The Blood Runs Cold Page 6
Corelli turned but it was only an empty hallway. “We just need to clear up something you said this afternoon.”
“Please sit,” she said, pointing to the sofa. She perched on the arm of one of the easy chairs facing them.
“Claudia, you started to say something this afternoon, and Detective Parker and I thought you changed your mind because Andrea Sansone was in the room. Detective Parker will read the sentence we’re referring to.”
Claudia watched Parker thumb through her notes, then sighed. “It’s all right. I know the sentence you’re referring to, but I shouldn’t have said anything. If she finds out she’ll have me fired.”
“Who? Mrs. Frascetti?”
“No, not Rosina. Carla. She does his dirty work and you’re either for or against Leonardo, especially now with the election coming up.”
“They’ll only know if you reveal we talked again.”
“I don’t know.”
“Please, for Nardo.”
It was quiet except for the rasp of Claudia’s breathing. Corelli experienced a moment of guilt for pressuring her, but then reminded herself she was trying to find a killer.
“I hope I don’t live to regret this.” Claudia took a deep breath. “The ambassador always seemed uncomfortable around Nardo. He was hypercritical and contemptuous of the boy. And to be honest, Nardo provoked him. He would, how do you say it, act like a girl, um, flounce? Is that the word? But when his father wasn’t around he wasn’t like that at all.”
“Anything else?”
“The ambassador has been very tense this last week or two. You know he’s in line to replace Berlusconi?”
Corelli nodded.
“I heard Nardo and the ambassador had a huge fight Monday. Apparently, they were screaming at each other in the ambassador’s office, and then Nardo came out, slammed the door, and ran from the building. He didn’t come to work yesterday.”
“What was the argument about?”
Claudia shrugged. “Chi sa?”
Parker stopped writing. She coughed.
Corelli turned to Parker. “It means, who knows?”
Claudia said, “Sorry, I forgot.”
“I’m almost ready, Claudia,” a masculine voice sang out from the direction of the hall. Her gaze went to the hall behind them. She got to her feet. “Is that all?”
The detectives turned to see what she was looking at just as Mario Derosa, dressed but toweling his hair, walked through the door.
He flushed, a stricken look on his face. “Oh.”
Seeing how embarrassed they both were, Corelli took control before they felt the need to explain. “Mr. Derosa, I’m so glad you’re here. You’ve saved us a trip to your apartment in Queens. We have a few more questions. Please join us.”
Derosa and Claudia exchanged glances. He cleared his throat. “Give me a minute to get rid of this towel. Anyone else want a drink? Detectives? Claudia?”
They refused but Claudia nodded. She sat down, studiously avoiding looking at them.
Corelli attempted to ease her obvious discomfort. “How do you like this neighborhood?”
Claudia glanced in their direction, seemed to decide they were friendly, and flashed a smile. “Oh, I like it a lot. It’s convenient to the subway and a quick ride down to the office.”
Derosa returned. He handed Claudia a glass and sat in the easy chair next to her.
“So what else can I tell you, Detective Corelli?”
“As I mentioned to Claudia, both Detective Parker and I sensed having Andrea Sansone in the room caused most people to censor what they said. We’d like to hear the truth.”
“Very perceptive. Andrea is Carla’s lapdog, so everyone is careful around him because even something said as a joke is repeated, or should I say reported.”
“What did you mean when you said Nardo had no airs about him. Does the ambassador have airs?”
He thought about the question. Finally he said, “Let’s say they have ambitions.”
“They?”
“Carla and Leonardo.”
“And?”
“And nothing or nobody else matters. Everything is about him, about his career. They used many people to get him where he is today.”
Claudia reached over and touched his hand.
He smiled at her and sipped his drink. “Are you going to repeat what I say?”
“No one knows we’re here. I won’t use your name unless the information becomes critical to the case. Please help. The more we know about Nardo, the better.”
He scratched his head and pulled on his mustache. He sipped again, put his drink down and patted Claudia’s hand, smiling gently.
“Leonardo was repulsed by Nardo’s gayness. He seemed to hate the boy and made no attempt to hide his feelings. Nardo responded by exaggerating his gayness and pretending to be a swishy queen, sticking it up Leonardo’s nose constantly. A terrible situation for them and for those of us who watched it play out, knowing how badly Nardo wanted his father’s love.”
“Was Mrs. del Balzo aware of this dynamic?”
“Carla acted like it wasn’t happening, even when she was in the same room with them. She never attempted to reconcile them, just put on lipstick or powdered her nose.”
“Claudia mentioned an argument Monday. Do you know what it was about?”
He smoothed his mustache. “Leonardo came back from a meeting preening like a peacock over what people were saying about his replacing Berlusconi. He strutted into the office bragging, ‘everybody knows how hard I’ve worked for this, how much I deserve the honor, and what a wonderful day it will be for Italy.’ Nardo reacted like the proverbial bull seeing a red cape.”
Derosa downed some of his drink. “Nardo followed Leonardo into his office and slammed the door. My office is right next to Leonardo’s, but the door was closed for most of it. I could hear them shouting but I could only understand a word now and then.”
