Kill a cop for a few dozen laptops and a flat-screen TV? It didn’t make sense. And why hotwire her cruiser? Why not just take the keys off her body?
And then … there was this latest bit of news.
He’d decided to tell Lucy about it, just to gauge her reaction.
He knew Lucy had her secrets.
She didn’t suspect that he’d already figured some of them out.
His gaze drifted across the dining area, to the chair where he’d hung his coat …
And to Lucy’s laptop computer lying on the seat.
He picked up the file folder that lay on the table near his elbow. He’d always had a sixth sense about these things, and it had served him well. This time, there had simply been too many coincidences.
Dominic Lanza
Joseph Cappelli
Lucinda Cappelli
Lucy Hendricks
It was all in the file.
He needed to get back to his office.
There was work to be done.
31
“So when’s the move?”
“Over Christmas. We’re going back to my sister’s place until my house sells.”
Olivetti and Lucy were among a handful of customers sitting in the friendly gloom of one of the few restaurants in the Ironbound district of Newark that had reopened.
“What about a job?”
“I’m certified in Florida, but it might take a while to find a permanent position. I have no interest in substitute teaching all over Miami, so I’ll wait till something comes up. My principal is pretty upset that I’m leaving, but he said he’d give me a good reference. In the meantime, I’ll help Erica run the Bronte. It’ll be nice to take a break. I love my students, but some of their parents are pretty exhausting.”
“The Bronte?”
“My dad’s bar in Coconut Grove. I thought I’d told you about it.”
“Maybe you did. Guess it didn’t register. Strange name.”
“It started out as just a bar, but now it’s a pretty popular restaurant as well. He named it after the town where his mother was born.”
“Oh … that Bronte. Near Mount Etna.”
“Very good. Not many people know that.”
“My dad was Sicilian.”
“You said he died when you were four.”
“He did. But when I got older, I took an interest in the place.”
Their meal arrived.
After the waiter left, Olivetti asked, “Will your family object if I come for a visit?”
“You mean, to Florida?”
He nodded.
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes!” He reached across and covered her hand with his. “I want to keep seeing you. If you’ll let me.”
Lucy took a breath, then smiled. “I think I’d like that.”
They dined in companionable silence. After a few minutes, Olivetti rested his fork, sipped his wine, and casually asked, “Do you remember Ernie Tait?”
Only because Lucy was in the very act of swallowing a mouthful of food was she able to cover her shock.
Don’t tell me…!
“Of course. Why?”
“Have you seen him since he retired from the police?”
Dominic! Where did you dump him?
“No.” Lucy decided a bit of extra fabrication might help. “He called me once, after I moved back here. Said he’d seen that creepy article about me in the Star Ledger. He just wanted to tell me he’d never believed any of that stuff about Jack, and that I could call him if I ever needed help. We were going to meet for lunch sometime, but it never happened.” She tried to look suitably puzzled. “Why are you asking?”
“He’s disappeared.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?”
“Just that. He showed up at BPD headquarters the afternoon before Sandy hit. He said he knew they’d be shorthanded and offered to help out. The chief was happy to have him. He was deputized and sent out in uniform. They offered him a ride-along with one of the younger guys, but he said he’d be happy to just walk the old streets, checking doors, watching for looters. So they gave him a radio and off he went.” His eyes locked on Lucy’s. “The thing is, he hasn’t been seen since.”
Thank you, Dominic …
“A police officer, in uniform, just vanishes? The storm was over a week ago. Why hasn’t it been on the news?”
“His wife was staying with her brother three states away. With the power out and the phones down, she figured she’d hear from him when he got a chance to call. Things were pretty chaotic after the storm, so I guess it took a few days before people started asking questions.”
Lucy couldn’t think of a response, so she said nothing.
Olivetti continued. “Carla Scarlatti and Ernie Tait. One killed, one missing … both on the same night. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Lucy put down her fork. “Thanks, Robert!”
“For what?”
“For ruining a perfectly good meal.”
32
The Bronte occupied the southwest corner of Main Highway and Commodore Plaza in Coconut Grove. Thanks to Giulia Cappelli’s early vision and guidance, and Joseph’s steady work, what began in the seventies as a déclassé hangout had been transformed by the nineties into a popular venue for locals and tourists alike. The place featured a magnificent hewn oak bar and two food service areas—an informal sidewalk café and a chic indoor dining room, complete with vintage French farmhouse furniture, rustic brickwork, and shelves lined with rare books and mysterious old ledgers held together with brown paper and twine. Due to Giulia’s premature death in the late nineties, the burden of designing and implementing upgrades had fallen on Ricki’s shoulders, but that endeavor had proved mostly futile. Depressed by the loss of his beloved wife, and later by his own ill health, Joseph had shown little interest in renovations aimed at staying “trendy,” so Ricki’s ideas had mostly fallen on deaf ears. Despite this, the Bronte remained popular, and when Lucy took up her part-time duties in early 2012, the family business was thriving.
