Chapter 10 #2
Still talking about him in the present tense, I noted, as I ducked through the door at the far end of the living room and into the bedroom.
“And you spoke to him yesterday?” Mendoza asked.
The bedroom was also beautifully and opulently outfitted, with a massive king-sized bed with a crisp comforter and lots and lots of pillows.
The rug must have fibers at least three inches long.
I couldn’t feel them right now, but even through the soles of my boots it was a little bit like standing on a cloud.
She had shared that bed with my husband, and I waited for the anger at that to rise. When it didn’t, I gave a shrug and headed for the door to the bathroom.
“On the phone,” Jacquie’s voice said from the living room, “yes. Around noon, maybe? He called to say he couldn’t see me last night because he was going somewhere with Sal. His boss. Sal Gomorra. He owns the Body Shop.”
The bathroom was as opulent as the rest of the place, with marble on the floor—tile this time, not actual slabs; a much more recent renovation that David had no doubt paid for.
It had included a massive shower—big enough for two people—along with a clawfoot tub and a double vanity with a marble top.
Slab, not tile. A cardboard box of tissues looked cheap and out of place on top of the toilet tank.
I grabbed it and headed back out. On my second trip through the bedroom (from the other angle) I noticed the picture frame on the side table, and the photo showing two people smiling at the camera with their arms around each other.
For a second, the thought crossed my mind that it might be Jacquie and David, and I braced myself for a gut punch.
But when I got closer, I saw that it was just Nick.
And then I felt that jab anyway, when my mind threw up a picture of him, dead in his bed, eyes open and staring up at the ceiling.
Outside in the living room Mendoza had asked whether there was a reason why Nick and Sal had gotten together last night. “Was there something specific they needed to discuss?”
Jacquie shook her head. “Not that I know about. He didn’t say, and I didn’t push—I figured it was work stuff.”
“How did he sound when you talked to him? Nervous? Upset?”
“Normal. Well, normal for how he’s been lately.”
Again with the present tense. I put the box of tissues on the cushion beside her, and went to sit down next to Mendoza.
Jacquie pulled a tissue from the box and wiped her face with it, before she balled it up in her fist. Mendoza continued his questioning. “And after that phone call in the middle of the day yesterday, you didn’t hear from him again?”
Jacquie shook her head, and another tear leaked out. “I texted him around ten to say goodnight, but he didn’t respond. I figured he was still with Sal, or maybe just asleep.”
Her voice broke again. “I should have… I should have called. Or gone out there. I should have checked on him.”
“He was fine,” I said, and ignored Mendoza’s look of exasperation. “He was fine at ten o’clock last night. Zachary followed him home at eleven-thirty. Before that, he was at the Tin Roof with his boss.”
“I could have heard his voice one last time,” Jacquie said tragically, and I supposed there was some truth to that, so I managed to keep from rolling my eyes in spite of the drama.
“Miss Demetros,” Mendoza said, pulling her attention back on himself. “When Nick didn’t answer, did you go to his home last night? Or anywhere else?”
She looked up sharply, and I saw the moment comprehension dawned. “No. I stayed here. All night.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“No. I was alone.” She had straightened slightly, and some of the grief was giving way to something harder. “Wait. You think I—you think someone killed Nick? You think I did?”
“I’m not saying that,” Mendoza said. “I’m not saying anything. I’m just trying to establish everyone’s whereabouts for last night.”
“I didn’t kill him!” Her voice rose, shrill and panicked. “Why would I kill him? I loved him!”
“You hired Mrs. Kelly to follow him,” Mendoza pointed out.
“So what? That doesn’t mean I’d—” She turned to me, her eyes wide and wet. “Tell him, Gina. Tell him I didn’t do this.”
I hesitated. “Detective Mendoza is just doing his job, Jacquie. He has to ask.”
“But you know I didn’t do it! You’ve been watching him for days. Did you see me anywhere near his house? Did you see me do anything?”
“No,” I admitted. “I didn’t.”
“There. See?” She looked back at Mendoza. “I didn’t do anything. I’ve been here, waiting for her—” she indicated me, “—to tell me whether Nick was cheating on me, and now—” Her voice cracked. “Now he’s dead, and I’ll never know.”