“You have no idea what the argument was about?”
He stroked his chin with his thumb.
“Nardo came out of the office shouting, ‘You’ll never be prime minister. I’ll make sure of it. The newspapers will love the story. We’ll see how far you go after I talk to them.’ He was crying when he stormed out.”
Derosa was silent.
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Yes, I guess it is. Thank you. Thank you both. And please forgive us for intruding.” As they stood to leave, Corelli asked, “Where was Ms. Frascetti during the argument?”
He laughed. “Sitting at her desk with her mouth open, just like me.”
Chapter Eight
Wednesday – 9:30 p.m.
They were each lost in thought on the way out of the building, but once they were settled in the car, Parker spoke. “Better to be abandoned by your father than to have him be repulsed by you, don’t you think?”
“My, my, aren’t we philosophical tonight.” Corelli hadn’t meant to be condescending, but she could hear it in her voice.
Parker ignored it. “Just reflecting.”
The idea of fathers being repulsed by their child’s sexuality hit too close to home for Corelli. She changed the subject. “I’m reflecting on what Mario Derosa told us about Nardo threatening to go to the media to embarrass the ambassador and tank his political ambitions. That’s probably the coming out party Nardo mentioned when he asked Foxworth to dress him as a woman. Father and son were locked in an ugly dance. Why? We’ll drop in on the del Balzos tomorrow, see if we can shake something loose.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Let’s take a drive to Brooklyn to talk to Nardo’s sister, and then on the way back we can hit Ginocchioni in the Village.”
Nardo’s brother-in-law, Emilio Ottaviano, answered the door with a question on his lips. “Is it necessary to do this now?” His accent was thick. “It’s late and we have just returned from comforting Carla and Leonardo. My wife is very upset.” He looked solemn but not too broken up by the death.
“I’m sorry Mr. Ottaviano, but the faster we get our questions answered the faster we can find the person who murdered Nardo.”
He glanced back into the apartment. “I suppose it’s best to get it over with. But we didn’t have much to do with Nardo, so I doubt we know anything that will help.” He stepped aside. “Please come in.”
A woman looked up from the sofa where she lay curled on her side, a wad of tissues in her hand, a table full of soggy tissues in front of her, her face puffy and swollen and streaked with mascara. So the whole family wasn’t made of ice. She was a more human version of her mother—softer, sweeter, but with the same dark, sophisticated looks.
“My wife, Flavia.” Emilio helped her sit up, then sat close. His hand brushed her hair gently. They were a striking couple: both slender, graceful, with creamy olive skin and sensuous features.
“I’m Detective Corelli and this is Detective Parker. We’re so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Ottaviano.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice catching.
“I’m sure this is a hard time for you, but I hope you’ll answer a few questions about your brother.”
“Yes, certainly, if I can. Please sit.”
They settled into the two chairs facing the sofa. Parker opened her pad and placed it on the arm of her chair.
The clicking of Parker’s pen triggered Corelli’s questions. “Mrs. Ottaviano, are you older or younger than your brother?”
“I’m in the middle. Younger than Nardo, older than my sister, Antonia.”
“Has anyone been in touch with your sister?”
“Yes. We talked to her this afternoon. She’s flying in tomorrow.”
“I see. Do you know Nardo’s friends?”
She glanced at her husband. His jaw was tight.
“Emilio and Nardo don’t get along. We haven’t seen Nardo in about a year. And we’ve never socialized with him so I don’t know any of his friends.” She burst into tears.
“What was the problem, Mr. Ottaviano?”
He flushed. “It was his, you know, his being, how do you call it? A faggot? I wasn’t comfortable with him, and I didn’t like the way he treated my father-in-law, Ambassador del Balzo.”
“Did you argue?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
His eyes met Corelli’s. “As Flavia said, about a year ago.”
“What did you find offensive about Nardo’s treatment of the ambassador?”
Flavia spoke up. “Nardo was angry with our father and ignored him when we were together. He wouldn’t tell even me what it was about.”
“What offended you, Mr. Ottaviano?”
He glanced at Flavia. “He rubbed the ambassador’s nose in his disgusting life.”
“Do either of you know what Nardo and the ambassador argued about on Monday?”
Flavia looked at Emilio. He shrugged. “I, we, didn’t know they argued.”
“Please let me know if you think of anything that might help us,” Corelli said. She put her card on the coffee table. They stood and Emilio escorted them to the door.
In the car, Corelli said, “Ottaviano was lying about something.”
“I thought so too.”
Corelli sighed. “We’ll have another go at him if we need to. Wouldn’t life be peachy if everybody told the truth the first time?”
Parker grunted.
“Okay, give me Ginocchioni’s telephone number. Let’s see what he has to say for himself. Spurned love is a good motive for murder.”
She hung up when Ginocchioni’s answering machine picked up. “Not home. We’ll check again before you drop me off later.”
“You see Ginocchioni for it?”
“Him or somebody like him, someone who Nardo knew, didn’t fear, and would let into his apartment wearing just pajama bottoms. Now that I think about it, the ambassador is a good fit too.”
“And so is Mister Blazing Teeth.”
