He took his eyes off the road, gave her a lingering glance. “You okay with this, doll?”
Tara nodded. She understood she was complicit, an accessory to murder. While she didn’t mind and even applauded Emilio’s fate, she was terrified of being found out. Her fear showed in her eyes, and Victor patted her hand. “Listen, I don’t want you worrying your pretty head about this. They’re never going to find Emilio. He’s gone, doll. Missing. There will never be any proof, no evidence connecting his disappearance to Lou or me. No witnesses, nothing. But some wiseass cop might get a wild hair about this, and you’re a direct link between Lou and Emilio. All I’m saying is you have to be ready if it happens. But the chances of it happening are very slim. It would be better if you didn’t know, and you really don’t know, but then you wouldn’t have any answers about Rosa.”
* * *
When they arrived at the Venezia, Victor popped the trunk and they got everything inside and loaded onto the elevator. When they came into the foyer with their packages, Louie and Nathan looked up from the dining table where they were facing off over a game of chess. The chess set was a decorative assembly that sat on an unused corner table in the living room, and Tara was surprised to see them playing. No one had ever touched it.
Setting the tree box on the floor, Victor said, “You guys are playing chess?”
Nathan said, “He’s winning.”
Louie laughed. “Don’t believe it for a minute. Nathan’s a fucking five-star general. He’s killing me.” He scooted back his chair, reaching his arm out for Tara, who walked over. He encircled her waist, gave a little squeeze. “Feeling better, baby?” She nodded, and he said, “Did you get everything you wanted?”
“Oh yes. Victor’s fun to shop with. He makes me spend your money.”
“There wouldn’t be any point to having money if I couldn’t spend it on you.” His words were glib, but his dark eyes were serious, connecting with hers. They’d bonded on an even deeper level during their early-morning intimacy, and she felt closer to Louie than she had ever felt to anyone.
Tara set her hand on Louie’s shoulder, her eyes shining with love as she gazed at him. His revelation of murder—drawing blood to avenge Joey and Rosa—should have repulsed her. But his violent act, of which the details would remain forever blurred to her, had an opposite effect, as though his bloodlust was contagious.
Had Louie corrupted her? Or was this darkness a part of her, nourished and brought forth by him? Tara knew she had changed, doing things with Louie that would have been abhorrent just a few months ago. But she’d embraced each change, reveling in the experiences as she abandoned principles and inhibitions. Now she not only condoned, but approved of murder, loved him all the more for taking the life of the man who’d tortured Joey.
Rain gusted against the door-wall, breaking Tara’s concentration. Distracted, she looked away from her lover, eyeing the dismal weather. The skies had darkened, with thunderclouds piling up on the horizon. Louie’s hand slid down her hip, skimmed over her backside. She turned back to him with a smile, caught Nathan staring at her. The smoldering look in his eyes was so intense she recognized it for what is was: naked desire. Stunned by the force of his emotion, she quickly averted her gaze. When she glanced back, Nathan wore his usual benign expression, so blank Tara might have imagined his flash of longing.
Chapter Fifty-One
Victor made lasagna, layering the noodles with ricotta while Louie and Nathan continued their half-hearted game of chess. Nathan’s display of emotion bothered her, and she kept looking at him, but he would not reveal his heart a second time. Finally, Louie tipped over his king and declared Nathan the winner.
The aroma of baking lasagna was mouthwatering. Tara tossed a salad—using Victor’s homemade balsamic dressing. “You should have a restaurant,” she told him, not for the first time. He used the freshest ingredients, devising his own recipes. He favored Italian food, but occasionally surprised them with a Cajun or Creole dish, frequently mixing the cuisines, and sometimes doing simple things like ribs or chicken or meatloaf.
Tonight it was Italian: comfort food. Tara set the table, using the cloth napkins Louie favored. She dimmed the chandelier, watching as Nathan opened a bottle of Sangiovese. He poured a little into a glass and tasted it before distributing it between four goblets. He said to Louie, “Try this wine,” as Tara ferried it over to the couch, where Louie was lounging with his feet propped on the coffee table.
