The Granite Moth (20 page)

“Bobbie wasn't happy, that's for sure.”

“What makes you say that?” Dolly interjected. It was clear that he didn't agree, and I waited for Carl to make his argument.

“I hate to be the one to admit this, but he was in love with that little private school brat. And seventeen? Bobbie despaired
that he was robbing the cradle, that he couldn't take him to bars. ‘Bobbie,' I liked the scold him. ‘
You
aren't supposed to get into bars. You're nineteen, sweet cheeks.' But he was ready to settle down, make homemade pasta for a house full of kids in blazers.”

Dolly shook his head, “He never said anything like that to me.”

“Pillow talk,” Carl said, then softened his tone. “Everyone's a little intimidated by you, D. You know how it is.”

I turned in time to see Dolly's expression cloud, but even I knew it was true. I'd been to the club enough times to notice how the other performers sighed in Dolly's wake. Dolly was top-billed on the marquee, and he deserved it. This place might not work without him. Weren't they all a little nervous?

“But to answer your question,” Carl continued, “no, I don't think Bobbie was the target. The seven of us were, the ones on the invitation. And a little bit of all of us blew up that night.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I
wasn't
sure I bought Carl and Aaron's story, and I had plenty of time to dissect it as the C train stalled underground. There was a lot of room for jealously in what looked more like a love square than a love triangle. Shakespeare would approve.

I glanced around the subway car, studying the riders, seeing if they'd share some insights on the human condition. A teenage girl was play slapping at her boyfriend as he tried to take her iPhone away. Their shrieks were fascinating the toddler beside them, who held his hands toward them but went ignored. His mother had her eyes closed, head resting against the acrylic window, “SUK IT” scratched into the surface. Across from me, a businessman read the
The Atlantic
, letting go of his wife's hand to turn the page. She had her head leaned back, too, completely trusting that he would make sure they got to their destination. And two older men who could have just been friends, but were clearly close, sat with their knees touching,
debating the pros and cons of Latin American travel. “We could go to Machu Picchu,” said one while his partner rolled his eyes. “You and what mule are going to drag me up that mountain?” A woman beside them grinned, but tried to hide it. Everyone eavesdrops in New York, but pretends not to hear anything. Could bouncer Earl be suffering from the same self-imposed amnesia? How likely was it that he hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary?

“We apologize for the delay. There's been a track fire at Columbus Circle, and we'll be bypassing that station.”

A collective, resigned sigh filled the aisle, and I figured I would be at least twenty minutes late. I was curious why Ellis had asked me to meet him at the precinct, seeing as we were working Ernesto Belasco's case on the sly. Could he have found something out about the parade explosion instead? A nagging voice told me to keep looking for the connection between the two, but people are killed every week in New York City. And Lars Dekker's disappearance suggested a motive other than bigotry.

The train eventually jerked into motion, and a few strangers locked eyes in relief, but I kept my gaze on the advertisements: Dr. Zizmor's perfect skin promises and a law firm specializing in no-contest divorces. When I disembarked, I told myself not to dismiss a possible link between the cases. Coincidences are for prom dresses and celebrity deaths. By the time I transferred to the crosstown bus, I had gone back to believing the two cases were separate, and I needed to keep them that way in my head. It was going to be a long day.

The 19th Precinct didn't feel like home, if that's what you're thinking. I had been thrown undercover a few months after the police academy, female volunteers being in short supply. And I had only lasted a few weeks after returning, barely long enough to train Marco Medina and collect my coffee mug.
Marco had never resented my detective status, but others made passive-aggressive remarks when I had ducked into my mandated therapy sessions. “Wish I had time to get my head shrunk.”
Harharhar.

Sammy Carter was working the front desk and didn't seem glad to see me, though he was friendlier than our last encounter when I had been suspected of a double homicide, or as I like to call those times, bygones. He buzzed me back with a few non-committal noises, and I wondered what he had done to be given desk responsibilities. It was hard to get pulled from the streets, so it must have been bad. I passed a few other familiar faces on my way past the cubicles, but no one spoke to me either, because they didn't recognize me or didn't want to. Ellis came out of his office as if on cue. No psychic connection; he'd been watching on the surveillance screens, impatient to show me something.

Off-duty there was still a sliver of softness to Ellis that reminded me of the ambitious but good-natured undergrad he'd once been. Here he was marble through and through. I'd seen him get angrier about cases, but never softer. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and since he was sweating, I started to sweat, too.

“We caught Ernesto Belasco's parents trying to flee the country. They were already past security in JFK when we stopped them.”

“Fleeing? What makes you think that they were fleeing, not going on vacation? You think they'd hurt their own son?”

I thought about the unmarked cruiser that I had noticed outside their Bed-Stuy apartment and begrudgingly admitted that it might not have been a bad idea. We were walking rapidly through the labyrinthine hallways, headed for the observation room.

“
Family does crazy things to your head. You've seen it. One day, there's joking over the mashed potatoes, the next day blood.”

I doubted the Dekkers had ever sat down to mashed potatoes, but I didn't disagree with the sentiment. What I didn't know was how much he was thinking about the Belascos and how much he was thinking about his brother. What would he compromise to get him back? I hoped that I didn't have to find out.

“They didn't like that he was gay.” I tried the motive out loud. Mr. Belasco had seemed slightly uncomfortable talking about his son's boyfriend, but then again, Bomber didn't strike me as a parent pleaser, even if he did run his own business. “How are you working this case again anyway?”

“Not working. Advising since I handled the first part of investigation.”

