He stood, watching his wife, even after his stomach began grumbling. Tears sprang to his eyes at the thought of what she'd been through, and it horrified him that he could do more that tucking her into bed before he left for work. All there was to do was to try and put the pieces of this ragged case together. Shayma grunted in her sleep, and Savva jumped toward the door. He grabbed the sport coat that hung on the back and walked down the hall, flinging it over a chair.
He pattered around the kitchen for a few minutes, peeking into the refrigerator and then closing it with a sigh when nothing tempted him. He was halfway down the hallway, about to look in on Shayma when he turned instead for the bathroom and set about getting ready for the day.
When he'd finished, Savva brewed a pot of coffee and took the mug out to the back garden. He sat on his favorite white metal bench. The paint was peeling off in large chunks but he didn't mind. It gave him a strange pleasure to see something imperfect and yet fully functional. He closed his eyes and listened to the cicadas as they chirped in the olive trees, and the thin whistle of the sea breeze as it skipped around corners and fluttered loose shutters. Every so often a car rumbled down the pitted road in front of his house, metal grinding and tires thumping.
A dreadful pinging broke the quiet solitude and Savva scrambled to sit up straight and fish his phone from the pocket of his trousers.
"What?" he growled into the phone.
"Kalimera, Sir."
"What the hell do you want, Booras?"
"I just called to let you know that we found Goldstein's prints on a few items taken from the Fitzroy house."
"What items. Be specific?"
"Some paperwork in John's office regarding his financials. We dusted it all. The ninhydrin lit up like a Christmas tree all over the papers. All Goldstein's prints."
"Now isn't that something," Savva said, slowly. He rose from the chair and strode to the corner of the garden.
"That puts him in the Fitzroy House during the time frame that the Morgan was tampered with."
"It does indeed."
"I also phoned the UN Interpretation Office to confirm that they called the hotel and talked to Fitzroy. The supervisor I spoke to was the one who made the call. She said that she asked Fitzroy for Davonna's contact details so they could speak about a potential job opening. She said Fitzroy was calm on the phone but clipped like he wanted to get off as soon as possible. Before we hung up, she mentioned he had said that his wife wouldn't be at all interested. She found that odd because Davonna had always been so passionate about her job."
"That's more or less what I thought would be the case."
"I'm sorry, Sir, I thought you'd be upset about this."
"Why should I be upset? Davonna Fitzroy doesn't fit the bill. We've searched their phone records and her computer history but she hasn't contacted the UN herself. They were obviously searching for her. But back to the burglary, what if Goldstein found whatever it was he was looking for? We know that Fitzroy knew about the break-in. What if he searched his office and realized what was missing?"
"We'd need to know what it was."
"We would indeed. All right, well, good work, Booras. I'm off."
"Off where, Sir?"
"Off to catch a lobster, I mean mobster," he said, with a chuckle.
"One more thing, Sir," Booras screeched.
"What?"
"The hotel is up for sale."
Savva's car slid to a stop in the hotel drive, scattering employees and rocks alike. He bounded up the steps, yanked on his sport coat and yelled out, "Leave it there," to the valets behind him. He found Anthony Goldstein in his office. A furious outburst was building on his lips as Savva burst in. The room smelled of spicy cologne and vanilla. A large white candle burned on the conference table.
"What on earth do you want?" Goldstein said. He lowered himself back into the chair, his top lip curled.
Savva sat in the chair opposite and leaned comfortably back. "As I was drinking my coffee this morning, I received a interesting call from my sergeant."
"And?" Goldstein said, imperiously.
"Sergeant Booras was kind enough to inform me that the hotel has been put on the market for sale."
Goldstein's mouth snapped shut and Savva bit back a laugh.
"I may do what I like with my assets, Captain."
"Oh, no doubt. It's obvious the hotel hasn't made money in a while. I'd be quick to get rid of it too … especially after all the money you've poured into it."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You'll no doubt remember the court order for the hotel's finances," Savva said, brightly. "We also obtained John Fitzroy's financial records. What surprised me most were Fitzroy's monthly payments to your account."