Before she’d left Bayonne, in a moment of weakness and confusion, Lucy had made an attempt to contact Professor Jim Tucker, the director of the University of Virginia’s Division of Perceptual Studies. Based on her earlier Internet research, and her conversation with Neil Clooney, she knew that Tucker was the world’s leading scientific researcher into cases of children who recalled past lives.
When she called, she was told that Dr. Tucker was currently overseas, but after a brief conversation with the office manager, she was put through to Marcia Kershaw, a research psychiatrist who had recently joined the Division’s staff. Based on Lucy’s carefully edited version of Kevin’s history of behavior—one that omitted any mention of its bloody aftermath—Dr. Kershaw was intrigued enough to suggest in-depth interviews with Lucy and Kevin.
“I would like to come as soon as possible, and bring a colleague. All expenses will be borne by the university. There will be no financial cost to you.”
For obvious reasons, Lucy couldn’t risk Kevin revealing too much, so she discouraged the suggestion with the excuse that she was too busy repairing her house after Hurricane Sandy, and getting ready for an impending move to Florida.
“Maybe in the spring,” she suggested, with utter insincerity.
“They forget, you know,” Dr. Kershaw said.
“What do you mean?”
“You said Kevin recently had his fifth birthday.”
“Yes. In August.”
“As these children become more firmly settled in their present lives, they almost invariably forget the past one. That usually happens by the age of five or six. Inevitably, they don’t even remember speaking about an earlier life. To ensure the credibility of our research, it is important that we interview the child before that transition occurs. This way, in our later search for confirmation of facts that the child has imparted about his previous personality, our inquiries are based as closely as possible on the child’s
stated memories, rather than on his parents’ recollections of what the child said.”
“That sounds like a pitch you’ve given before.”
The woman chuckled. “Yes, a few times.” Her tone turned serious. “It’s rare to come across a first-generation case like Kevin’s, where the affected child carries the memories of his own deceased father, and spontaneously displays symptoms of injuries that contributed to his father’s death.”
“You’re referring to the limp?”
“Yes! Mrs. Hendricks, we’d be very grateful if you’d permit us to investigate this case.”
Lucy had already realized that her call had been a mistake and that she needed to end it. She allowed a few seconds to tick by, hoping to give the impression that she was genuinely considering Dr. Kershaw’s request, and then she said, “All I can promise is that I’ll contact you again after our move.”
Two months later, she had not honored her promise, nor did she have any intention of doing so. While the experience with Kevin had shattered her own long-held perceptions of human existence, his memories had also been critical in solving Jack’s murder. But that resolution had almost resulted in her and Kevin suffering an equally violent fate. With the blood of Neil Clooney, Ernie Tait, and Carla Scarlatti splattered across Kevin’s paranormal wake, there was no possible way she would permit her son to become the focus of a scientific investigation.
* * *
And then there was the matter of Robert Olivetti …
Robert had already flown down twice from New Jersey. His first trip had been an abbreviated one, Friday to Monday. He’d booked into the Mayfair Hotel on Grand Avenue, a few blocks from the Bronte, tagged along good-naturedly with Lucy on Saturday when she took Kevin and Pauline on a long-promised airboat ride in the Everglades, and taken everyone out for dinner in Coral Gables on Sunday night. His quiet good looks and direct manner had disarmed the ever vigilant and suspicious Ricki, his courtroom anecdotes had immediately engaged Jeff’s interest, and—most important—he’d been given the seal of approval by ever-precocious Pauline.
His second visit had lasted a week. Lucy had taken a few days off, entrusted Kevin to the care of Ricki and her live-in housekeeper, and she and Robert had driven upstate to Amelia Island. There they’d spent their days horseback riding on the beach, and their nights making love in a rustic cottage next to the ocean. Robert had originally suggested a trip down to Key West, but Lucy had demurred. She told him, a bit cryptically, that she’d been there too often. He was quick enough to divine the true reason for her reluctance, and didn’t mention the idea again.
The only member of Lucy’s immediate family that Robert Olivetti hadn’t met was Lucy’s father. That introduction was a step she wasn’t ready to take. Although Lucy’s dad had never been a demonstrative man, she knew he’d loved Jack like the son he’d never had. At some level, he’d related more closely to her husband, the man-of-action cop, than to Jeff, the cerebral attorney. To confront her father now, especially in his current state of health, with Jack’s potential replacement seemed too much like a final step.
But in the deep of night, lying awake in her bed in Ricki and Jeff’s guesthouse, Lucy knew there was another reason she hadn’t introduced Robert to her father: She just wasn’t sure about her feelings toward the man. With Jack, the connection had been almost instantaneous—a sudden burst of sunlight in her life that never diminished. As clichéd as it sounded, Lucy and Jack had completed each other. One of Lucy’s girlfriends had once observed, jokingly, but with a tincture of wistful envy: “Just think … together you and Jack make a whole person.”