I barely heard his answer, as I considered another motive for the Belascos and their niece Eva. “Maybe they were running away from Magrelli. If any family can turn potatoes to blood, it's that one.”

Ellis stopped abruptly and turned me to face him. He ducked down until he was peering into my eyes with his translucent ones. I could see myself in his pupils, the smallest nesting doll in the set, the one with nothing inside.

“We all want every crime to be committed by the Big Bad Wolf. We could be the hunters bringing grandmas back to life and girls back to nightmare-less sleep. But this line of thinking will eat you alive. There are a lot of wolves, and a lot of sheep having a bad day, making one bad mistake then another to cover it up. I don't want to tell you what to do—”

“Are you sure? Because it sounds like a big roll of advice is about to come out of that pretty mouth of yours.”

His mouth was close, and I licked my lips before I knew what I was doing.
And sometimes wolves wear sheep's clothing
, I thought.
Ellis straightened up, ran his hands through his cropped hair, and continued down the hallway, walking even faster than before. Who was running now?

Behind the observation glass, I could see Mr. and Mrs. Belasco holding hands and denying everything. I didn't recognize the detective across from them, but Ellis vouched for her. It was hard not to admire her interrogation style. While a lot of detectives will jump at the chance to show off their power, Detective Cowder was making inquiries in a tone that could only be described as polite: When did they buy their tickets? When did they decide to leave? Where were they going? Who was meeting them? She could have been Barbara Walters on a couch with Amy Adams talking about her latest movie role. The Belascos were reticent, shaking their heads often and giving one- or two-word answers. Nothing about their responses was screaming “innocent.”

When Detective Cowder entered the observation room to consult with Ellis, I hung back. She glanced at me, then continued as if I weren't there. I stared at the seam in her gray suit jacket, a few stray threads suggesting that the pay hadn't improved much around here since I'd left.

“They're scared of something, that much is clear.”

Or
someone
, I wanted to interject, but instead took a sip of my water and waited for Ellis's theory. It seemed obvious that Detective Cowder knew Ellis had continued his investigation unsanctioned. That would be the safe bet if your cop friend's brother went missing. They probably would have been disappointed in him if he'd given up.

“There's evidence to suggest that they didn't like the boyfriend. No photographs of him around anywhere. No sign of him paying his respects,” Ellis said.

“Are you suggesting that—” she glanced down at her notes, “we look at Cassidy Bromowitz?”

“
He has priors.”

That was the first I'd heard that Bomber had a record, but I hadn't paid to run a background check. I figured any twenty-something who could get a commercial lease was clean. He must have been paying cash. A few greased palms here and there could go a long way. The question was, where would he get that kind of money? I thought about Ernesto cheating on behalf of players at The Skyview and asked myself if he could have been cheating for himself, as well, passing his winnings along. Sybil had said that Ernesto was studying them. As role models or marks?

“I'll keep an eye on him,” Detective Cowder said of Bomber. She turned toward me suddenly, and I sat my glass back down on the table as if I'd been caught stealing. “What's your theory, Miss Stone?”

She used the same gentle voice that she had employed on the victim's parents, and I found myself flattered. I glanced at Ellis before pointing my little finger at the Big Bad Wolf. I couldn't help myself. “I'd say they have some new in-laws with more than a few misdemeanors in their files.”

“If you mean Salvatore Magrelli, his record's cleaner than a pre-op table. But I get your drift.” She flipped through her notes again, coming to some decision. “If the never-wrong Detective Decker and the much-maligned Kathleen Stone agree on the intimidation part at least, then intimidation it is. Let's see who's holding the gun, shall we?”

She snapped her notes closed and exited with heels clicking in a steady rhythm around the corner and back into the interrogation room. The Belascos barely glanced at her, looking tired and defeated. If I had to guess, I would say that they knew this day would come. They had seemed resigned to their son's friends stopping by their home unannounced and now they seemed resigned to being here.

This time, Detective Cowder didn't ask anything. Instead, she laid out our theory that someone was threatening to hurt them, then slid a blank sheet of paper and a pen across the table for them to write down a name.

“May I have my purse, please,” asked Mrs. Belasco.

“Your personal affects will be returned when you tell us who's out to get you.” Neither parent touched the paper in front of them. “Mrs. Belasco, we can protect you.”

Mrs. Belasco shook her head, and tears pooled in her eyes. “My purse,” she said again.

Mr. Belasco wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulder, pulling her toward him. It was the first time I thought it was strange that they were being questioned together. Most likely they weren't really suspects and part of me was relieved that the NYPD didn't think that they had killed their son. I preferred my Greek tragedies in the realm of mythology.

“We have something to show you,” Mr. Belasco explained. “We got something in the mail.”

Detective Cowder looked at the one-way mirror, and Ellis exited the room, presumably for the couple's belongings. Mrs. Belasco cried and Mr. Belasco held her while waiting for the bag. It arrived in a cadet's hands after ten minutes. Not bad for this precinct, I thought, glancing at the wall clock. 3:30
P.M.
I'd been there an hour and was feeling light-headed, wishing I hadn't wasted my bagel with Dolly.

Mrs. Belasco reached for her brown leather purse, spilling the contents onto the aluminum table. Stray coins and gum wrappers tumbled to the floor while lipstick, keys, and a wallet remained safely in view. A pristine silver card nestled amongst the mess. I stood up to get a closer look, almost panting from the sudden strain on my heart. When Mrs. Belasco picked up the invitation and handed it to Detective Cowder, I couldn't make out the words, but I didn't need to. How do you
r.s.v.p.
to your own funeral?