"Those were business transactions."
"Indeed. It's no secret you went into business with Fitzroy, since he didn't have enough to buy the hotel. Why was he making those payments to you?"
"Expenses."
"You won't give me any specifics?"
"I don't see why that's necessary. It's not pertinent."
"Is that so?" Savva said brightly, a grin breaking across his face. "Let me paint a picture for you, Mr. Goldstein; so you understand the gravity of the situation. The hotel was bought by both of you and you provided more than half of the funds. Interestingly enough, you are also named as equal partners in the business. John Fitzroy was making monthly payments to you to repay the massive amount you had invested. Six months ago he stopped altogether. Even two visits a month weren't enough to squeeze more money out of him.
"Now if that wasn't enough … your prints were found at the Fitzroy house … in John's home office no less. An open staple was found on John's desk as well: curiously, not far away from your prints. Now, I have to ask myself, Mr. Goldstein, what was it you were after?" Savva asked, calmly, as though they were talking about nothing more consequential than the expected rain tomorrow.
"I met John for a business meeting," Goldstein said, slowly.
"Indeed? Mrs. Fitzroy made no mention of it. She never even knew John had a partner." Goldstein stared at Savva, his fingers curled into throbbing fists. "Now, I'm going to give you the chance to be honest with me: what did you take?"
"I didn't take a thing."
"Indeed. Well allow me to say just this: by your own admission, you were at the Fitzroy house and your prints place you in John's office. You were illegally on the premises during the timeframe John Fitzroy's car was tampered with. You have means, motive, and opportunity. You're my new favorite suspect.
"Now, all I have to do is drop a line to opposing counsel, that there is sufficient enough evidence to arrest you for the crime. That's all it would take to exonerate Mrs. Fitzroy, and have you charged instead."
"You wouldn't dare; you'd lose your job," Goldstein spat. His face was the color of red currants and Savva's gut twisted uncomfortably. If he pressed too far, the man would snap. Violently.
"You know I'm exhausted from policing, I don't care if this is my last case. I'd rather just sail. Now tell me the truth, or you'll go down for murder."
Goldstein's face contorted under the waves of fury, which coursed through him. Then, it was as if the dam burst and the fury burned out and was replaced with resignation.
"I didn't kill him."
"Alright.”
Goldstein shook his head. "Fitzroy was blackmailing me. Somehow he'd gotten his hands on some sensitive material about another of my businesses. He gave me an ultimatum: either forgive the debt or he'd make these papers available to the media, Interpol, the Greek Police, you name it. I chose neither and broke into the house to get the documents back."
"Your business with the mafía, you mean."
Goldstein snarled, "I didn't say that."
"Fine," Savva said imperiously, “… don't tell me. But it's too coincidental that John died not long after you burgled his home. I can imagine what you'd do when he no longer had any power over you."
"I di
dn't kill him," Goldstein shouted. "I'm a part of my daughter's life again. Why would I kill Fitzroy? Why would I mess with my relationship with my daughter?"
"He was screwing her for one."
"Whatever. It wasn't serious. Her mother says she's always been like this; in the end she comes around. She doesn't talk about him anymore."
"All the more reason to kill him."
"I didn't do it."
"Then who did?" Savva said gently, as if he were addressing a tantrum-throwing three-year-old.
"I don't know. But Fitzroy was an evil bastard. He didn't care who he hurt, even my twenty-two-year-old daughter. He took pleasure in my pain; he knew I hated him for it. Whoever killed him did the world a favor."
"So what happens to the hotel?"
"I'll sell it."
"Not if you're convicted."
"Aside from this conversation, you don't have any proof of any wrongdoing on my part," Goldstein said.
"Perhaps not, but if you step out of line, if there's any trouble with a whisper of your name attached to it, I'll make it my life's work to bring you down."
"Understood."
