The Moon Stands Still

by Sibella Giorello

  Did I hear relief in his voice? I know what I heard in the background. Phones ringing, that particular quick chirp that once erupted from my own desk in that same squad room. I pivoted, staring out my window at the Seattle waterfront. And yet, all I saw was Jack standing at his desk.

  “Jack, I need to see those Cooper bills Lani and I dug up. The mineralogy’s crucial, if you really want to move this thing forward.”

  “It’s up to Grant.”

  “The first geologist’s theory was that the bills came down the Washougal River. That’s east of St. Helen’s, so the volcanic ash could be from there. He tried to drill that theory into someone’s thick skull, but to penetrate that agent’s head, he’d need a diamond-bit drill.”

  “Harmon.”

  “It’s a good theory, Jack. But if you want to move this case forward, get me those bills. Now. Not later.”

  “In other news, I ran a background check on the bar owner, Sally.”

  “The bills.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Does that mean Grant sent them to the D.C. lab?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “If he thinks the federal lab can move faster than me, he’s delusional. The state lab couldn’t even get to it faster.”

  “Harmon, I can’t promise anything.”

  No kidding. Lifting my hand to the window, I tapped the glass, dislodging the beads of rain. They bled in rivulets down to the sill.

  “Harmon, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Show me the money, Jack.” I hung up before he could say anything else and glanced at my watch. Oh, great. My time was up. I put away the maps, shouldered my pack, and locked my office for the day.

  As I passed Lezlee’s office, it sounded like a client might’ve shown up after all. Her cawing voice squawked above the sound of someone else weeping.

  For the first time since I’d moved in with her last August, Eleanor wasn’t drinking her 5:00 p.m. medicinal cocktail when I got home from the asylum.

  After feeding Madame extra treats in the empty kitchen, I walked upstairs and found Eleanor propped up on her king-sized bed, eyes closed. She looked like she was floating on a sea of peach satin. On her lap, face down, was a salacious Hollywood biography of some 1940s movie star. I tiptoed past her room, took a hot shower, and changed clothes.

  When I came back, Eleanor was reading the book.

  She lowered it, gazing at me over the cover. “Give me permission to break a promise.”

  “Sorry. Can’t.” I walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed. The nightstand displayed an array of prescription bottles, lined up like an army of toy soldiers, labels like battle notes. This morning Marvelous had come by, extracting promises. And now I echoed them. “You promised to stay in bed and take your medicine.”

  “Oh, Raleigh, not you, too.”

  “You promised.”

  “I am nearly three times your age and have managed to behave very bad that entire time. Don’t ruin my life with rules.”

  “I want you to keep behaving bad—after you rest and take your medicine.”

  She eyed me. “Are you staying home tonight?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to get out of here.”

  I glanced at the pill bottles.

  “Oh, please,” she said. “There’s nothing narcotic among them.” Raising her chin, she bellowed her line at the crystal chandelier. “All rooms are lonely when there’s only one person in them.”

  “Then why would you want me to leave?”

  “Because it’s Alma Winemiller!” she cried. “That’s who said that. Summer and Smoke. And I’m turning into Alma—a woman so desperately lonely she picked up an even lonelier man. Oh, Raleigh, my life has come to this!”

  “Eleanor—”

  “Listen to me!” She pushed herself up, rising on the satin raft. “Get out of here! Go do something—break the law, get arrested.”

  “I’ll lose my job.”

  She leaned forward, pushing me off the bed. “Then go kiss Jack for all he’s worth—and then walk away, leaving him wanting more! But for God’s sake, Raleigh, don’t stay in this house with an old woman!”

  I searched her face for signs of dementia. Medically impaired thinking. Anything. But she was as clear as the voice that had returned to full volume. I backed out of the room.

  “And if you come home before midnight,” she hollered, “I will never speak to you again.”

  26

  I made good time to Seattle and took the swooping exit ramp alongside CenturyLink Field. The stadium lights glowed peridot green and cerulean blue for the Seahawks’ upcoming home game on Sunday.

