called him Sally.”
“We’d pass in the hall.”
“You were never there.”
We were silent for a moment.
“You knew Erica’s name.”
She remained quiet, as if we were in a musical, and the composer had written measures of silence.
“They cut his ear off, Donna. Left him to bleed to death surrounded by his pictures.”
She turned away from me and teetered over to the patio doors looking out toward the tranquil courtyard.
“Why did you say that?” she said with her back to me.
“I was—”
She turned, her cheeks streaked with tears.
“Why did you say that?” she repeated.
“I’m sor—”
“The police never asked me if I knew Sally, only if I was there that day. They cut his ear off?”
“Left one.”
“Why?”
“To get him to confess to something he knew nothing about.”
Her hand shot up to her mouth. She wiped her tears, smudging her makeup.
“I found some undeveloped film in his office,” I said, softening my voice. “I shared it with Detective Rambler. In his work for Erica Giancarlo, Sally inadvertently tripped over men who did not want to be seen together. Men who had nothing to do with Erica Giancarlo getting a divorce. You knew him well, didn’t you?”
Her shoulders slumped. “I really was hoping to sell this. You sounded so . . . qualified on the phone. You sure you don’t want a downtown condo? Once people move to downtown Saint Pete—oh, they love it so much.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, taking a chance.
She blew out her breath and dabbed a corner of her eye with the back of a knuckle.
“The seller’s greedy,” she said. “She’s overreaching and needs to lower the price. But she won’t listen to me. The listing will expire, she’ll sign with someone else, lower the price, and they’ll get the commission.” She puffed her breath out. “What a racket. Let’s go to my office. I’ve got some things to show you. Help me get these lights, will you?”
38
We trekked three blocks to her office, discussing how the building started as apartments, converted to offices, and was slated to be transformed back again to residential and how if you live long enough, you witness these cycles and not just in real estate. She was an easy person to talk with.
“How did you and Sally meet?” I asked as she fiddled in her purse for a key.
“When I took the office years ago, he was already encamped. He had a cheerful sadness about him. I think we recognized that in each other.” She plucked keys out of her purse and shot me a look. “He brought me flowers.”
Salvatore Russo’s photographs, the great loneliness he saw in the world, draped the walls of her office. She headed to an under-counter refrigerator. “I thought I’d be spending more time here, but it didn’t work out that way. Can I get you something? Coke? Water? A juice box?”
“You don’t have animal crackers, do you?”
“Darn, I think I’m out.”
“A water would be fine.”
“One water and one Coke Zero coming up.”
She opened the under-counter refrigerator and handed me a water. She popped the top of an aluminum can and guzzled it like it was the last days of Rome.
My eyes swept the room. “He did exceptional work.”
She lowered the can and kicked off her shoes, shrinking by a few inches. She extracted a pair of loafers from under the desk and put them on.
“He had more pictures than wall space, and I was happy to oblige.”
“He was working for Erica Giancarlo,” I said. “She is innocent in all this. But he saw things that got him killed. Did he say anything to you, share anything, that might help me find who killed him?”
She put down her Coke Zero on a coaster on her desk. She stared out the window, her ample figure blocking most of the light.
“Isn’t life a riot?” she said, her back still toward me. “Like these pictures. You look and look and look, and then suddenly you see. Only then do you realize that looking is not seeing.”
I expected her to continue, but she stopped, as if halted by her own words.
She turned to me. “I’ve never been married. Nor he. My life held a futureless future. You regret calling me yet?”
Kathleen, head bent and red pen poised, was reading essays from her class. A neglected glass of wine rested next to her, condensation trickling down its sides like it was crying.
Brittany had called me earlier. No, no new leads. Yes, I’m working on it. Yes, I’ll keep in touch. Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine.
I found him. Snuggled up like a rabbit in his writing hut. But I made a terrible mistake, and now a monster has him. Turns out I can’t break the family cycle, but I can sure kick that sucker into second gear.
Heavy as that was, it took a back seat to my decision to meet with China. Was I doing the right thing by going behind Kathleen’s back? Evan said our truest desire is to have someone desire us. But I believe there are strains of desire. Mutations of lust. We all desire for someone to tell us what is right. To take charge. To act without hesitation, for timidity only breeds regret.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Kathleen said.
My gaze was hard on the new bridge across the bay. Its concrete structure arched over the water, its streetlights forming a gilded canopy in the sky. I missed the old drawbridge, its medieval arms rising and falling, the ghost ships of my imagination passing underneath.
“Fine. I’ll go a nickel, but not a penny more.”
I looked at her.
“You good for it?”
She stood, went to the kitchen, came back, and plunked a nickel on the glass table.
“Speak,” she said.
