by Rachel Woods
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s start with the first blackmail note,” Lisa said. “The one instructing you to check out the text message on your phone.”
Shrugging, focusing on my irritation and not my growing wariness, I plopped down on the couch. “What about it?”
“The maid told you that Icarus wanted her to deliver the note for him,” Lisa said.
“That was a mix-up,” I said, reminding Lisa that two maids had come to my room that day. One had the blackmail demand. The other maid, the one who’d told me Icarus had asked her to deliver the note, actually did have the letter that Icarus had written.
“The tale of the two maids and the mix-up with the notes is a story Icarus told you,” Lisa said. “A story I’m sure you didn’t validate. Did you ask the first maid about the second maid that came to your room that day with another note for you?”
“Well, no, but—”
“And let’s talk about the second maid for a moment,” Lisa suggested. “Icarus told you the second maid was some girl named Stacy who had been fired from the hotel for stealing.”
“Her name is Stazia,” I said. “She’s the girl Icarus saw on the hotel video cameras and recognized.”
“Another story you probably didn’t check out,” Lisa said. “How do you know if Icarus went to security and looked at the surveillance tapes?”
Disgruntled by Lisa’s unrelenting suspicion, I said nothing, but I supposed there was nothing to say. Except Lisa was right. Which annoyed the hell out of me because I didn’t want to have all these doubts about Icarus.
“Look, I know you want to trust Icarus,” Lisa said. “And for your sake, I hope he’s not a lying murderer.”
“Why do you still think Icarus killed Henri?” I asked. “Nick said Stazia told him that Sam killed Henri.”
“How do you know Nick was telling the truth? Will Stazia say Sam killed Henri if the cops ask her?” Lisa asked. “Or, will she implicate someone else?”
“You think Stazia might tell the cops that Icarus killed Henri?”
“I think you need to be very careful around Icarus,” Lisa said. “He just might be that better suspect you’re looking for.”
DAY TWELVE
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I talked to Octavia about setting up a meeting with the cops,” Icarus said when he stopped by that night, around ten o’clock, after finishing his shift.
“Thanks for doing that.”
“Octavia asked me why you wanted this meeting,” Icarus walked to the couch and dropped down on the far left side. “But, I told her I didn’t know because …”
“Because what? Why didn’t you tell her I found out that Sam killed Henri?” I asked, joining him on the couch, sitting on the opposite side.
“Because Tavie would have asked me how do you know that? And what was I supposed to tell her? That Nick said that Stazia said …?” Icarus shook his head. “That’s not exactly proof.”
“We don’t have to prove it,” I countered. “Octavia said we needed to find a new suspect, a better suspect. There’s no better suspect than Sam. He was in Henri’s alliance, helping Henri blackmail me. Obviously, they argued over money, and Sam killed Henri.”
“Maybe,” Icarus conceded, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.
“Look, I found a better suspect,” I said. “And I wanted the cops at the meeting so they can be told to start investigating this better suspect I found for them.”
“Well, the meeting is set for tomorrow at ten a.m.,” Icarus said, rubbing his eyes.
“Good. I’ll be right back. I want to update my calendar,” I said, jumping up from the couch and hurrying into the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I grabbed my cell phone from the night table. I didn’t think for one minute I would forget the time and location of the meeting, but calendaring it made me feel more in control, and I relished any opportunity to enjoy the comfort of my old routines. While I entered the details of the meeting into my phone, I pondered Nick’s claim about Icarus’ ability to find Stazia if he’d really wanted to, and my stomach dropped. I figured I should ask Icarus what Nick had meant, but I was hesitant to reignite the suspicions I was trying hard to forget about.
Five minutes later, I returned to the living room and sat on the couch. Pushing past my reluctance, I cleared my throat, and asked, “Have you been able to find Stazia?”
“Still looking,” Icarus said. “That girl does not want to be found.”
“You sure about that?”
“What do you mean?”