  In an alley off South Jackson, I parked The Ghost behind a string of vehicles—one issued by the federal government—and got out. A single light burned over a single unmarked door with a single buzzer. I pushed the buzzer and waited. When the door opened, there was no contrast greater than the alley’s atmosphere and the woman who stood there.

  Lucia Lutini smiled, as kind and knowing as the Mona Lisa. “Buona sera, Raleigh.”

  The contrast continued as I stepped inside and followed the FBI’s most elegant employee through the restaurant’s dishwashing station where deflating suds clung to a deep stainless steel sink and an aging corkboard was thumbtacked with purchase orders. Several of the floor’s ceramic tiles were cracked. And Lucia crossed it in her high-heeled black suede boots, fitted black jeans, and a cream-colored cashmere sweater that draped from her refined shoulders like melting wax, as if even her clothes couldn’t stand up to such beauty. We entered the kitchen. Lucia called out. “Papa, I have a surprise!”

  Donato Lutini was gazing at the football game that played on a flat-screen television mounted to an exposed brick wall, his barrel arms crossed over his white chef’s jacket. All around him, piled on two small sofas, was di famiglia Lutini, all of them dark-haired and dark-eyed, their Mediterranean skin the color of burnished topaz.

  “Raleigh!” Donato opened his arms. His chef’s apron, joyfully splattered with tomato sauce, covered his stocky torso. He hugged me—tight—then stepped back, raising his hands to circle the air with a gesture I knew meant serious things in the country shaped like a boot. “Why you wait so long to come back, eh?”

  Before I could answer, Donato was already walking toward the industrial-sized grill against the far wall. “I make you a sandwich, lotsa sauce, just the way you like.”

  The air cupped scents of roasted pork, vine-ripened tomatoes simmering for hours with sweet onions, garlic nurtured until all bitterness was gone. My salivary glands could’ve drowned me. I swallowed. “Thank you.”

  Lucia renewed the introductions of the people on the couches. I nodded, smiled, and tried to keep track of Paul, Maria, Johnny, Giuliana, Margherita—“we call her Rita”, Joey, Joey Two, Joey Junior, Rosemary, Teresa, and the youngest, Serena. The oldest was Uncle Carmine who sat on the kitchen stool. Donato’s brother, Carmine, worked here during the day, shuffling from the kitchen to the service window that faced South Jackson, where the line for lunch wrapped around the block, even in heavy rain.

  “Good to see you all,” I said. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Uncle Carmine said something—in Italian.

  Lucia translated. “My uncle says, ‘The right person comes at the right time.’” She gave me that Mona Lisa smile. “An old Italian proverb, which means it’s the truth.”

  Donato appeared by my side, offering a plate of heaven. “Now, you eat. Mangia! Mangia!”

  Bundled into the fresh-baked roll and luxuriating in the velvety red sauce, the roasted sausage was adorned with sautéed peppers and onions that looked as translucent as clouds filtering sunlight. I swallowed again and my mind filled with a grace beyond words, a winding thread of thanks for this tangible blessing on my plate, and for the invisible blessing that sent it. I took one bite. Closed my eyes. Hummed.

  Donato
chuckled. “No more staying away, Raleigh, eh?”

  I nodded.

  One of the men named Joey jumped off the couch. He threw a gesture at the football game. “Whassamatter with that guy?”

  Another Joey replied. “What? He threw a pass!”

  “That ain’t no pass!”

  “It’s a pass!”

  “Nonna Lutini can throw better!”

  “Get outta here!”

  Their heated opinions bounced back and forth. I took another bite. Donato’s food always tasted like a sacrament to me, the nourishment that fed body and soul. Between bites, I listened to the Mediterranean chorus offering its opinions on the tight game between the Jets and the Dolphins. And I felt myself coming back to life. As I finished the sandwich, Donato moved to the espresso machine, adding cream and sugar to a demitasse before handing me the steaming espresso. “Good for the digestion. Then tiramisu. Like you never tasted.”