“You haven’t touched your wine.”
“Now”—she took a sip—“you’re out of bullets.”
I filled her in on my visit to Giancarlo. A nonstop flight of words with no commas, periods, or paragraphs.
“You think Angel has both Evan and Rachel?” she said when I’d finished.
“I do.”
“Why?”
“As blackmail to take over Vargo’s business.”
“But you’re guessing, right?”
“I am.”
“And in some manner Giancarlo is helping his old client?”
“Right.”
“And you think—what? Angel might have inside help?”
“Giancarlo insinuated as much.”
“Any ideas?”
“Just ideas.”
“You really grabbed him by the collar?”
“I did.”
“How did that feel?”
“Desperate. Stupid.”
I hadn’t really felt stupid, but after my mistake with Evan, the word popped up every time I referenced myself.
“Well, I certainly got my nickel’s worth.”
“No refunds.” And then, to redirect the conversation to where my thoughts were cowering, I added, “Have you reconsidered meeting with a private adoption attorney, or are you still sticking to your guns?”
“Sticking to my guns. Morgan agrees with me.”
Morgan’s opinion, on anything, was the OFFICIAL STAMP OF AUTHORITY.
“You both worship fantasy.”
“I know,” she said in a breezy tone. “But we’re happy little believers. It just irks you that we can be right with no reason to be right.”
“I don’t know what you said, but you said it well.”
She leaned over and pecked my cheek. “You’ll find him. And Rachel. How’s the doorbell coming?”
“Working on it.”
Kathleen had been after me to fix the doorbell. I saw no reason, as anyone who ever rang it was either looking to trim trees or sell Jesus. She’d countered that cynicism is not an admirable trait and that there was something basic and civil about someone announcing their presence at your house. Who knows who might present themselves?
Hadley III came in the cat door. She took two steps to her right and sat down with her front paws curled under her. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, searching for geckos, the boundless curiosity of her life. Kathleen returned to her essays, and I made a pass through the kitchen before hitting the bed. A spotless kitchen greets me each morning.
Evan’s bloodstone ring rested in the bowl where we place seashells. I’d left it there earlier and had forgotten about it. I reached in my wallet and took out the picture of Liana Castillo. Next, I retrieved Sally’s glasses out of the glove box of the truck. I placed the trio together. I am embarrassed to admit that I—a fully decorated veteran of booze-induced philosophy—pondered their meaning. You’d think I would have learned.
When my eyes finally released the day, I got what I deserved. A real zinger. One for the ages.
A DISCO BALL SPUN sparkling white-and-silver light. Wood caskets lined the circumference of the room. They were closed. Music played, but it was nothing I was familiar with. The tempo accelerated—accelerando—until it was a frantic combination of sound and primal beat.
One of the caskets sprung open. Not the whole top, but the half that held the upper torso of the deceased. Victor, a man I’d killed years ago, popped up. His face had a Shining Nicholson grin. He fell back in the casket. It slammed shut.
Another coffin lid popped open. It was the first man I’d killed. A man in Afghanistan, a different life ago. He was the enemy, but he’d looked only human on the ground, not enemy-like at all. His upper half sprung upright, still wearing the bloodied battle garments he wore the day I put him in the ground. Note: Eternity doesn’t come with a change of clothes.
He, too, fell back into his casket. The lid slammed shut.
Behind me. Another casket opened. The man who had kidnapped Kathleen popped up. I wanted to kill him again. Some men are too evil to die only once. The son of a bitch fell back into his tomb.
One after another, the caskets opened. The Cardinal—he crossed himself. Phillip Agatha. Didn’t Garrett kill him? The dead popped up and down. Laughing. Grinning. Some I’d put in the casket. Others I only felt that, in some manner, I’d been responsible for their death. Andrew Keller was there. I took a step toward him. I wanted to ask him if he remembered that I visited him a few days ago and if he smelled the roses. But he was back in his casket before I could talk. I realized I couldn’t talk.
Another casket opened. But instead of a body, the picture of Liana Castillo flashed up, beaming in her school dress. I felt terrible for her, having to be in the circus of the macabre. A carnival of death. She was too young. Too innocent. Sally sprung up, wearing his glasses. A camera around his neck. Food on his lips.
Evan popped up. He quacked.
“No!” I shouted, but I couldn’t hear my voice. Why wasn’t the damn thing working?
I searched for Evan’s casket, but it had slammed shut. I couldn’t find it. The disco ball spun at a madding speed, the music a runaway carnival track.
The finale: The caskets exploded. Opening. Shutting. Torsos popping up and down. Down and up. And then I saw it: the casket next to Andrew Keller had never opened. Was it empty like the plot next to him in the graveyard? I walked to it. I started to open the casket.