Davonna trudged up the road to the house lugging three bags of sheets and pillows. She paused to rest, set the huge bags in the dirt, and looked out across the island. It didn't matter how long she'd lived here, or how many times she'd walked to town; the warmth of the sun, the chirruping cicadas, even the dust that looked like the will-o-the-wisps made her smile. Greece was untamed; in the way Scotland was untamed. The rolling hills, the difficult soil, and the hardiness of the people—they were kindred spirits from afar. And after the last few weeks, that was a kind thought indeed.
She walked through the gate and up the drive. She didn't bother to look at the house. It had somehow receded into the background. She nudged open the front door, placed the bags to the side, and found a note from Miriam that said she'd taken the car for a long drive around the island and had taken a lunch basket. Davonna held the note lightly in her hand and sighed. She felt like the little sister again, left behind because she'd make too much of a fuss or be too great a burden, left behind like baggage.
She hated that Miriam had to witness this horrible time. Where was the justice in John's death? Wasn't it obvious that she hadn't killed him? But was it? She liked to think that Captain Savva was unsure of her guilt, but he was difficult to read.
The arrest, and the looming threat of incarceration, stalled her joy at being free. Or perhaps that's what she told herself; perhaps she was stuck, frozen, because she was incapable of moving on, incapable of free thought or ownership of her mind.
That was the greatest pain of all; John's wheedling fingers corroded everything he touched. Davonna slumped to the floor in a heap. She didn't feel like a forty-something woman. She felt like a child and an old woman all at once, stuck in childish thinking and worn out beyond comprehension. Perhaps that's why Miriam left: to be free of the cold despair and to live in the sun once more.
There was a great, heaving knock on the door, and Davonna twisted around. It couldn't be Miriam already. Had she come back to get her little sister and take her away for one happy afternoon? Davonna pushed the bags against the wall, the plastic crinkled loudly. She flung open the door, ready to tell Miriam to wait so she could go get a bottle of water, but it wasn't Miriam in her scarf, tied around her glorious hair, like the Queen. It was her now, regular visitor Captain Savva, who looked both harassed and expectant.
"Hello," Davonna said, flatly. Her joy and happiness whooshed out the door like a popped balloon.
"I was wondering whether I could have a word, Mrs. Fitzroy," Savva said. He played with his fingers and gazed at her in desperation.
"My attorney has advised me not to speak to you without her present," Davonna said. And if she could've seen herself then, she would have been proud—proud of the steel in her eyes, proud of the regal tilt of her head, proud of her strength (even if it was feigned).
"I'd like to speak to you as … a friend."
Davonna's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, are we friends?"
Savva smiled and he looked handsome, shorn of his professionalism. "I'd like to think we are. Whatever you tell me will be strictly off the record."
Davonna shuffled her feet and bit her lip. "Come in."
"Thank you."
Savva followed and frowned when they didn't turn into the sitting room, but instead walked to the back of the house and through the tall double doors into a library. Davonna smiled at his confusion.
"I thought we'd talk in here. The drawing room is for acquaintances."
"Thank you," Savva said, and took a seat in one of the tufted leather armchairs.
"This has always been my favorite room. John didn't read. He didn't read a single book after he graduated university. Actually, he probably didn't read any in university either," Davonna mused. "Do you read, Captain Savva?"
"I do. But I'm picky because I tend to fall asleep."
Davonna smiled, but she couldn't understand Savva's issue. "What is it you wanted to ask me?” She pulled her legs tight beneath her and looked at the man before her with trepidation.
Savva hesitated, considering his way forward, and Davonna wondered whether he'd thought about what he was going to say. "I found your passport, Mrs. Fitzroy."
Whatever Davonna thought he might begin with; it was not that. She stared at him without blinking. The silence lengthened between them, and Savva opened his mouth to repeat his statement, when Davonna found her voice.
"Where was it?"
"It was in an old, padlocked metal toolbox. It was hidden by a false bottom."
"Was there anything else?"