The six o’clock news was on. They were citing traffic problems caused by the heavy rain. Tara sat on the arm of the couch and gave Louie the glass. He tasted the red wine, pronouncing it excellent just as Emilio’s face popped on the screen. Everyone in the room went silent and Louie upped the volume. When Rosa’s picture appeared, Tara dropped her face into her hands and groaned. Louie pulled her onto his lap, gently smoothed back her hair. According to the pretty news anchor there were no developments in the story of the missing baby, and due to the inclement weather, today’s search had been cancelled. In an unusual twist, or possible connection, the baby’s father, Emilio Gonzalez, was wanted for questioning in a murder that took place yesterday evening at a Lake Worth Laundromat. The unfortunate victim, Pedro Morales, had been found shot to death in the back room of the laundry where, police believed, he’d been sheltering Mr. Gonzalez.
Standing beneath an umbrella in front of the Lake Worth laundry, an intrepid reporter asked a police officer if Emilio Gonzalez was considered a suspect, and the officer replied that he was a “person of interest.” The screen flipped and a photograph of Pedro Morales appeared, the anchor reporting that he left a wife and three young children. Anyone with information was urged to call the Lake Worth Police Department.
A sudden suspicion seized Tara. Had Louie been in Lake Worth yesterday? She stared at him with dread. She had no problems with him killing Emilio, but this hard-working immigrant and father of three … surely Louie had no hand in this? He wouldn’t kill an innocent man: Not Louie. But why did she feel so frightened?
Questions bubbled up, froze on her lips. He gave a quick shake of his head, denying it even before she asked. She recalled Victor saying there were no witnesses and a terrible foreboding rose up inside of her. She knew there couldn’t be witnesses, understood it all too clearly. She was abruptly afraid, fearing for her soul as Emilio’s blood, and perhaps Pedro’s, stained her.
Tears overflowed, and Tara permitted the man who had done these terrible things to comfort her. Tara caught Nathan’s eye, regarding her with sympathy now, his gaze turning to Louie. Later, when they were alone, Louie would deny any knowledge of Pedro’s murder. “We weren’t even in Lake Worth,” he would say, mystified, and she would pretend to believe him.
The news continued: a robbery in Glades, a house fire in Plantation, an unsolved homicide in Fort Lauderdale, police still seeking leads in the shooting death of Manuel Bommarino. Holding vigil at Joey’s bedside, Tara hadn’t even heard about Manny’s death until returning to the Walker two days ago. The consensus was that it was drug-related—at least that’s what everybody at the Walker believed. But now, Victor, falsely casual, said, “Doll, isn’t that the jackass that manhandled you in the parking garage?”
Tara saw the grim satisfaction in the faces of the men, sensed Victor’s deceit. “Yes, yes, it is,” she said stiffly.
Louie pointed the remote at the television and killed the picture. “It’s all bad news, baby.”
* * *
Twenty-four hours later Tara was at St. Mary’s in West Palm, visiting Joey. He was alert and talking, and she put him in a wheelchair and rolled him around the hospital. Having undergone major surgery on his left leg, which had been badly broken, Joey still wore a cast. When he arrived at the hospital comatose, the doctors weren’t even sure he would make it. His fractured skull had required a halo brace, something that resembled an erector set, but this had been removed. His scalp had been s
haved, a giant bald patch revealing a jagged stitch. But this too would heal. Thankfully, Joey’s brain activity was normal. His body would repair itself; whether or not his mind would was another matter entirely.
After the walk, Tara asked Joey about his day. A black dog had come in earlier, and a forthcoming visit from Santa was much anticipated. Tara said, “You’ll be home for Christmas. You’ll be staying with Grandpa and Grandma now, and I’ll be visiting you there.”
“Where’s Mommy?”
Tara swallowed hard. “The police think Mommy might have done something bad to Baby Rosa. Did Mommy give medicine to Rosa, bad medicine, maybe?”