Mendoza’s expression didn’t change. “What can you tell me about Nick’s background? His family, his history? We came here because Mrs. Kelly felt she owed it to you to update you as her client, but if you’re not Mr. Costanza’s next of kin…”
She dabbed at her eyes with the now-sodden tissue. “His family’s dead. Or—I don’t know, actually. He grew up in foster care. He doesn’t like to talk about it, and I don’t want to pry.”
“So Costanza might not be his family name?” I shot in. “It might be the name of his foster family?”
She shook her head. “I think he was born with it. Or it’s what they called him when he was a baby. I don’t know. But he’s always been called that, I think.”
“What about his relationship with Sal Gomorra?” Mendoza wanted to know.
“Sal saved him.” Jacquie’s voice was fierce now, almost defensive.
“That’s what Nick said. He got in trouble when he was a teenager.
Stealing cars, joy riding. He could have ended up in jail, but Sal took him under his wing.
Said if he liked cars so much, he could learn to work on them.
Sal gave him a job and taught him a trade. Nick loved Sal like a father.”
“So you’d say they had a good relationship?”
“The best,” Jacquie nodded fervently. “Sal would never hurt Nick. If that’s what you’re thinking—”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Mendoza said, and while he left out the ‘yet,’ I could hear it in his voice. “I’m just gathering information.”
He asked a few more questions—about Nick’s other friends, his habits, whether he’d mentioned anyone bothering him or anything unusual happening recently.
Jacquie answered as best she could, but it was clear that she didn’t know much.
She brought up Megan, of course, and Mendoza took down the information with a straight face, but I don’t think I imagined the little curl of his lip.
When he brought up gambling, Jacquie gave him a blank face, so either she was a better actress than I gave her credit for, or Nick had kept her at arm’s length when it came to the darker corners of his life.
Finally, Mendoza closed his notebook. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Demetros. Someone will be in touch if we have more questions. And we’ll need you to come down to the station to give a formal statement.”
“When?” Her voice was small again.
“Monday would be fine. Ask for Lieutenant Copeland.”
“Not you?”
“Lieutenant Copeland is my boss,” Mendoza explained. “She’ll be handling Nick’s case.”
Jacquie nodded numbly. She looked like she was getting close to the end of her rope, and I shot a glance at Mendoza. He shot one back, and it looked like he was thinking the same thing.
“One more thing before we go,” he said. “We’ll be notifying Mr. Gomorra about Mr. Costanza’s death. Please don’t contact him before we do.”
Jacquie shook her head. She still looked numb.
Mendoza got to his feet. I did, too. The grief was thick enough to carve with a knife, but at the same time, I felt guilty for leaving like this. “Is there anyone I can contact for you?” I inquired. “Someone who can come sit with you, so you won’t be alone?”
She must have parents, maybe siblings. Certainly friends or coworkers.
For a second, I wasn’t even sure she heard me. Then, after the question had penetrated, she shook her head. “I’d rather be by myself.”
I looked down at her tear-stained face. Two months ago, I would have said something vicious.
Right now, it was hard to remember why I hated her.
Truth be told, once I got used to the situation, I was happier without David—cheating bastard that he’d been—and right now, she was just a grieving twenty-five-year-old who had lost someone she loved.
“Let me know if you need anything,” I told her, “or if there’s anything I can do.”
Mendoza gave me a flat look from across the room, but what else was I supposed to say? I couldn’t leave without saying anything.
We walked out and shut the door after ourselves, but he waited until we had rattled down the three flights of stairs and were outside the building before he spoke, and when he did, it wasn’t to chastise me about making promises I couldn’t keep.
“That was quite a performance,” he said instead, blandly.
I turned to look at him as we stepped onto the sidewalk and headed for the corner. “You think she was acting?”
He looked back. “I think she might have been. That wasn’t the same person who stood up at your husband’s funeral and pointed the finger at you.”
He pulled out his keys as we turned the corner, and jangled them back and forth.
No, it hadn’t been. Not even close. “Wouldn’t that mean that this is real grief,” I suggested, “and the funeral was just shock? And anger.”
And fear that the police would think she was responsible for David’s death, so she had to deflect the blame onto me.
“Just because she was performing at the funeral doesn’t mean she isn’t performing now,” Mendoza said. He keyed his doors open, but instead of getting in, he leaned that excellent posterior against the side of his Jeep and faced me. “All it means is that she’s a good performer.”
“Surely you jest.” The performance—and yes, it had been one—at David’s funeral had been high camp, from the veiled hat and black-rimmed handkerchief to being escorted out by the two best-looking men in the audience.