I decided to dig deeper.
I used some Dark Web tricks to dig up photos from her childhood, teen, and young adult years. Some were on her mother’s Facebook page.
Yawning, I idly scrolled through pictures of her as a young girl and then into ones of her as a teen. Then I froze.
She was at a high school dance with a young man who looked familiar. I zoomed in on the picture. It looked like Charles Wellington. Then I scrolled through the “likes” and the comments and found someone with the same last name. It was a woman.
I clicked on that profile.
The account was disabled, but as I’d learned, once something was online, it would never truly disappear. I accessed the old account and realized it was Charles’s mother’s. She had died four years earlier. She had tons of pictures of him as an opera singer. And she had pictures of Nicoletta and Charles together all through high school.
So, Nicoletta and Charles were high school sweethearts.
Then I saw something that made me sit up straighter.
Four years ago. Right before the woman died. A picture of Charles and Nicoletta on a beach in a tropical location. The woman had written: My greatest wish is for these two to finally marry and make me a grandma. I now realize I won’t be around for it, but they have both promised to make this a reality so I can finally die in peace.”
I leaned back against the van wall. Holy fuck.
There was so much to take in about this revelation.
Charles and Nicoletta.
Were a thing. But Charles had been with Oliver Hollingsworth.
And he and Nicoletta seemed just fine.
Sure, there was a chance they’d parted ways amicably, and Nicoletta gave her blessing to his relationship with Oliver, but I somehow doubted it. If Charles had recently come out of the closet, would he be with Oliver or some other hot young guy? Maybe. I just didn’t know.
It seemed more likely that Charles was fucking Oliver for his money.
I decided the first thing to do after I took a nap would be to do some reconnaissance on Charles and Nicoletta.
I crawled into the sleeping bag and closed my eyes. When I opened them again the sun was setting. Shit. So much for a quick nap.
I dug through the duffel bag that Tony had left in the corner. I pulled on a thick, military-style wool turtleneck, a thick wool pea coat, and black stocking cap. I pulled these on, tucking my hair inside the hat and pulling the jacket collar up around my neck.
I was pretty sure I looked like a dude. Perfect. Then I got behind the wheel and started the van, grateful as heat began to pour out the vents. I’d stop and get a huge cup of coffee at an out-of-the-way gas station and then head to the address I’d found for Nicoletta.
Thirty-Seven
The gas station clerk probably thought I was going to rob him when I walked in, because between the black stocking cap, big sunglasses, and my coat collar pulled up to my cheekbones, I was obviously trying to disguise my face.
But I didn’t want any cameras to be able to identify me.
If someone had the tech savvy to create a Deepfake video of me, who knows if they were able to tap into facial recognition software on the underground network of cameras filming through the city.
Armed with a large coffee and some snacks, I headed toward Nicoletta’s place in the Richmond District for my stakeout. It was now dark. There was a chance it would be a bust. She might have turned in for the night, and I’d stare at her house as she slept peacefully through the night. That was okay. I had to do something. I would go crazy if I didn’t at least feel like I was trying to figure it all out.
I parked across the street from the apartment building and then approached the door. Nobody was around. I scanned the names on the doorbells. N. Marchese. Bingo. But it didn’t say what floor or apartment number. This might be more of a fool’s errand than I realized.
After I crossed the street and was about to get back in the van, I scanned the bank of windows facing the street. Then I walked further down to look at the side of the building. It appeared the apartments ran the length of the building from front to back. As I was standing there, a cab pulled up in front of the building. I shrank into the shadows.
It was a young man who stumbled out of the cab and loudly thanked the driver. Then he was inside, and the street was quiet again.
Back in the van, I took a chance and kept it running to keep the heat on. A thick bank of fog had rolled in and hovered just above the street lights, making the temperature drop dramatically. Even with the pea coat and heater on, I was cold.
I was yawning and sipping the last dregs of my coffee when another car pulled up.
A strawberry blonde wearing a fur coat stepped out.
Nicoletta.
Quickly, she stepped inside the front door.
I got out of the van so I could see which apartment window lit up.
Light turned in a window on the second floor. I could see Nicoletta shed her coat and lean over a small table.
I was about to cross the street when I noticed the car that had dropped her off was slowly rolling down the street. Fuck.
As I ducked behind the van, the car, a small black sedan, parked.
The driver got out.
Charles.
Perfect.
I watched as he walked over to the front door and let himself in with a key. I waited a beat and then quickly crossed the street. I used a credit card to pop the front door and raced up the stairs to the second floor. The second-floor hallway split the building in half. There was a door on the right and one on the left. Nicoletta’s apartment was the one on the left, so I headed toward that door as quietly as I could. The building was ancient and the wooden floors in the hall creaked loudly as I walked.
I took my time, though, and soon had my ear pressed against the door. I could only hear some sultry music—Massive Attack or something. I waited for about ten minutes and finally gave up. Outside, I looked up at her window. It was dark. Lights out.