Joey gazed at her with his big, blue eyes, said nothing. Tara sighed. She knew psychologists had been visiting Joey, and he was simply not communicating—perhaps not even remembering. She kissed him on the forehead. “It’s okay, Joey. You don’t have to tell me. But you don’t have to worry about Emilio anymore. He went … away. The police aren’t going to let you live with Mommy because she let Emilio hurt you. Things are going to be better for you now, okay?”
Joey nodded, but it was hard to determine if he truly understood what she was explaining. He soon drifted off to sleep, and Tara left. Outside, in the parking lot, she got in her car and called the Lake Worth police. She asked for the sergeant she had met in the hospital two weeks ago. The man was not in, but his female partner was, and she came on the line and introduced herself. Tara said, “I don’t know if this means anything, and I know that my stepmother has been calling you with a lot of different theories—”
Pam had become something of a nuisance, even consulting with psychics, but the cop said, kindly. “That’s okay, she’s a concerned grandma.”
“Well yes,” said Tara. “I’m just leaving the hospital after visiting with Joey, and he started to talk a bit—telling me that his mother gave Rosa medicine that made her sleep.” She drew a deep breath, shaken by the very image she was portraying. “I acted like it was no big deal, what he was telling me. I pressed him a bit, and he said Emilio took Rosa to the neighbors, the old couple two doors down—Joey calls her Mama Maria—and I asked Joey, is Mama Maria taking care of Rosa, and Joey said no, that Emilio put Rosa in the flowers. They have a big garden in their yard, and I think—” She was weeping now, the lies easy. “I think Joey followed him … he wouldn’t say … he clammed up on me, but I think Emilio beat him because he saw … something.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Louie was away, banking in the Caymans; he was moving illegal money legally, ensconced in the office of a man whose specialty was international finance, an aging Swiss genius who moved Louie’s money through aliases and shadow corporations and asked no questions. He was a very civilized man, ultra sophisticated, and Louie always enjoyed chatting with him. Today, concluding his banking, Louie was looking forward to a leisurely chat when his phone rang.
It was Tony, calling from the Walker. “Are you busy?” he asked.
“I am right now,” he said. “Let me call you back.”
Tony was aware of his daytrip and wouldn’t have bothered him unless there was something wrong. Forfeiting the anticipated discourse, Louie finished his business, said good-bye to his banker, and went outside. It was a spectacular day in Grand Caymans, the sidewalks crowded with tourists from the cruise ships. Victor was waiting on the patio of a coffee shop across the street and Louie walked over, taking a seat beneath the umbrella and accepting the iced café au lait the waitress set in front of him.
He took a sip of the cold coffee and then called Tony. As soon as he heard his son’s voice, he said, “What’s wrong?”
“Mom was just here.”
This didn’t compute. “Just where?” asked Louie.
“Dad, she came here, to the hotel. She drove down by herself.”
The furthest Angie ever drove was to the Town Center Mall in Boca. She wouldn’t even drive to Fort Lauderdale, let alone Miami. The implications were not good, especially since she knew full well he’d flown to the Caymans. “Jesus,” he said. “Is she okay? What did she want?”
“She’s fine. I took her to lunch, got her calmed down—she was a nervous wreck from the traffic.”
“Is she still there with you?”
“No, I had Sam come and get her. He’s taking her home. I’ll drive her car home tonight.”
“Good,” said Louie.
“Dad, I’ve always minded my own business … I don’t like to interfere, but Mom knows about Tara. She came here to meet her. I guess she planned to confront her.”
“Don’t tell me—”
“No, I put a stop to it. But she got a pretty good look at Tara—”
“How does your mother even know about Tara?”
“You haven’t exactly been discreet. This place is a hotbed of gossip. At the Christmas party last week, some of the women were talking to Gina.” Gina was Tony’s wife, and Louie had an idea of where this was going. Neither he nor Tara had attended the Walker party, but Tony and Gina had. Tony continued. “After the party, Gina asked me if you were having an affair. I downplayed it, but it’s possible she might have said something to Mom.”
Possible. Louie groaned inwardly, met Victor’s inquiring gaze, and then shook his head to signify that things were not good. Gina was close with Angie, like a second daughter to her. Tony said, “I asked Gina to keep her nose out of it, but you know how women talk. Mom was pretty distraught. She said you’ve been … distant.”