"No, there wasn't."
Davonna could barely maintain her composure, thoughts and emotions swirled around her mind like snowflakes in a blizzard. "Why was it in there?"
"You said your husband had taken it perhaps two years previously?"
"Yes."
"You also said he'd taken it to punish you. Why would he want to do that?" Savva pressed lightly.
Davonna frowned at the Persian carpet and was miles away. How could she possibly answer? "He was always in control."
"What do you mean?"
Davonna looked at him, her eyes full of pain, and she hesitated. It all hinged on what she said now, and whether she could trust this man with her life.
She swallowed, the saliva caught in her parched throat. "Can I trust you, Captain Savva?"
"What do you mean?"
"Against self incrimination … can I trust you not to use what I say?"
"I'm not here professionally, but I would like to know. I'd like to help you."
Davonna could hear the pleading in his voice and in a moment, a strange fleeting moment, she was ready to tell him. To let it all go.
"John told me where to go, where not to go, when to go, when not to go, who to see, who not to see, what to do, what not to do, what to think, what not to think … when to have sex, and when not to have sex."
Savva blinked. In a rush, it all made severe sense. The woman who didn't grieve her husband. The woman who couldn't look a man full in the eye. The woman who walked miles in the heat with sacks full of groceries. The woman who puked when told her husband was murdered. The woman with weary eyes. The woman full of pain. He understood it all now.
"I've shocked you," Davonna said, tonelessly.
Inside she was tormented. Her stomach was back in knots, and her heart thumped so wildly against her chest she thought it might burst. Wild thoughts careened through her mind. Savva had lured her here, under false pretenses, to get a confession, to find the final evidence. He was here to throw her into some dark cell. Her friend! Hah!
"No, you haven't shocked me. It makes sense."
"What makes sense?"
"Your behavior."
"I didn't KILL him!" Davonna shouted, half rising from her chair.
Savva smiled and waved his hand for her to relax. "I don't believe you killed him, and I'm not su
re I ever thought you did. Unfortunately, what I believe doesn't matter. The evidence points to you, or at least it did, until today. There are, however, questions, I do have."
"Go ahead." Her bottom lip trembled. Dear God, she thought, let this be over soon. It was too much to bear—standing upon the edge of a knife, waiting for the blow to fall.
"Did John ever hit you?"
"Yes." It did not occur to Davonna to lie. She had already passed the point of no return.
"How often?"
"He hit me when I misbehaved. When I wasn't ‘turned on’ enough during sex. When dinner wasn't ready on time or burnt or poorly made. When the house wasn't clean. When I talked to someone he didn't like. For a hundred different reasons. It was my fault he hit me," Davonna recited. She pulled herself out of the pain, and hovered above the woman on the chair. She didn't want to feel her pain, didn't want to drown in the trauma.
"Was it regular? The abuse?"
"It wasn't only physical. He manipulated me. I belonged to him. I can't sleep in my own bed. I can't talk to anyone without his threats, his presence hanging over me, like a guillotine blade. I am … I haven't owned my own mind for a long time."
Savva stared at her horrified, and Davonna bit her lip. Was she imagining the sympathy and pain in his eyes? Was it pity or revulsion? Did he care? Did he hit his wife too?
"I … I am so sorry, Mrs. Fitzroy,"
"Davonna," she said, “… since we are friends now and you know everything."
"Do you know how John treated other women, the ones before you?"
"He liked to control me. I don't know what he did to other women, but I assume it wasn't easy for them."
"I've spoken to a friend of his from The Royal Horseguards. This friend went to university with him.”
"Peter Burroughs."
"Yes, Peter. Peter stipulates that during university John hit a girlfriend after she made a joke about his poor performance in bed."
Davonna only smiled weakly.
"Does that sound like him?"
"Yes," whispered Davonna. "He was always very prideful, especially in that area."
"I see."
"I don't know what this has to do with me, or my arrest." She slumped into the chair. Defeat fell all around her.
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