  At halftime, with the Jets trailing the Dolphins, the chorus of Lutinis erupted into more passionate perspectives on the players, which prompted even more passionate opinions and sarcastic barbs, love and family echoing off the exposed brick walls. Donato took the pan of tiramisu from the industrial-sized stainless steel refrigerator and turned to find Lucia’s sister, Giuliana, standing behind him, asking whether he used organic coffee because otherwise she wasn’t eating dessert.

  “Organic?” Donato almost spat. “Spazzatura!”

  Lucia sidled up beside me, taking my arm. “Come, we’ll go in back before shots are fired.”

  The back storeroom held shelves of imported olive oil in metal tins and empty white buckets. Lucia overturned two buckets, and we sat facing each other.

  “Papa doesn’t need to know you’re here on business.” Lucia’s sly smile spread across her long and lovely face. “And neither does Jack.”

  “Jack has nothing to do with this case.”

  “No?” She tilted her head, first one side then the other, another gesture of unspoken meaning. “Ah. Well. You are a grown woman.”

  A former CPA, Lucia Lutini came to the FBI to work white collar crime. But she showed a sixth sense for human behavior—maybe from living among people whose passions erupted like Vesuvius—and now she was the Seattle field office’s chief profiler. We worked together when I was in Violent Crimes.

  “This murder weapon you mentioned,” she said. “Describe it for me.”

  “It’s called a pegmatite, a descriptive geology term meaning a certain kind of metamorphic rock with large crystals.” I pointed to the metal shelves behind her holding gallon-sized tins of olive oil. “This rock is close to the size of those cans.”

  “Not a wise weapon.” She stood, pacing the six-by-eight room. “Do you know where the rock came from, its geological origins?”

  “I’m working on that. The rock doesn’t have distinct markers—any minerals that could pinpoint its original location. But I know it’s not native to where the murder happened.”

  “Ah, there.” Lucia stopped pacing. “This rock is not easily transported, am I correct?”

  “I would agree with that. And there’s a coring mark, where someone removed part of it. Probably a crystal. A really large crystal.”

  “Is the rest of the rock worth something—monetarily speaking?”

  “No.”

  “And yet this rock was kept by someone.” She resumed the short walk, her black boots stepping over the metal floor drain. “You are certain this suspect, the science teacher, didn’t kill this girl?”

  “I’m never certain.”

  “Excellent.” She gave that small intriguing smile. “But you yourself said he had a rock collection. If not the science teacher, who would keep such a rock?”

  “Someone who knew the science teacher had a rock collection. Someone who wanted to frame the teacher for the girl’s murder.”

  “You don’t need me, Raleigh.” Another La Giaconda smile. “Tell me, what is bothering you?”

  “Everything in the evidence says this girl’s murder came from a sudden act, a crime of passion. But the murder weapon isn’t the kind of thing somebody just happens to have in their pocket. Even a science teacher wouldn’t carry this rock to the beach, especially at night.”

  “You said something about sexual abuse.”

  “Signs of repeated sexual abuse. But none the night she was killed.”

  “Hmm…” She tapped her chin. “The man who abused this girl follows her to the beach—or he was already there, waiting. With this rock. And the abuser knows the science teacher is coming?” She pivoted and lowered herself to the bucket as gracefully as a ballerina giving a final curtsey. “What you must remember is this. Guilty people will do terrible things to the people they have harmed in order to feel better about their crime.”

  “Killing her made someone feel better?”

  “The ego. It must survive. So the ego tells the rapist the victim deserves to die. Because the ego cannot admit it’s wrong. Instead, the ego says the victim is at fault, the girl who allowed such molestation to happen. You see? The ego creates problems for all human beings. But for men who molest and kill, the ego is the central problem.”

  “Pride.”

  She nodded. “And guilt.”

  “Pardon?”

  Though the storeroom felt warm to me, even stuffy, Lucia rubbed her arms as if chilled. “If the person who killed this girl is without remorse, that is something different. But except for extreme sociopaths, every person carries some kind of conscience. And I suspect whoever killed this girl is feeling their conscience nag, rebuking their ego.” Her brown eyes locked on me. “Which is why we seek forgiveness from God. Because we cannot grant that forgiveness to ourselves.”

