The Blood Runs Cold Read online

“Not since he was robbed about six months ago. The robbery really freaked him. That was when he installed the alarm and bought a gun.”

  Human nature. Install the alarm after the robbery. “Do you know where he kept the gun?”

  “In the table next to his bed. He told me where it was in case someone broke in while I was cleaning.” She shuddered. “As if I could shoot someone.”

  “Did you ever notice a prayer book or a rosary?”

  “You mean like what was in his hands? I never look in my clients’ drawers and I never saw anything like that lying around.” Miranda pushed the hair out of her eyes. “There’s a cross in his bedroom.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  Her eyes filled with fear. “Me? Um, at the QueensBartique, a bar in Queens, until about eleven and then home with my partner. We live near there.”

  Parker asked her to spell the name of the bar and her partner’s name. Miranda licked her lips and cleared her throat before responding. She watched Parker write it down.

  “I didn’t kill him. Nardo treated me with respect. He didn’t care that I was his cleaning lady. He always introduced me to his friends and invited me to join them when we ran into each other at a bar or someplace. I could never hurt him.” Tears streamed down her face. “I swear,” she said, her voice husky, her palms up, pleading for understanding.

  “It sounds like you traveled in the same circles. Did Nardo have any enemies?”

  Foxworth pulled a tissue out of her pocket, dabbed at the tears in her eyes, then blew her nose. “Not the same circles. But once in a while we ran into each other at a bar. He was always a real gentleman. Everybody liked him.”

  “Was Mr. de Balzo transgender?”

  Parker sucked in her breath. Williams was suddenly interested in the birds on the lawn.

  Miranda didn’t seem fazed. “No. But, um, I don’t know. I guess it’s okay. I mean he’s dead…He’s gay, um, was gay.” She rubbed her eyes, blinked rapidly, and looked down with great interest at her fingers plucking threads from the handbag in her lap.

  Gay. And he had a crucifix over his bed. How did he reconcile his homosexuality with religion? Many people believed they were mutually exclusive. She still didn’t know where she stood on the issue. Not that she was religious, but she had gone to church every Sunday until she’d left home at eighteen, and in her experience the indoctrination of those early years was not easily erased. If the cross was any indication, he still believed. Snap to it Corelli. Your mind is wandering again.

  Corelli sensed Foxworth hesitating to share something. “Is there something else, Ms. Foxworth? Please don’t hold back. Something you know could help us find the murderer.”

  Miranda chewed her lip. “Well, like I said, as far as I know he wasn’t trans or a cross-dresser, just a vanilla gay guy.” She looked at Corelli. “But he called me in a rage Monday night. He said, ‘It’s payback time. I need you help.’”

  “Who was he paying back?”

  Miranda squirmed. “He didn’t say. And I didn’t ask.”

  “And why did he call you about this?”

  “He wanted me to dress him like a woman—you know, clothes, makeup, wig, spiked heels, everything. We’re about the same height so he thought my clothing would fit him. Said he was having a coming out party at the end of the week.”

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday – 12 p.m.

  Corelli and Parker hesitated inside the outer door to del Balzo’s apartment and listened to the activity on the street. Judging by the low rumble reporters and their cameramen were focused on recording what they knew so far—a reported homicide—not watching for Corelli.

  Corelli pointed to the door, and using her fingers, did a countdown. On three, they bolted out the door, ran down the steps, and jumped into their vehicle before any of the reporters realized what was happening.

  “Hey, there’s Corelli,” someone yelled as they pulled away.

  Parker glanced in the rearview mirror. “Looks like somebody’s on our side. Williams’s partner stopped traffic and the media can’t get through.”

  Corelli shifted to look back. “Well, well. It’s nice to know not all cops hate me. Peer pressure forces the support underground, but it’s there. Sometimes.”

  “Where to?”

  “First Avenue. United Nations. I’d like to notify the ambassador before he hears it from a reporter.”