“Hmm. You’re right. We’ll see him tomorrow too.”
Chapter Nine
Wednesday – 11 p.m.
Parker stood by the car, hand on her gun, and watched until the elevator door closed on Corelli. Then she drove uptown to Hattie’s Harlem Inn on 125th Street where she’d arranged to meet her friend and mentor, Captain Jesse Isaacs, for a drink. Jesse was there already, seated in a booth talking to a tall, good-looking man. Detective Ron Watkins in her hangout? Why was he crowding her when he knew she’d made it clear she didn’t want to get involved with someone she worked with?
She stopped and struggled to gain control of the anger she could feel building. She needed to be cool. Watkins high-fived Jesse and walked over to the bandstand. He picked up a guitar. Three men joined him and they began to tune up. She remembered now; he’d mentioned the gig. When they started playing, she strolled over to join Jesse.
“Hey, P.J., see your boy up there?” He lifted his chin in the direction of the band.
“He’s not my boy.”
“Hmm. And I thought you invited me here as cover so you could come hear him play.”
“I don’t need cover. I forgot he was going to be here. That’s not why I wanted to meet.”
He waved the waitress over and she ordered a beer. He examined her. “If it’s not Watkins, what is it?”
She gnawed the cuticle on her thumb but didn’t say anything. The waitress put the bottle and the iced glass on the table and walked away without comment.
“Give me a second, Jesse.” She filled her glass and drank some beer. She fingered the paper with the phone number, then related Dietz’s encounter with Randall Young.
“I don’t remember any mention of a man in the report of your mother’s murder. They had a hard time figuring out who she was because there wasn’t anything to identify her in the apartment—no letters, no diary, no wallet, but who knows?”
“You sure?”
He snorted. “Don’t you think I would have hunted him down?”
“Yeah, I guess.” She pushed her glass in circles.
“How did he find you?”
“Saw my picture on the front page of the Daily World.” She poured the rest of the beer into the glass and drank. “You know, the thing with the Toricelli kid.”
He tapped his fingers in time to the music. “I’d talk to the man. Why get crazy wondering? Hear what he has to say and then decide. If it’s a scam, you’ll be onto him pretty fast. Arrange to meet him here at Hattie’s and I’ll be here too in case he’s trouble.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I know, Ms. Prickly Pear, but you said he’s a big guy, so unless you plan to shoot him, you might need backup if he gets rough. Let me know.”
They sat in companionable silence listening to the music. When Parker spotted Detective Charleen Greene standing at the bar, she stood. “I’m tired, Jesse, I’m going home.” So is Watkins coming onto Greene now?
“The set’s almost over. Aren’t you going to say hello to Ron?”
“I’ll see him in the morning.” Wouldn’t want to come between him and his date.
She felt Jesse’s eyes on her as she darted through the crowd, not looking right or left and not acknowledging Ron’s smile and quick wave.
Chapter Ten
Wednesday – 11 p.m.
As Corelli hung up her jacket, the bell rang. She smiled, suspecting it was either Gianna or Simone. Her sisters sensed her aloneness and sadness and had taken to dropping in late at night. So far neither of them had pushed her to talk. Instead they came to comfort and support her and left it to her to decide what she wanted to tell them. She pressed the intercom button.
“Yes?”
&n
bsp; “It’s Andrea Sansone, I need to speak to you.”
“I’ve had a long day and I’m off duty. Please come to the station house tomorrow.”
“I must speak to you now.”
Her inclination was to get rid of him. But she had threatened him today, not a good thing. It was going to be tough if it turned out del Balzo killed his son, so it would be better to avoid an international incident now over Sansone invading her privacy. She buzzed him in.
She slipped her boots back on and waited in front of the elevator in her shirtsleeves. She started to unbuckle her holster then decided to keep her gun on to emphasize this wasn’t a social visit.
The elevator opened. He seemed surprised to see her standing there. Perhaps he had expected a traditional apartment where he would have been facing a hallway or maybe he thought she’d greet him in a sexy nightgown. He hesitated, then stepped into the small space between her and the elevator. He looked past her, surveying the ten-thousand-foot loft.
“Che bella.” His voice was soft, full of wonder.
Corelli turned, seeing the loft through his eyes. It was beautiful. But it didn’t matter that he thought so. She loved it. She had worked hard to make it a home, her kind of home, not one that required a man and children. The loft reflected the artistic side of her rather than the drab, all-business cop, and the colorful rugs, paintings, wall-hangings, and objects from all over the globe pulled the cavernous space together, making it warm and welcoming and comfortable.
She felt his breath on her neck, and fearing a sexual advance that would require decking him, she shifted to face him.
“Mi piace,” he said in Italian, then in English. “I like it.” He tore his eyes from the loft and looked at her. He seemed overwhelmed. “It is so inviting.”
She suspected he had never been inside a converted industrial building and was used to the rigid formality of luxurious, designer apartments. But he got it and appreciated it. If she wasn’t feeling so invaded by him, she might have been gracious and thanked him.
“Your uncle did very well by you. But I’m sure you’re the one who decorated it, made it so welcoming.”