Sighing, I said, “When I talked to Nick, he seemed to think that you wouldn’t have a problem locating Stazia, if you really wanted to.”
“Oh, really?” Icarus stared at me. “And did he tell you why I wouldn’t have a problem finding her?”
“He didn’t exactly elaborate,” I admitted. “But, why would he say that if—”
“Nick Presso is not a guy you can trust,” Icarus said. “He probably lied when he claimed he wasn’t working with Henri to blackmail you. And this story about Stazia telling him that Sam killed Henri is probably bullshit, too.”
“I have to believe that Nick was being honest with me,” I said. “I have to believe that Stazia will be found and she will tell the cops that Sam killed Henri.”
“Yeah, I guess you do,” Icarus said, sighing as he walked around me and toward a desk in the far back corner of the living room.
Puzzled by his melancholy, I turned. “Look, I know that both Nick’s and Stazia’s claims have to be proven, and maybe Nick did lie to me, but don’t you think his claims are worth investigating? I mean, Tavie said find a better suspect, so I did, and I thought you’d be happy about that, but …”
“If Nick was telling the truth, and if there’s a way to prove Stazia’s accusations, then that will be the best news,” Icarus said, facing me. “It’s just …”
“Just what?” I walked to him. “Are you okay?”
“Not really.” He shook his head.
Taking his hands, I stepped closer and looked up at him. “What’s the matter?”
“When I was at Octavia’s,” he said, looking down, “she gave me some bad news.”
My heart started to kick. “Bad news about what?”
“About you,” he said, staring at me with sympathy and tenderness in his bleak gaze. “About the case.”
“What did she tell you?” I asked, barely able to push the question past the cotton in my mouth.
“Today, Octavia found out …”
“Found out what?” I demanded, grabbing the front of his jacket, curling my fingers around the lapel. “Icarus, tell me!”
“The cops found fingerprints on the knife that was used to kill Henri,” he said.
Staring at him, I began to tremble, to feel as though my body was frozen solid and yet engulfed in flames at the same time.
“The prints on the knife matched the prints they took from you when you were arrested,” he said. “But Octavia said that doesn’t mean …”
Icarus continued to talk, but I didn’t hear another word he said; I couldn’t, not with the roaring in my head. Nauseated by the panic and fear shooting through my bloodstream like some kind of poisonous toxin, I clutched my stomach, close to retching. I wanted to run to the bathroom, but my legs were mush. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t believe what was happening to me or understand why or how?
In an instant, I had reverted back to the panicked, near-hysterical, irrational version of myself. Sobbing, I collapsed against Icarus, clutching his shirt and wailing as his arms closed around me.
DAY THIRTEEN
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“So this guy, Nicholas,” Detective Richland François began. “What’s the last name again?”
“Presso,” Octavia supplied, her tone brisk and confident. “Nicholas Presso. As I told you when we spoke yesterday, Mr. Presso is an employee at the Heliconia Hotel and a close associate of the decea
sed, Henri Monteils. My client, Ms. Miller, believes that Mr. Presso has pertinent and relevant information about the death of Henri Monteils.”
“Well, if this information is so pertinent and relevant,” the detective quipped, “then why isn’t he here to tell me? Did you tell him about this meeting?”
“Um, well, no, I didn’t,” I said, trying not to wring my hands, trying not to lose hope as I glanced at Icarus, who stood out of the way, near a wall of bookshelves at the back of the office.
“Why didn’t you tell him about this meeting?” The detective asked, making no effort to mask his frustration and annoyance. “If you truly believe he has pertinent and relevant information about Henri Monteils’ death, then don’t you think he should be here to tell me?”
I wanted to kick myself. Why had I let Nick Presso walk away without getting some sort of commitment from him to tell the police about Stazia Zacheo’s claims about Sam killing Henri? I should have done things differently. I would have done things differently if I had been thinking straight. I couldn’t afford to make stupid mistakes, not when my freedom could depend on Nick Presso telling Det. Francois everything he knew about Henri’s murder.
