Date Rape New York (25 page)

“And yours?”

“I threw it out. It didn’t have anything to do with anything.”

“You mean your wife’s death?”

“Yes. My wife’s . . . that.”

“Cindy said she died of kidney disease.”

Cargill put down his chopsticks and faced her. “My wife needed a kidney transplant. I gave her one of my kidneys, and it was doing OK—well, maybe not so OK, but it was limping along. Then a year later, her other kidney went south, and she needed another transplant. My brother-in-law the cop—her brother—had two perfectly good kidneys, one of which would have suited her just fine, the nephrologist said. But her brother wouldn’t donate his only sister one of his kidneys. And we all know how long the line is for a compatible kidney.” Cargill picked up his chopsticks and dug into the sweet and sour pork.

Grazia poured herself more tea. “Why wouldn’t he donate a kidney?”

“He said she was doomed anyway and donating his kidney would only have bought her a couple of months, given how the other kidney was going downhill. And he had a wife and four kids in school who, he said, needed his body in good working order, and that included both kidneys.”

“What did your wife say about that?”

“She said he was right and that I needed to accept that death happens to everyone. She said the fact that we didn’t have children and that soon I wouldn’t have a wife either was part of a script we were both handed when we were born, and I couldn’t rewrite her lines just because I didn’t like the play.”

“She said that about the script?” Grazia leaned her elbows on the table, watching him.

“She liked theater. She was a fourth-grade teacher, and she always directed the school plays. I went to every damn one, and let me tell you, there were some real bombs. But she told me that all of us in the audience had to clap like crazy because we were in the play too, even though we weren’t on stage, and clapping was our lines.”

“She sounds like a wonderful person.”

“She was.” Cargill leaned back in his chair and wiped his mouth. “We didn’t have children because the doctors said that she had kidney disease and getting pregnant would completely total her kidneys and the baby wouldn’t survive either. I told her we could adopt. But she said that her script was to be a teacher in a tough New York City public school and that God didn’t need her to adopt a child when there were plenty of kids with rotten mothers who already looked at her like she was their real one.”

He picked up his chopsticks and put them down again. “At the end, we were down at the dialysis center three times a week, and they told us we would have to come every day. She said to me, ‘Russell, I’m not spending my time like God wanted me to, with children, so I’m going home now. Please tell the principal that I want to see my children before I die.’”

He opened another carton and peered into it. “So my captain and I put on our dress uniforms, and the school principal took us room by room to where there were kids who she had taught at some time, and we told them that she was real sick and would appreciate seeing them. So they all came in big groups with their parents and cards they had made in class and songs they had been practicing, and they filled up the house with their cards and their singing. Which was nice at the time but made the house real empty when they left. We had a police escort for the funeral, it was that big.”

“And then your brother-in-law told you that your wife wouldn’t want you to drink alcohol at lunch when the mayor was there to present a peacekeeping award.”

“So I hit him. But later I worked out that he was right. It wasn’t my script. So I quit drinking except for beer, which doesn’t count.”

She looked into her tea. “Do you think your wife would say that my getting raped by two men I can’t remember and being lied to by my boss and set up for something I didn’t do—would she say that’s my script?”

“She might say something like that. But she also would say that you’re the one holding your script in your hands, and you’re the one turning the pages.”

Grazia thought about that. “Would she say that your helping me find these guys is in your script?”

“She definitely would. And we’re running out of time. We have Thursday and half of Friday. And I don’t want to let you down. It’s not just because I’m trying to keep my job and get my full retirement, in case you’re wondering. You’re a nice, smart lady, and you have a real future ahead of you once you get past this rocky part. I don’t want your life to blow off course because of a couple of bastards.”

He stood up and reached for his coat. “I’m going home now. I’ll be back here at nine in the morning. Open the door only to me. We’ll sit down over some of Mrs. Springer’s awful tea, read over your lists, and figure out how to spend our last full day together.”