  Parker slowed as they neared the familiar slab of the thirty-nine-story Secretariat tower looming over the other three UN buildings like a gigantic gravestone. “There.” Corelli pointed to the line of people shuffling into the building at 46th Street and then resumed her phone call with Detective Ron Watkins. Parker pulled over.

  Corelli had asked Watkins to locate where in the huge UN complex they would find the ambassador, and now she was doodling in the notebook on her lap and uttering an occasional uh-huh. In the glare of the midday sunlight, she looked pale and shaky, and her hollowed-out, red-rimmed eyes accented by dark shadows underneath hinted at sleepless nights. When Corelli smashed her hand during the Winter case, she’d asked Parker to retrieve her gun from the bedroom and help buckle the holster. From her several forays into the bedroom, Parker deduced Corelli slept with her gun on the pillow next to her. Not too surprising. Tours in Iraq and Afghanistan followed by three months undercover investigating a ring of dirty cops could do that to a person. Being ostracized didn’t help.

  Parker hadn’t known Corelli before they started working together a little more than a month ago, so she didn’t know how she looked or what her temperament was like before Iraq and Afghanistan, or before going undercover. She did know that Corelli worked herself hard, in the office by seven every morning unless she was out at a crime scene, and following up on the case at night until it was too late to see witnesses.

  And Parker knew, rather she believed, Corelli had PTSD. So far, Corelli seemed able to hide it from everyone but her. In the short time they’d worked together, she’d seen Corelli freaked by sudden flashes of light and loud noises, been at the mercy of her mood swings, anger, and nasty needling, and had watched Corelli deliberately put her life in danger. Yet in that time, Corelli had successfully dealt with threats to her life, her job, and her family while solving a complicated murder and bringing down the higher-ups in the gang of dirty cops she’d gone undercover to investigate. Corelli’s mood swings and occasional nastiness made her difficult to work with, but she was giving Parker the education in homicide investigations she wanted, so it was worth it. Actually, what they taught in the two-week intensive detective training didn’t come close to what she’d learned working just one case with Corelli.

  “The ambassador isn’t at the UN today,” Corelli said. “He and his wife are being interviewed at home for Italian television. They live in a brownstone on East Fifty-Fifth Street between York and Sutton. Let’s go.”

  A crone answered the doorbell. Dressed in black from head to toe, she was old, very old, and small, with sparse white hair tied back in a bun. Her eyes swept them like a metal detector. She shook her head when Corelli asked to see the ambassador. “Busy. No can see now,” she said in broken English. “You come back.”

  She started to close the door but Corelli moved into the hall. “We’ll wait, thank you,” she replied in Italian. She displayed her shield and ID but the crone just waved it away.

  The crone shifted to Italian. “They’re on television so they’ll be talking a long time.”

  Corelli nodded and responded in Italian. “We’ll wait.”

  The old woman shrugged, pointed to the chairs in the large entry hall, and left.

  Corelli took the opportunity to touch base with the team at the crime scene. They hadn’t found the phone or the computer or anything else that might be helpful, but Watkins had come up with the address of the Italian delegation’s offices. Apparently the delegations of all the UN’s members had offices near the United Nations compound, but not in it. The Italian ambassador and his staff worked o
ut of Three United Nations Plaza, a nearby office building.

  “Hopefully, this means we won’t have to deal with the UN’s police force,” Corelli said. “They get touchy when we’re on their sovereign territory.”

  Corelli and Parker were reviewing the little they knew so far when the old woman beckoned them to follow her. They walked through the hall past an open door where they could see the formal living room filled with the TV crew packing up equipment, talking loudly in Italian, and laughing as they worked. They continued toward the back of the house into a sunroom overlooking a garden. Tall, handsome, well built like his son, and with the elegance and polish of the career diplomat, the ambassador stood with a drink in his hand and stared out into the garden. His wife sat in an easy chair with a drink in her hand, face dark and brooding, eyes riveted to his back, as if willing him to turn. Cocktails at noon? A little early in Corelli’s book.