Back in the van, I tried to stay awake, keeping my eyes on the front door. It wasn’t until just before dawn that the door opened and Charles slipped out. I waited until his sedan passed me and then pulled out about a block behind him. I followed him until we got to Pacific Heights with all the multi-millionaire dollar mansions. I kept driving down the street as he pulled into the underground garage of a massive home.
I’d bet my last dollar it was Oliver Hollingsworth’s house.
Looks like Charles was, at the very least, a very naughty boy. At the most, he might be a stone-cold killer.
I dialed Tony on one of the burner phones.
“Yo.”
“How tough would it be to get a nanny cam? I need to stick it in this opera singer’s apartment. I think she’s involved with these murders.”
“Give me the address. It’s handled.”
“She’s home now,” I protested. “I’ll go stake her out and then get inside the apartment when she leaves. If you could just buy the nanny cam for me so I’m not on the CCTV cameras—.”
“Address. I got this,” he said, cutting me off.
“But I—.”
“Santella. I said I got this. Give me the address.”
Feeling like a little kid, I obeyed and reeled it off.
“Thanks,” I said and hung up, feeling like I was going to cry.
After so many years of always doing things on my own, it always threw me for a loop when people like Tony stepped in to help. I wasn’t used to people taking care of me.
There had been a few years with Nico when I’d been able to relax and be taken care of, but for the vast majority of my life, I’d been on my own.
It was hard to accept, but right then, I needed to swallow my pride or stubbornness or stupidness or whatever it was, and accept help. I was in over my head.
Thirty-Eight
Charles woke Oliver by sticking his face in the old man’s junk.
Soon, the geezer was clutching at Charles for dear life.<
br />
Then Charles flipped the bony body over and stuck it in, pumping away furiously.
After a night with Nicoletta, Charles was proud he could come again so easily.
Luckily, Oliver liked it a little rough. Charles felt as if his revulsion and hatred were barely disguised, but the old guy ate it up. He’d once told Charles that he’d been initiated into the gay world by his opera teacher, who thought sex went hand in hand with physical abuse.
Charles didn’t play that way, but he had slapped the old guy once or twice during sex when Oliver begged for it.
He figured that if the old man had woken in the night and realized he wasn’t in bed, being awoken in this manner would quash any questions or doubts.
Charles was counting the fucking hours until he never had to fuck an old bag of bones again.
Thinking of the millions he was going to inherit made it oh, so much easier. He’d have done a lot worse for money. In fact, as an older teen, he’d done worse—much worse. The things he’d done to other teenage boys now made him sick to his stomach. He blocked most of it out of his memory. He’d done what it took to survive on the streets at the time.
His father had kicked him out after catching him fucking the neighbor boy.
He’d tried to explain that he wasn’t actually gay, that he was going to marry Nicoletta. That the boy was paying him a hundred dollars to suck him off. And that he was going to use the money to take Nicoletta to prom since his father was a cheap fucking alcoholic who wouldn’t part with a dime. But his father hadn’t bothered to listen to any of that.
So in essence, it was his father who made him bisexual. He’d turned what was going to be a one-time thing into a way for Charles to survive.
After Oliver went down to eat his breakfast of a hard-boiled egg and toast, Charles hopped in the shower.
Only then did he allow himself to ruminate over his new problem.
He wasn’t an idiot.
He knew that a van had followed him home from Nicoletta’s place.
It had done a damn good job of trailing him. If he hadn’t been paying attention, he would have missed it.
It was a problem.
Somebody knew about him and Nicoletta.
If it was Gia Santella, it didn’t really matter. She’d been arrested for the murders so far. As far as he was concerned, it was a done deal. There was only one last step to take.
He was waiting for Marshall to give him the okay that the video was ready. Now that she was out on bail, it would have to be tonight.
It was important that he and Nicoletta have a rock-solid alibi for this last murder. If they were at rehearsal with dozens of others, they could not possibly be connected to Oliver’s murder. The Deepfake footage would show Gia committing the murder. Two nights ago, they’d taken the first steps with Nicoletta standing in again for Gia. Oliver had been out at the time, so Charles had laid in bed pretending to be Oliver while the security cameras in Oliver’s house filmed the whole thing. The footage showed Nicoletta coming in the unlocked back door and then going into Oliver’s bedroom. There, she’d placed a pillow over his face. Marshall had said it would be simple to place Oliver’s face on his own in the final footage. Then Nicoletta leaned over and placed the gun square on the pillow. Marshall had said he would be able to grab the actual murder footage from there, showing the gun firing.
Marshall had already tapped into Oliver’s security system. By the time Charles came home and reported finding Oliver dead, the security footage would be replaced with the Deepfake video.
It was foolproof. It was brilliant.
Once the will was executed, Charles would pay off Marshall and then disappear. Without him, the opera would be canceled. He would arrange it to look like he’d been murdered by a crazy person protesting the opera. A week or so later, Nicoletta would follow him, saying she had been ordered by her doctor to take a hiatus after the harassment she’d suffered during the rehearsals.