His sweet smile brought a lump to Grazia’s throat. She tried to smile back and say good-bye, but she couldn’t, and then she was sobbing into her Chinese paper napkin that was dissolving between her fingers. She felt his hands pull her up against him, and his arms came around her and held her tight.

“You’re going to be all right, Grazia,” Cargill murmured into her hair. “You’re tough and you’re smart and you’re a lawyer. Wherever happens here, you’ll go on and make yourself a good life somewhere, and you’ll find somebody who will love you, and you’ll know how to help women who find themselves in trouble like this. Now lock the door; I’m going to stand outside until I hear every one of those deadbolts go where they need to be. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He pushed a paper towel between her hands and closed the door behind him.

Chapter 37

Grazia woke up to a flash of gold mixed with the aroma of bacon and coffee. She was only wearing underwear! Where was she? Panic seared her body. She couldn’t breathe. She yanked the blankets tight around her and swung her legs over the edge of the sofa, grabbing blindly for a weapon of any kind. Her flailing hand landed on her handbag. Then her eyes fell on Mrs. Springer, who was smiling from the doorway.

“Jacky moved his back foot! It’s eight o’clock. Detective Cargill just called. He’ll be here in an hour. He wanted to make sure we don’t go out. Tea or coffee? I don’t believe in decaf. If you want coffee, drink coffee.”

“Coffee.” Grazia flopped back on the sofa and waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. She thought about the night before. After she had bolted the doors behind Cargill, she had taken her laptop to the sofa and analyzed her lists. She re-ordered them according to time, then activity, then individual. That last didn’t help the overall picture, but it did bring the people into clearer focus.

She then emailed all of it to Miranda, with an explanation about how she got Raoul to admit he was Valentino and a note that she was not staying at her hotel but would return there Friday morning to pack and leave for the airport. She added that Detective Cargill knew where she was. She requested a video conference at nine-thirty New York time, Thursday morning. She then texted her mother to remind her to get the names in the consortium that owned the Hotel Fiorella. It was early morning in Naples and her mother was up. She video called Grazia, read them off and emailed them to her. Spotting the unfamiliar surroundings behind Grazia, she demanded to know why Grazia wasn’t at her hotel. Grazia fended off her concern and her advice to hire a bodyguard. She read over the list of names and dropped off to sleep.

At four in the morning, she had opened her eyes, wide-awake. Sophia had not put her pajamas under her pillow. Why not? Grazia pulled over her laptop and added that to the “Sophia” list, which included still not knowing why Sophia had found her so early on Sunday morning. She also added that Sophia had been trying to tell Grazia something Wednesday morning, but Grazia had been rushing to take her laptop to the computer geek and had not stopped to listen. “Call Sophia in the morning,” Grazia wrote on the to-do list.

She had emailed all that to Miranda and gone back to sleep. Now she lay smelling the bacon and coffee and thinking about that flash of gold that had been behind her eyes when she woke up. She tried to visualize it, but as always it eluded her. Was she attaching too much significance to this image? Was her obsessing about it while awake causing it to invade her dreams? She checked her email. Miranda had replied she would be available for a video conference at nine-thirty in the morning, New York time. Grazia grabbed the pink bath towel that Mrs. Springer had laid out and headed for the shower.

Detective Cargill arrived at nine o’clock on the dot. “I bet you were awake all night lining up more for us to do today,” he said, sitting down to a plate of Mrs. Springer’s bacon and eggs.

Grazia mentioned her concern about Sophia. “I phoned her this morning, but no answer. The hotel said she called in sick.” She then handed him the first page of their schedule for the day. Mrs. Springer had printed it out on her ancient printer. “We’re making a video call to Miranda in half an hour. That’s first on the agenda.”

Cargill stirred sugar into his coffee while he read over the pages.

Grazia added milk to her coffee. “I called the lab in Jersey City. The DNA identities are ready. The secretary told me that if a police officer calls the medical examiner to accept the email, the police lab might run the match faster. Has your captain approved?”