  Corelli cleared her throat as she positioned herself so she could face the ambassador and still see his wife. Parker followed.

  Mrs. del Balzo sat with her legs crossed. Her impeccable grooming, fashionable dress, and dark beauty were striking. Her sophisticated style complemented her husband. She showed no awareness of their presence so when she removed her eyes from him in order to see what had attracted his interest, she gasped, then the brooding mask slid back into place. Strangely remote, she watched them as the audience watches actors on a stage.

  “Sorry to intrude, Ambassador del Balzo. I’m Detective Corelli and this is Detective Parker.”

  He looked puzzled. “What is it, Detective?” His English was excellent.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I have bad news. About your son, Nardo,” she hesitated. “He was found dead in his apartment this morning.”

  He stared at her. If he felt anything, he hid it well.

  Mrs. Del Balzo gasped. “Oh, no, my Nardo,” she said in Italian. Her face retained its mask-like quality, but the shaking hand and the jumpy leg communicated intense feelings. It was quiet, except for the tinkle of the ice in her drink and the soft laughter drifting in from the film crew. She very carefully placed the glass on the table next to her. “Ask them what happened, cara,” Mrs. Del Balzo said in Italian.

  He cleared his throat. “What happened?”

  “It appears to be murder. His cleaning person found him this morning.”

  “Was it one of his…friends?” He looked like he smelled something bad.

  “It’s still early in the investigation.”

  He glanced at his wife. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, then cleared her throat. She spoke softly in English. “Did he…suffer?”

  “No. He died instantly.”

  “That’s a comfort. Thank you,” she said, smoothing her hair. “When can we make the funeral?”

  “I’ll let you know when we can release him. It will be a few days. Someone will have to formally identify him.”

  “You should do it, Leonardo.”

  “I don’t have time. I’ll send someone from the office.” He turned to Corelli. “Or, if you prefer a family member, my son-in-law Emilio will do it.”

  Carla del Balzo shook her head. “No, cara, I will go.” She met Corelli’s eyes. “You will let me know when and where?”

  “Are you sure?” Corelli asked.

  “Yes, of course.” Her voice seemed to catch. “He’s my son.” She dabbed her eyes again.

  “And, you also have a daughter?”

  Her face softened. “Actually, two daughters. But only Flavia is here in New York, with her husband Emilio.”

  “How can I contact them?”

  The ambassador held a hand up. “I don’t think they can help you.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I’ll decide that.”

  He sighed. “They both work. You will have to go at night,” he said, as if that was some insurmountable problem.

  “That’s not a problem,” Corelli said. “And I’d like the telephone number for your daughter in Italy as well.”

  “Why?” Not hearing a response, he shrugged. “Give it to them, Carla.”

  Parker looked up at Corelli when she finished writing the names, telephone numbers, and address dictated by Mrs. del Balzo.

  The ambassador cleared his throat, smoothed back his coiffed hair, and puffed up his chest. “Are you aware that I’m under consideration to replace the prime minister of Italy?”

  “Yes sir, I am.”

  “Then you’ll understand why you must keep the investigation as low-key as possible, not mention, um, his homosexuality.”

  The look of distaste on his face eliminated any doubt about how he felt about his son’s sexuality.

  Did her father feel that way about her? He had a problem with her independence, doing a man’s job, not being married. But he’d loved Marnie. She’d hoped he’d eventually understand that she and Marnie were lovers and accept her life choices but with Marnie gone that was not to be. “We’ll do our best, sir, but you know the press.”

  “We’d like to be alone now. Please keep us apprised.” Having dismissed her, he turned to gaze at the garden again.

  He had his agenda and Corelli had hers. And hers was the one that counted right now. “We need the names of Nardo’s friends before we go.”

  “I have no idea. Carla?” He turned to his wife who seemed focused on her reflection in the glass wall. She shook her head.

  Corelli glanced at the information from the business card she’d taken from Nardo’s wallet. “Do you know a Scott Sigler?”