The only possible thing that could stand in his way was whoever was in that old van.
But he wouldn’t worry about it now.
As he washed the soap off his body, he stretched. He felt great.
Being with Nicoletta almost all night had energized him. He couldn’t wait until they could be together forever.
If he was really lucky, this morning’s sex was the last time he’d have to stick it in the old fucker.
By this time tomorrow, he’d be planning a funeral.
Thirty-Nine
Parked back in the homeless camp under the overpass, I put the van’s alarm on and crawled into the back, ready to nap for as long as I could. I felt safer sleeping during the day anyway. Anyone who tried to break into the van would be doing it in front of everyone in the homeless camp. Plus, by the time I’d pulled up, most of the people had already cleared out, going to beg or get food or whatever it was they did during their days.
By the time I woke up, it was late afternoon, and I knew James was freaking the fuck out.
I grabbed a burner phone and dialed.
“It’s me.”
“Where are you?” He sounded pissed.
“I’m safe. I think I know who the killer is.”
“Gia, I’m not fucking around. You need to turn yourself in immediately.”
“I can’t.”
“My entire life, my career, my reputation, my future, is on the fucking line.”
Yeah. He was ticked off.
“You’re going to have to trust me here, James.” Even as I said the words, doubt filled me, and my stomach clenched. If I blew this, not only was my life destroyed, but his would be as well.
“Gia, turn yourself in and we’ll figure the rest out.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”
I hung up and felt sick.
I logged onto my laptop and started digging around.
There were a lot of Deepfake videos.
Maybe proving my case wouldn’t be that hard after all.
A notification popped up suddenly. I stared at it.
It was a notification that movement had been detected on an external camera. I looked around the van for a second. Did the van have surveillance cameras I hadn’t known about? That Tony was magical. I clicked on the icon and then sat back in surprise.
It was the nanny cam in Nicoletta’s apartment, and it was filming her fucking Charles.
Holy shit!
I saw her mouth moving, but there was no sound. I fiddled around until I found the volume control.
“Oh, baby. You fuck me so good.”
Boring. Think of something more original, dumbass. But I hit record.
Obviously when this was all over, James would have to learn the truth about his dear, sweet girlfriend.
I opened up a can of beans and ate them with a spoon while I waited for Lover Boy to shoot his load. Finally, he did, thank God. I was sick of watching his skinny ass pump away to the chanteuse’s breathy moans.
He stood up and walked naked across the room, his member still at attention. He poured a drink and then sat in an armchair with his legs spread.
“Cover your junk at least!” I said to the empty van.
“Charlie,” the songbird simpered. “When can we leave? When are we gonna off the old guy?”
He gave a slow smile and crooked his finger. She willingly came over before him.
“Tonight, angel. He’s a dead man before morning.”
“Oh, goodie,” she said and clapped her hands together like a five-year-old.
She made me sick. For so many reasons.
“I’m heading out in a few minutes to make his drink for cocktail hour. I’ll put some sleeping pills in the drink, but it won’t come up during the autopsy. I made a point to tell his doctor last visit that I was worried he drinks and takes sleeping pills at the same time. It’s documented.”
“Oh, you’re so smart honey,” she said.
“The cameras are all set up. Marshall has the whole thing rigged. The time stamp on the camer
as in the mansion will show the murder at the exact same time we are at the opera house doing rehearsals.”
“Brilliant!” she said and took his drink from him. She sipped at it and then licked her lips. “Did you already see the video? Did I do good?”
“You deserve an Oscar, baby. All the way.”
“When can we leave town?” she said and pouted. “I hate it here.”
“I’m not sure how long it will take to execute the will, but the second the money clears my account, we’re out of here.”
“I love you so much!” she said, pulling a sweater on over her bare breasts and tugging on some leggings and boots.
“Let’s go,” he said. “You can wait in the car. It shouldn’t take more than a half hour, and then we’ll head straight to rehearsal.”
He quickly dressed and they were out the door.
Fuck.
I stopped the recording.
They were going to go kill Oliver Kingsley Hollingsworth. Tonight.
I had to stop them.
I grabbed another burner phone and dialed James’s cell phone.
It went straight to voice mail. Motherfucker.
I left a message: “I’m going to Oliver Hollingsworth’s house. Charles is headed there to kill him. He’s the murderer. And I’m sorry to tell you this, but Nicoletta is his accomplice. I’ll explain it all soon, but you need to get someone over there to stop the murder.”
I hung up and dialed 911.
“911. What is your emergency?”
“There’s about to be a murder. Someone is going to kill Oliver Kingsley Hollingsworth. Please send squads to his house.”
“What is your name?”
“We don’t have time for this,” I said, jumping into the van’s driver’s seat.
“What is the address?”
“Fuck. I don’t know. Look it up. He’s a rich old dude who basically is the San Francisco Opera.”
Dark Justice Page 17