“Jake. Jake. Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
Beat it. I need to know. I reached for the—
“Stop it. You’re hitting me.”
I rubbed my hand over my sweaty forehead, my eyes finally unfastening. The caskets were spinning in my head, but they were no longer caskets. It was the ceiling fan. I lay there, trapped in hypnagogic hallucinations, that bridge between dreams and consciousness, between the world we think we know and the world that knows us.
“You okay?” Kathleen said.
“Never better,” I mumbled.
“What were you dreaming?”
“I was at a disco,” I said, still coming out of it. “I heard a duck.”
“Really?” she giggled. “Hey, remember ‘Disco Duck’? Was its something like that?”
It was a disco for the dead.
36
China and I met again at the student center. I wanted to test her resolve. Give her a dozen reasons to back out. I told her that Kathleen might not hear of it. That it might blow up in our face because it always blows up in our face.
“I understand,” she said. “But that just confirms that I’m making the right decision. It makes me admire Dr. Rowe that much more.” She humped her shoulders. “Besides, you’ll bear the brunt of her wrath.”
We discussed when, and how, to tell Kathleen, but no obvious choice surfaced. I reviewed legal considerations. Adoption rules. How the courts would favor her if she changed her mind during the first year and that we would support her. I told her I would pay for an attorney to represent her. None of that budged her off her position. She seemed infatuated with the idea of Dr. Rowe raising her child. She seemed more infatuated with, and relieved by, not having to raise a child herself.
“The shit of it is,” she said, “I’ve never been into kids. I’ve always known that.”
When we parted, I was less enthusiastic than when I’d arrived, but I didn’t know why.
37
Donna Novak, who had the office next to Sally Russo, finally returned my phone call. I felt a tad guilty deceiving her—I told her I was interested in her listing—but the feeling never grew roots. I’d looked further into Sally Russo and couldn’t find any family outside an older brother in Sacramento whom he had not talked to in over two years. Maybe Donna Novak knew Sally, maybe not. But if so, I wanted to know if Sally had uncovered anything else that might shed light on Giancarlo and lead me to Angel. Angel was my path to Evan. Plus, he stepped on my face. I struggle with forgiving.
Donna and I stood on the back balcony of a second-floor unit overlooking a manicured courtyard. It held a small pool that would have frustrated anyone who attempted laps. Donna tried hard to be a refrigerator-magnet-worthy realtor. Lipstick. Sprayed hair. Long earrings. A loose-fitting dress trying to hide a figure that had gotten away from her. Spouting off multimillion-dollar deals as if they were her listings. Her emotional anxiety swung between fear of being exposed and courage to carry on. She toddled in her high heels worse than Kathleen. But her smile was authentic even if her war-paint-mulberry cheeks were not.
“Notice the stainless,” she said when we returned to the kitchen. “You won’t need to put a penny here, that’s for sure.” She wore no wedding ring but a collection of bracelets that didn’t go with her outfit, as if she’d forgotten to take them off when she switched to her realtor persona. “Where do you live now?”
I wanted to expose myself before we got too deep into the ruse.
“In Pass-a-Grille. But—”
“Oh, I just love it. I’d die to have one of the cottages, but those prices just rocketed. Do you ever get to Eighth Avenue? There’s an art shop there. I have some paintings and jewelry there on consignment.”
“I’ve been to that shop.”
Kathleen, who had killed every green plant so unfortunate as to have come under her purview, had, years ago, purchased a small sign from the store. The sign read “Grow, Damn It.” That was the extent of my wife’s gardening skills. But unlike her bafflement with kitchens, I sensed Kathleen harbored a secret desire to be a gardener. To be one of those smiling women in Southern Living surrounded by blossoming blue hydrangeas, a spade in their hand—not a speck of dirt on their summer dress—standing in front of a shaded porch. A porch with white couches framed with colorful pillows and a pitcher of lemonade on a pollen-free glass table.
The Grow, Damn It pot sat next to my outdoor shower, a reminder of why I’m totally batty for my wife and a testament that it’s okay not to worry about trying to be what you will never be. I wanted to impart that to Donna Novak. But we don’t touch people that fast, although that would not be the case with Donna Novak and me.
“Actually, Donna, I wanted to meet to discuss Salvatore Russo. I noticed your office is next to his.”
“Sally?”
Sally.
I blurted out that I was working with one of his clients. That I was searching for information that might be beneficial in finding who killed him. I dropped Detective Rambler’s name to add legitimacy to my request. Rambler had questioned Donna, but only to the extent of whether or not she’d been in her office the day of the murder. She had not. He had not pressed further than that. I thought that a mistake on his part but would never say as much. Rambler’s caseload was nothing anyone would want to punch an alarm clock for.