Louie had been distant, preoccupied with Tara’s problems. He said gruffly, “I’ll talk to your mother.”
“Well, that’s the thing. She doesn’t want you to know she came here, asked me not to tell you. I told her I wouldn’t.”
“Tony, I’m sorry you got in the middle of this thing—”
“Believe me, no one is sorrier than I am.” Tony said flippantly. Then, on a more serious note: “Dad, Mom’s not going to let this rest. She was ready to make a scene. She said she’s had just about enough of your behavior. She said you’re acting different with this one, and she’s worried you’re going to leave her—”
“What the hell? What did Gina say to her?”
“Gina denies saying anything. But Mom knows things I don’t even know, so somebody told her something. And then she got a good look at Tara—”
“How did she know it was her?”
“Come on, Dad, how many girls working here have a body like Tara’s?”
Good point, it was the body he’d fallen in love with, the body he couldn’t get enough of. His iced coffee forgotten, Louie rubbed wearily at his temple. “Tony, you’ve been great. I apologize for putting you on the spot—”
“Look, you’re going to have to straighten this out. I don’t want to see my mother get hurt.”
Louie clicked off his phone and looked at Victor. He said, “Fuck.”
Watching him closely, Victor said, “What’s wrong, Lou?”
Louie let out a deep sigh, shook his head. “I’ve got problems at home.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Homicide Detective Andre Viero drove into Our Lady Queen of Peace Cemetery and followed the family of Rosa Gonzalez to the children’s section. Putting the Crown Vic in park, Viero stepped out, closing the car door quietly so as not to disturb the mourners. It was two days after Christmas; wreaths and blankets decorated nearby graves. The weather was spectacular, somewhere in the mid-seventies, the sky soft blue and cloudless.
Viero watched the family gather at the gravesite. The priest stood center, hippie grandparents to the left with their daughter, Tara Evans. Miss Evans was smartly dressed in a black pantsuit, and Viero recalled she worked for a hotel in Miami. Standing on Miss Evans’ other side were her mother and stepfather, Midwesterners, both somberly attired. Apart from the group was Natalie’s mother, a flake if Viero had ever seen one. A bleached blond whos
e body had run to fat, she wore a long, flowing skirt in a purple and red pattern. Her hair had the texture of straw, and her face was hard and sullen.
Emilio’s family was not represented at the cemetery, although they had surely been present at the funeral mass at Sacred Heart Church, where the Hispanic community had turned out in full force, filling the pews to capacity. Viero and his partner had been in church, his partner splitting after. Ostensibly, they were looking for Emilio, but this was wishful thinking. Nobody expected Emilio to show at the funeral for the daughter he had buried in a neighbor’s vegetable patch. Viero was investigating Pedro Morales’s murder, although there was an unspoken consensus Emilio had shot his brother-in-law and ridden off with the Eighteenth Street Gang. Viero, like most of his colleagues, believed Emilio had gone to Mexico.
Viero’s leads with the gang had fallen short. They had arrested several members on unrelated matters, but nobody was talking. The Hispanic community was mum, admitting to sheltering Emilio but nothing else. And Pedro’s widow adamantly refused to believe Emilio had anything to do with her husband’s death.
At the gravesite they were saying the Hail Mary, the hippie grandmother sobbing in her husband’s arms. Uncomfortable, Viero looked away, smoothed the creases in his off-the-rack blue blazer. Viero was appalled by this crime. Thirty years on the force had given him more than his fair share of gray hairs. He’d earned every one of them, adding a few more today by attending the funeral for a baby who hadn’t been fortunate enough to make it to her first birthday. What galled him the most was that family members had reported abuse, but the state had found no cause to remove the children.
The priest was blessing the small casket when the black Town Car pulled in, parking in the lane two cars ahead of Viero. The driver was an elderly man in shirt-sleeves, staying with the vehicle while his passenger, a slender, dark haired man in sunglasses, started toward the group. The man spelled money, wearing an expensive suit and shoes.
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 26