“Yes. What’s this ‘Computer technician, photos of men’?” He pointed to the paper.

“I’m trying to think of everyone who might have seen the men involved. The technician told me that someone tried to pick up my laptop. I want to show him the photos of the men who were staying at hotels near the Brazilian Bar, plus the photo of Francisco’s bodyguards and the one I took of Valentino at the restaurant.”

Cargill pointed at the photo. “That’s Francisco? He’s old!”

Mrs. Springer was looking over his shoulder. She frowned. “He looks familiar. But when would I have seen him?”

“You wouldn’t have,” Grazia replied.

Cargill was reading Grazia’s to-do list. He pointed to one item. “I ran down the driver of the airport van. He says Laura didn’t speak to any of the other passengers. When they were almost to her terminal, she got a call. She spoke in a language he didn’t understand. Not a big tipper, the driver said.”

“What about the driver of the taxi he called for me? Did you talk to him?”

“Yes. He said the man you were with told him the cab wasn’t needed.”

“He said that because I was vomiting into the gutter,” said Grazia bitterly. “None of this would have happened to me if the taxi driver had been less concerned about his car.”

“Vomiting? No. He only said that you didn’t look good and you tried to get in the cab, but the man pulled you out.”

Grazia frowned. “Why would Valentino say I was vomiting when I wasn’t?”

Cargill refilled his cup from the coffeemaker. “Because he was lying. I don’t believe a word that man says. We can call the taxi driver again today and ask about the vomiting.”

“And find him and show him my photos. The monk too.” She pulled over the paper and added those to the to-do list.

“Don’t expect recognition, Grazia,” cautioned Cargill. “In both cases, it was dark and the man was bundled up.”

At exactly nine-thirty, the video call came through from Miranda Laterza. Detective Cargill, Grazia, and Mrs. Springer crowded at the kitchen table so Miranda could see them all. Miranda gave them her usual calm smile.

“Nice to meet you, Detective Cargill. That is you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Ma’am. And this is Mrs. Springer. She owns the dog that bit the man Grazia was walking home with the night she was assaulted. We are operating under the assumption that this man is the drug-facilitated offender although we aren’t certain yet of his identity. Unfortunately, the dog was poisoned a few days ago. We think the offender poisoned him. I believe the man is known to Grazia and is finding out what she is doing either from her directly or from other people.”

“He must be on the lists I emailed you,” added Grazia.

“My staff is researching the names to find any connections with you or Francisco.” Miranda ran her finger down a paper in front of her. “You’ve left your hotel. Any particular reason?”

“I don’t trust the staff, even Stanley. I’m afraid to open my door,” she confessed.

“Instincts count.” Miranda consulted her paper. “We found out more about Sophia. Francisco’s housekeeper in Naples told our operatives that Sophia is in New York because she got pregnant while working as a maid at Francisco’s beach house. She is presently living with a cousin in Flushing. Belinda persuaded the US consulate to grant Sophia the student visa by signing an affidavit that Sophia needed English-immersion classes for promotion to a higher position with Belinda. Belinda is paying for the classes, which are hefty—three thousand dollars a month. She also paid for the pregnancy and birth expenses. The baby was born two months ago and was adopted in New York. The housekeeper says Sophia’s hotel salary goes into Belinda’s account, although that sounds like malicious gossip to me. Belinda is not a favorite among the household staff. Sophia will return to Italy in a month, although the housekeeper didn’t know if she still has a job with Belinda. She thinks not.”

Grazia felt a chill as she flashed to Sophia’s comments about a “friend” who’d been raped and got pregnant.

“Sophia didn’t put my pajamas under my pillow yesterday when she cleaned my room. I was just leaving when she came in and said she had something to tell me. Stupidly, I cut her off and said we could talk later.” Grazia winced. “I keep calling her cell phone but she doesn’t answer. The hotel says she’s not working today.”