Lucy’s life with Jack had ended as abruptly as it had begun, and now she was being drawn into a relationship that seemed destined to develop in a decidedly different way. The attraction was different, because the experience was different. Robert presented her with a sort of artisanal variety of masculinity compared to Jack’s full-blooded version. At times, it felt as if she and Robert were two people in an arranged marriage, reaching tentatively, almost experimentally, toward each other. Seeking common ground beyond atavistic lust or arctic loneliness. Seeking understanding, appreciation … and laughter.
Sometimes it felt like a growing love. They talked on the phone three or four times a week, and Lucy’s heart beat a little faster when she saw Robert’s name on the screen. Despite her doubts, she was looking forward to his next visit.
But she couldn’t shake the memory of a quote from Proust that she’d read years before. Because of her durable relationship with Jack, she’d told herself at the time that the dictum had no application to her life. Despite that, she’d never forgotten the line: “It is always thus, impelled by a state of mind which is destined not to last, that we make our irrevocable decisions.”
Her experience with Robert was very different from her experience with Jack. What if her state of mind was “destined not to last”?
There was also, of course, the small matter of necessary lies.
Fortuitously, but, as it turned out, grievously for Lucy, her son had already shown signs of forgetting his past life memories. In fact, it was almost as if Kevin—or Jack, as Lucy insisted on telling herself—had signaled the coming end.
Two weeks after their move south, Kevin had fleetingly manifested Jack’s persona. As she dried him after a bath, he had told her, quite matter-of-factly, that he was sorry.
“Sorry for what, dear?”
“I’m sorry that we won’t have time to go back to the Mir … Mira … mar.”
Lucy flashed on her final vacation with Jack, at the Avenida Miramar in Key West. Tentatively, she asked, “Why won’t we have time?”
His little fingers clutched her forearm. “’Cause I think I’m going away soon. I’m sorry, Luce. I love you.” The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh, Mommy, I love you! I love you so much!”
He threw himself into her arms, weeping.
Luckily this incident had happened while they were alone, because she hadn’t mentioned a word about Kevin’s “condition” to Ricki and Jeff.
But now she had something else to grieve over in her solitary moments.
The final departure of Jack.
Even though her son’s memories of her deceased husband had gone quiet, she was acutely aware of the fact that the dual investigations into Carla Scarlatti’s murder and Ernie Tait’s disappearance were ongoing. If some inconvenient piece of evidence happened to turn up, Robert might show up at her door with something more than romance on his mind.
In these circumstances, how could she ever imagine a committed, trusting relationship?
Then her phone rang, and it was him.
“Hey, beautiful!”
Hearing his voice, Lucy’s qualms momentarily fled. “Hi. What’s up?”
“I’ve just been invited to address a law enforcement conference in Coral Springs. It’s at the Marriott from the eighth to the eleventh.”
“How did you manage that?”
“It took a bit of maneuvering. Let’s just say I have low friends in high places. Any chance we can get together while I’m there? I could tack on a few extra days.”
“Like you need to ask? I’ll talk to Ricki about my shifts. I’ll have to tread carefully. I’m already living at her and Jeff’s rent free.”
“Any news on the job front?”
“Broward School District wants to interview me. I’m waiting for the e-mail with date and time.”
“Good sign. Listen, I’m heading for court now, but I wanted to let you know about the conference right away since it’s only a week away. I miss you, Lucy.”
“I miss you, too.”
“It’s time I met your dad, don’t you think?”
Hell!
“Maybe. But it’ll have to be up to him. You know, what with his health…”
33
At three o’clock in the afternoon on March, Lucy was drudging through household chores when her cell rang. It was Ricki, calling from the bar.
“There’s a man
here looking for Dad.”
“Okay…”
“He says he knew him back in the day.”
“Which day?”
“Sicily.”
“You haven’t told him where Dad is!”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“He’s got a big guy with him, and a woman. He said they’re not leaving until he sees Dad.”
“Then call the cops.”
“From the look of them, I don’t think we’d want to … attract that kind of attention.”
“You mean…?”
“Yeah. I thought, with your connections, you might—”
“—scare them off.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be right down.”
When Lucy walked into the Bronte, Ricki was serving two men at the bar. Her eyes cut to the left, to the dining room. “In the back,” she murmured.
Lucy took a deep breath and stepped through the archway. Most of the late lunch trade preferred sidewalk tables, so the dining room was almost empty. Only one table was occupied. A trio sat in the gloom in the far back corner, conversing quietly. There was an older man with silvering hair, his back to her; beside him, a woman; and, on the opposite side of the table, facing her, a big man with a receding hairline and an expressionless face.
Lucy barely suppressed a laugh. She walked toward them.
Carlo rose to his feet, followed by Dominic, who turned to face her with a mischievous grin. “Dear Lucinda. I had hoped our visit would smoke you out of hiding.”
The woman turned in her seat and smiled uncertainly as Lucy, despite herself, gave Dominic a big hug.
“I haven’t been hiding.”
“You’ve been hiding from me. You didn’t come to see me before you left.”
Storm Rising Page 22