  “Absolution.”

  “Absolution, yes. The killer might now be seeking absolution.” She tossed her head, sending strands of her soft brown hair over the creamy cashmere sweater. “Also, I found an address for the science teacher’s wife.”

  “Thank you.” I set the demitasse cup and saucer on the floor and opened my purse, taking out a notebook. “The wife is his sole alibi.”

  “If he is innocent, she is a cruel woman. But if he’s not innocent…”

  I nodded. “That’s why I need to talk to her.”

  “Yes.” Lucia gave me an address for Janeen Fisher, but I didn’t ask how she got it. Lucia’s help wasn’t exactly kosher according to government rules. I might need plausible deniability later.

  Lucia waited for me to finish writing. “Also, I would advise—as a friend, nothing more—that you continue to search for anyone who knew that girl would be at the beach that night. And for anyone who knew the teacher would also go. The circumstances of her murder certainly sound like a crime of passion. But this rock indicates the murder was carried out with some degree of premeditation.”

  I clicked my pen. “Thank you, Lucia.”

  She nodded but refused to meet my gaze, instead directing her question to the bags of semolina flour on the shelves. “How are things between you and Jack?”

  “What?”

  “Raleigh.”

  I picked up my espresso. “Why do you ask?”

  “You are here.”

  “Because you said your dad missed me.”

  Her brown eyes were electric with intelligence. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  “You mean, discuss my personal life with a criminal profiler? Not really.”

  She smiled. “I’ve worked with Jack for nine years. In all that time, he’s always been friendly. Even during challenging cases. Yesterday, as I passed him in the lobby, he snapped at me, asking if I’d talked to you.”

  I sipped from the demitasse. The espresso tasted as cold and bitter as my heart. “Jack’s not the guy I thought he was.”

  “Raleigh.” Her knowing smile remained, but now it seemed weighted with deep knowledge. “No one is who we think they are.”

  Avoiding her gaze, I put my pen and notebook in my purse and stood. Lucia replaced t
he buckets then smoothed a hand over her black jeans.

  “You must try the tiramisu,” she said. “It will make Papa happy. And perhaps alleviate a fraction of your sorrow.”

  27

  I ate the tiramisu, the flavors of cocoa, coffee, and custard dissolving on my tongue as tenderly as fresh snowflakes. I drank more sweetened espresso. And I listened to the extended colorful commentary courtesy of the Lutini family. In the fourth quarter, Donato walked me to my car.

  “You gotta come back soon.” He opened my car door. “Capiche?”

  I capiched and drove through Pioneer Square where the sidewalks swelled with young punks and pub crawlers and shambling homeless men using trash bags as suitcases. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, a sharp tingle invading my fingertips. Too much energy. Too much caffeine. And something else in my jangly heartbeat. What Lucia said when I told her the problem with Jack.

  No one is who we think they are.

  At the next stoplight, waiting for the crowds to cross the street, I checked my phone. Just past nine o’clock. If I came home this early, Eleanor would berate me. And my body was too wired to work in the confines of my office. Sleep wasn’t coming for hours. Opening my purse, I took out my notebook. And drove.

  A little over an hour later, traveling at top speed to match my caffeinated bloodstream, I crossed the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. The Ghost seemed to slide through the night wind blowing back and forth until I reached the town of Gig Harbor. A historic waterfront village, Gig Harbor was among a half-dozen places that claimed to be “the gateway to the Olympic Peninsula.” With the address from Lucia and my GPS, I found a gravel parking lot shared by a tool rental business doubling as a computer repair shop and a sports tavern called Bernie’s Sand Bar.

  I parked alongside four pickup trucks that faced the bar’s entrance and dug through my backpack for the binder on Krystal Jewel’s murder. Fingertips clammy with espresso sweat, I flipped the pages until I found the statement from Joel Fisher’s sole alibi, his wife. I combed every sentence. And Lucia’s words sang in the back of mind … search for anyone who knew that girl would be at the beach that night. And for anyone who knew the teacher would go, too.