“Tell me more about this pertinent and relevant information about Henri Monteils’ death that Nick Presso supposedly possessed,” Detective Francois suggested.
After a quick, deep breath, I said, “Nick, Mr. Presso, knows who killed Henri Monteils.”
“And how do you know that, Ms. Miller?” the detective asked.
“Because he told me.” I glanced at Octavia, wondering if my answer was okay. She tilted her head to the right slightly, a nonverbal clue, and I recalled what she’d told me before the detective arrived. If the detective asked me a question I shouldn’t answer, Octavia promised to interrupt. She wouldn’t let me incriminate myself or accidentally give the detective ammunition to use against me later.
“Nicholas Presso told you that he knows who killed Henri Monteils?”
“Nick said a former Heliconia employee told him that Sam Collins, a man who currently works at the Heliconia, had killed Henri,” I said. “The ex-employee is a woman named Stazia Zacheo.”
“Ms. Miller, what Nicholas Presso told you is pretty much akin to hearsay.” The detective pinned me with a withering gaze. “And even if Mr. Presso told me himself, again, I couldn’t take his word. I would need Stazia Zacheo to come to the station and have a talk with me.”
“I know that,” I said. “But we haven’t been able to find Stazia.”
“Well, when you find her,” the detective said, standing, “then call me. Until then—”
“Are you going to investigate Sam Collins?” I asked, sitting on the edge of my seat, sensing the detective was about to leave.
“Ms. Miller, there’s no reason for me to investigate Sam Collins,” Detective François said. “I’m not going to waste my time chasing some false lead that can’t be validated or—”
“It won’t be a waste of time,” I insisted. “If you’ll just—“
“If Nick Presso or Stazia Zacheo have something to tell the police,” Detective François said, “tell them to come down to the station.”
“Did you know that Henri wasn’t working alone?” I asked, desperate. “Did you know he had partners? Hercules, I mean Sam Collins, was one of Henri’s partners and so was—”
“I think we've taken up enough of the detective’s time,” Octavia said, shooting me a warning glance—translation: Shut up. Now—as she stood and moved from behind her desk. “We’ll certainly let you know, Detective, when we get in touch with Mr. Presso or Ms. Zacheo, so—”
“Actually, I have a few minutes,” the detective took his seat again. “What were you saying, Ms. Miller?”
Octavia said, “I am going to advise my client not to—”
“Sam and Stazia Zacheo were working with Henri to blackmail me,” I rushed out, pretending I didn’t see the warning, a glare this time, that Octavia launched at me like a missile, even though she was in my line of sight, standing to the right of the detective’s chair. I knew she wanted me to cease and desist talking, forthwith. But I was desperate to convince the detective to focus on Sam Collins, who had a more dangerous motive and a better opportunity to kill Henri.
The meeting had been a bust, but I was determined to salvage what little I could from this opportunity I had been given to talk to Detective François. There was no way I could let him leave without giving him details about Henri’s alliance.
“Stazia Zacheo and Sam Collins were blackmailing you, too?” Detective François’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”
“Quinn,” Octavia said.
“They had some kind of alliance,” I went on. “But I think it broke apart because they probably argued about the money, and then—”
“Quinn, you need to stop talking at once,” said Octavia, the rebuke in her tone making me falter, lose my train of thought, and recognize, as the cloud of panic cleared, that the detective was amused.
Nodding, I looked at my feet, feeling stupid for my outburst, for not listening to Octavia, and for actually thinking the detective would be willing to take anything I said seriously.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Octavia said, scowling at me after the detective had left. “When I tell you to stay quiet, you need to stay quiet.”
“Quinn was just doing what you told her to do,” Icarus said, moving away from his unobtrusive spot near the bookshelf and taking the chair the detective had vacated. “You said she needed to give the police another suspect.”