  The del Balzos exchanged a glance but it was Carla who spoke. “Is this Nardo’s friend?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. He’s an attorney so maybe it was a business relationship.”

  “Scott Sigler,” Carla repeated. “Is that S-i-g-l-e-r?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “I’m sorry I do not.”

  “Anything else?” The ambassador made no attempt to hide his impatience.

  “Do you think the murder might be politically motivated? Someone trying to stop you?”

  “Italy is a civilized democracy, not a barbaric third world country. Any idiot would know the only way to stop me would be to kill me, not a member of my family.”

  “We should consider it, cara. Maybe it was an attempt to keep you out of the election.”

  He stared into his drink. “We’ll think about it and get back to you. Now please leave us.”

  “One more thing, Ambassador. Did Nardo work at the UN?”

  “He was a member of the delegation’s staff.”

  “Please inform your office we’re coming to interview Nardo’s colleagues.”

  A shadow of annoyance passed over his face, and his voice expressed his irritation. “Must you speak to the people at the delegation? Your time would be better spent looking for those friends of his.”

  “Standard procedure, sir.”

  He seemed agitated. She braced for an attack.

  “I’ll call as soon as you leave. Signorina Frascetti, my assistant, will introduce you. Now can you find your way out?”

  “Yes. But we’ll be back to talk to you and your wife again, after you’ve had some time.”

  As they left the room, the wife said something in Italian and the ambassador responded.

  Parker unlocked the car and slid in. “How come you didn’t speak to them in Italian?”

  “Their English was good so I went with that. Good thing too. They had an interesting exchange as we left. Mrs. del Balzo said, ‘Are you happy now?’ And the loving father said, ‘It’s for the best. Now he can’t spoil our chance to be prime minister.’”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I kid you not, Parker, I kid you not.”

  Chapter Four

  Wednesday – 1:30 p.m.

  A tearful Rosina Frascetti met them at the elevator. Wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, the ambassador’s assistant struggled to introduce herself. Corelli held the distraught woman’s hands and offered condolences
in Italian, hoping to calm her. After a minute, Ms. Frascetti took a deep breath and led them to a conference room.

  “Please forgive me,” she said in Italian. “I’m heartbroken. Nardo was such a wonderful boy, full of laughter and joy, full of life…” Her mouth moved but words didn’t come.

  Corelli sent Parker to find some water, and after a few sips and more dabbing and blowing, Frascetti regained control and apologized again.

  They all sat. Parker placed her notebook and pen on the table.

  “Please speak English, signorina,” Corelli said. “Detective Parker needs to take notes.”

  “I’m sorry. I fall into Italian when I’m upset,” Frascetti said in perfect accented English.

  “How long have you known Nardo?”

  “Since I started working for the ambassador. Twenty-five years. Of course, he wasn’t an ambassador then. And Nardo was a happy-go-lucky eight-year-old.” She smiled. “A chatterbox, very outgoing, and so bright and interested in everything. He had a thousand questions.”

  “So he was always happy, full of life?” Corelli asked, trying to keep her talking.

  “No. I didn’t see him for a few years, until he was twelve or thirteen, I think. By then he was withdrawn, so serious and high-strung. He hardly spoke. Carla, Mrs. del Balzo, said that was not unusual for teenagers and I guess she was right, because when he came to work with us at the UN about six years ago, he was in his mid-twenties and back to being happy-go-lucky, always joking and smiling.”

  “Was there any resentment here, you know, the ambassador’s son getting special treatment, that kind of thing?”

  “He didn’t get special treatment. In fact, if anything, the ambassador was harder on him, very critical.”

  “Have you noticed any change recently?”

  Her gaze shifted from Corelli to the wall behind her. “No. Nardo was always sweet to me, and polite. A real gentleman.” Corelli wondered what she was hiding.

  Suddenly all business, Ms. Frascetti looked at Corelli again. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “Tell me about the staff, anyone particularly friendly or unfriendly with Nardo?”