“You’re not interested in a condo?” she said, unable to hide her hurt. I felt bad and wondered when was the last time Donna Novak sold a condo. Or a necklace at the art shop.
“I am not. I need to know more about Sally Russo.”
She furrowed her eyebrows. “Because you want to find out who killed him? Why?”
“It’s possible Sally was murdered because of what he unearthed while working for his client.” Then, as she eyed me with skepticism, I added, “Maybe you can help. Maybe you can’t.”
“Who is the client?”
“Erica Giancarlo.”
“You know Erica?” she said.
“I do. And you?”
She ignored my question. “I don’t know how I can possibly help.”
“Anything you can add about his work—about Erica—could be beneficial.”
“So, you’re sorta taking over for Sally?”
“You could say that.”
She flashed a sassy smile, uncharacteristic of her. “Then you should have been the one to say it.”
“I need your help, Donna,” I said with all the sincerity I could muster.
“I told that detective—Rambler—that I wasn’t even there that day. I’m rarely in that office. Meaning never. I signed a cheap lease years ago when I had aspirations of being some top-dog realtor. Before I realized there are a hundred realtors for every listing. I’m not renewing the lease.”
“You called him Sally.”
“We’d pass in the hall.”
“You were never there.”
We were silent for a moment.
“You knew Erica’s name.”
She remained quiet, as if we were in a musical, and the composer had written measures of silence.
“They cut his ear off, Donna. Left him to bleed to death surrounded by his pictures.”
She turned away from me and teetered over to the patio doors looking out toward the tranquil courtyard.
“Why did you say that?” she said with her back to me.
“I was—”
She turned, her cheeks streaked with tears.
“Why did you say that?” she repeated.
“I’m sor—”
“The police never asked me if I knew Sally, only if I was there that day. They cut his ear off?”
“Left one.”
“Why?”
“To get him to confess to something he knew nothing about.”
Her hand shot up to her mouth. She wiped her tears, smudging her makeup.
“I found some undeveloped film in his office,” I said, softening my voice. “I shared it with Detective Rambler. In his work for Erica Giancarlo, Sally inadvertently tripped over men who did not want to be seen together. Men who had nothing to do with Erica Giancarlo getting a divorce. You knew him well, didn’t you?”
Her shoulders slumped. “I really was hoping to sell this. You sounded so . . . qualified on the phone. You sure you don’t want a downtown condo? Once people move to downtown Saint Pete—oh, they love it so much.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, taking a chance.
She blew out her breath and dabbed a corner of her eye with the back of a knuckle.
“The seller’s greedy,” she said. “She’s overreaching and needs to lower the price. But she won’t listen to me. The listing will expire, she’ll sign with someone else, lower the price, and they’ll get the commission.” She puffed her breath out. “What a racket. Let’s go to my office. I’ve got some things to show you. Help me get these lights, will you?”
38
We trekked three blocks to her office, discussing how the building started as apartments, converted to offices, and was slated to be transformed back again to residential and how if you live long enough, you witness these cycles and not just in real estate. She was an easy person to talk with.
“How did you and Sally meet?” I asked as she fiddled in her purse for a key.
“When I took the office years ago, he was already encamped. He had a cheerful sadness about him. I think we recognized that in each other.” She plucked keys out of her purse and shot me a look. “He brought me flowers.”
Salvatore Russo’s photographs, the great loneliness he saw in the world, draped the walls of her office. She headed to an under-counter refrigerator. “I thought I’d be spending more time here, but it didn’t work out that way. Can I get you something? Coke? Water? A juice box?”
“You don’t have animal crackers, do you?”
“Darn, I think I’m out.”
“A water would be fine.”
“One water and one Coke Zero coming up.”
She opened the under-counter refrigerator and handed me a water. She popped the top of an aluminum can and guzzled it like it was the last days of Rome.
My eyes swept the room. “He did exceptional work.”
She lowered the can and kicked off her shoes, shrinking by a few inches. She extracted a pair of loafers from under the desk and put them on.
“He had more pictures than wall space, and I was happy to oblige.”
“He was working for Erica Giancarlo,” I said. “She is innocent in all this. But he saw things that got him killed. Did he say anything to you, share anything, that might help me find who killed him?”
She put down her Coke Zero on a coaster on her desk. She stared out the window, her ample figure blocking most of the light.
“Isn’t life a riot?” she said, her back still toward me. “Like these pictures. You look and look and look, and then suddenly you see. Only then do you realize that looking is not seeing.”
I expected her to continue, but she stopped, as if halted by her own words.
She turned to me. “I’ve never been married. Nor he. My life held a futureless future. You regret calling me yet?”