“We’ll try to find her.” Cargill added a note to the to-do page. “Any background on Manuel, Luigi, and Edmondo? I emailed you what we have. They were born in the US and have American citizenship and up-to-date American passports.”

“We found out that they all were living in Italy as children and grew up here. And they all worked for Francisco Pamplona in various security capacities before moving to the US.”

“Bodyguards?” inquired Grazia.

“Among other positions. What’s their current situation in the US?” Miranda asked.

Cargill answered. “Manuel and Luigi married American women of Italian descent. They have children. Edmondo is single. They all live in Flushing. It’s a one-hour subway ride into Manhattan but has reasonable housing and clean air.”

Miranda made a note. “I received the IP addresses of the two emails that Grazia gave to the technician—the anonymous one and the one that Manuel emailed to Stanley, who forwarded it to Grazia. The first was from a New York public library and the other from a Starbucks in Flushing.” She read off the street addresses. “And,” she added, “the money courier service that transferred the thousand dollars from Manuel to his mother was also located in Flushing.” She gave that address.

“We’ll check them out today.” Cargill was scribbling addresses on the to-do list. He turned to Grazia. “You got any photos of Manuel, Luigi, and Edmondo? You seem to take pictures of everyone.”

She pulled out her smartphone and started searching her photos.

“What do you know about this Valentino Agresta?” Cargill asked Miranda.

“We checked him out this morning when we got Grazia’s email. He was hired by Francisco Pamplona Law Offices in Milan seven years ago, a month before Grazia. According to his secretary, who doesn’t like him much, he was all set to move to Naples for the negotiating job, but Grazia got it instead. He’s now on the Milan contract-negotiating team. It’s not as big a job as the Naples position but still excellent money.”

“Why doesn’t his secretary like him?”

“She says he’s too smooth. Nothing sticks to him. He has a huge ego and never forgets a slight.”

“Have you found who leaked the Kourtis information to the press or to the Building Safety Department?” Grazia dared to ask.

“The press won’t reveal their sources and neither will Building Safety. They say if they did, they would never get any tips. All I’m sure of is that it wasn’t an electronic leak from our system.”

“I’m beginning to think that I didn’t talk about the Kourtis contract at all,” said Grazia. “Nick, the bartender, says it was a football night and everyone was yelling. The three Italians said the music was so loud that it was hard to hear names, much less conversations. And Raoul—the real Raoul Cataneo in Boston—said that I got sick very quickly after they opened the second bottle. The only person who says I talked about my work was Laura.”

“What more do you know about Laura?” asked Cargill.

Miranda checked her notes. “She’s been at her present law firm since she graduated. One of her clients is the contractor who subcontracts cement work to Kourtis.”

“And she hates me,” added Grazia. “She wanted the job at Francisco Pamplona Law Offices, and I got it. She didn’t get into Law Review at law school, and she blames me. And she didn’t get the job interview that I have scheduled for Monday. Do you think she met Valentino Agresta at the hotel or knew him from before?”

“I’ll try to find out,” said Miranda. “What do you have on your schedule for today?”

Grazia answered. “A private lab will do the DNA identity on the dinner napkin that Valentino Agresta gave us last night. We’ll take it out there this morning. Yesterday I took them something that carried the DNA of a man I think is one of the men who assaulted me. It’s ready. They will email the results to the medical examiner to run a match. I’m paying for it,” she added.

“I talked to my captain,” Cargill said. “He’ll approve the medical examiner running a match on both the samples. After the lab, we’ll go to Sophia’s home to find out why she isn’t at work. We’ll take the photos of the various possible offenders to the Starbucks and the money-transfer company and see if the employees recognize anyone in the photos. And we’ll do the same for the guy who retrieved Grazia’s sack for her when she was mugged.”

They closed the call. Detective Cargill hunkered down next to Jacky and scratched the dog’s head. “I wish I could get you near Valentino Agresta,” he said. “I’m sure your nose will tell us what we need to know.”