“I didn't mean that literally,” Octavia said, returning to her huge, leather chair. “I didn’t want Quinn to tell the cops our strategy. The police don’t need to know that we’re investigating other possible suspects.”
“But how will they find Henri’s killer if they don’t know that there are other suspects they need to look for?” I asked.
“We don’t need to be concerned with whether or not the cops find out who really killed Henri Monteils,” Octavia said. “Our focus, our only goal, is to get the murder charge against you dropped. To do that, we need another suspect. And we need solid, irrefutable evidence that the other suspect had motive, means, and opportunity. Then I draft a motion to dismiss all charges against you and make some very logical convincing arguments before the court. Faced with undeniable facts, the judge will agree, and you’ll be off the hook, free to move on and live your life.”
“You’re right,” I said, nodding. “I’m sorry.”
“Listen, I know the attorney in you probably wants to assert herself,” Octavia said, “but you have to trust me.”
Contrite, I nodded, wondering what Octavia would think if she knew the attorney in me couldn’t be trusted anymore.
“Promise you’ll let me do my job from now on, okay?” she said and then added a smile. “You’re paying me a lot to do it. You should want to get your money’s worth.”
Shaking my head, I said, “Lawyers make the worst clients, right?”
“Sometimes,” Octavia conceded. “But not always.”
“Sorry I wasted your time,” I said. “I should have been better prepared for the meeting, I should have—”
“It’s okay,” Octavia assure me. “It wasn’t a complete bust. Despite what he said, the detective will be looking into Stazio Zacheo and Sam Collins.”
“Well, that’s good news,” I said, hopeful, but when I glanced at Icarus, he seemed only slightly convinced.
“But, wait, there’s more,” announced Octavia, moving to the topic of my fingerprints on the murder weapon, which wasn’t exactly a smoking gun. The police hadn’t found fingerprints, Octavia explained, they’d found a fingerprint. And it wasn’t one of my fingers; it was a thumbprint, actually. The left thumbprint, which was odd, Octavia believed, since I was right-handed.
“The thumbprint was found on the blade of the knife,” Octavia had said. “It wasn’t on the handle, which is where you would usually find prints. That would indica
te that you’d wrapped your hand around the handle and plunged the knife into Henri’s chest.”
This news got my hopes up but not too high. The police believed I’d tried to wipe my prints off the knife and had accidentally gotten my thumbprint on the blade somehow. They considered the thumbprint a lucky break and concrete evidence to support their belief that I’d killed Henri.
“The thumbprint is odd,” Icarus said. “Quinn was unconscious when Henri was murdered, so why didn’t the killer just wrap her entire hand around the knife? He, or she, could have given the cops damaging evidence against Quinn.”
“Maybe the killer was more concerned with cleaning the knife than trying to set me up,” I speculated. “But he, or she, didn’t get all the prints off. I think the killer accidentally left my print on the knife.”
Octavia sighed. “Well, I’m going to argue that you picked up the knife to defend yourself against Henri’s assault, if the case goes to trail.”
“The case is not going to trial,” said Icarus with more conviction than I felt at the moment. “We’re going to find the real killer. Quinn is not going to jail for a crime she didn’t commit.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“I wish I had asked Nick to come to the meeting,” I mused out loud, pacing around the couch, biting my lip and wringing my hands. “I don’t understand why I didn’t. I have his cell number.”
“You were probably just focused on telling the detective about Sam Collins,” Icarus said. “Not that it did any good.”
“You think I should call Nick?” I asked, irritated by my indecisiveness.
Icarus walked to the couch and sat. “And say what?”
“I want to ask him if he would be willing to go down to the police station and talk to Detective François.”
“I don’t think so,” Icarus said.
“You don’t think what?” I asked, the attorney in me thinking of how I would object to his answer if I’d been questioning him during a deposition. Vague, maybe. Non-responsive, possibly. “You don’t think I should call Nick? Or, you don’t think Nick would go to the cops and tell them what he knows about Henri’s murder?”
