Chapter 22. Should I Be Paying Attention to the Lack of Footnotes?
“Why are we running?” Oliver asks me as we push deck chairs out of the way and follow after Mark through the pool area, Officer Rolle on our heels.
“Seemed like the thing to do?”
“Is Mark the murderer?” Connor asks, slightly out of breath.
Mark is younger than us and surprisingly spry for someone in a suit and dress shoes.
“He must be,” I say.
“Why?”
“We’ll find out when we catch him.”
We reach the edge of the pool and I stop, looking left, then right. “There!” I point as Officer Rolle sprints past me.
“Stay where you are!” he yells at us over his shoulder.
I look at Oliver, a bit red in the face. I guess none of us are that spry. “Are we listening?”
“Maybe we should just walk behind him?”
“Let’s circle around the other way so he can’t escape down the beach,” Connor says.
“That’s smart,” Oliver says.
I give him a look.
“What, it is.”
Connor breaks into a jog again, and Oliver and I follow after him. I’m wearing low heels that are starting to pinch my feet; not the best thing to try to run in, but if a couple of blisters means that this nightmare is over, it’s worth it.
We cut past the bar I was at with Vicki earlier and reach the sand.
I immediately start to sink into it. I kick off my shoes, and ah, that’s better.
But it’s dark out, darker down here without lights, the ocean a black shimmer to the right of me, the sand lightly golden under my feet.
The moon is rising in the sky, a full moon, beaming on us like a flashlight.
“There!” Connor says, pointing at two dark figures sprinting toward us.
Mark is in front, brandishing something that glints in the moonlight.
A knife.
“Careful!”
Connor and Oliver form a line, blocking his passage. But Mark either doesn’t see them or doesn’t care because he doesn’t slow down; he just puts his hands in front of him like a human missile and barrels right at Connor.
I scream as Connor ducks out of the way of the knife at the last minute.
Mark doesn’t get away, though, because in a move I can only describe as graceful, Connor sticks his leg out and trips Mark, sending Mark and the knife flying toward the sand. The force knocks Connor over, too, flipping him onto his back.
Mark scrambles to get up and retrieve his weapon, but Oliver and Officer Rolle tackle him and bring him to the ground as two other officers arrive on the scene.
It takes a minute or two to subdue him. He’s in his mid-twenties and strong.
Or maybe it’s just the fear. Whatever he’s running from.
From something or someone.
“A little help here,” Connor says from the sand.
“Oh, sorry.” I reach out my hand and he takes it. He almost pulls me over as I help him up, but eventually, he makes it into a standing position. I tug my hand away, wiping it on the side of my dress.
“Thanks,” Connor says in a tone that shows that he saw that.
Whatever. Connor doesn’t have real feelings.
I know that better than anyone.
“Might want to work on your ab strength,” I hear myself saying, “if you can’t get up by yourself anymore.”
Connor gives me one of his inscrutable looks. “So helpful as always, Eleanor.”
“You’re the one always asking for my help—no, I’m not doing this. Let’s find out what this is all about.”
Connor shrugs, and we turn back to Oliver, Officer Rolle, and the other police officers, who finally seem to have Mark under control, his arms behind his back, held together by zip ties.
One of the officers is holding the knife. It’s sharp and glints with menace.
That was too bloody close.
“Let me go!” Mark says, struggling side to side.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Knowles. Or should I say Giuseppe?”
Wait, what?69
“He’s a Giuseppe?”
“Yes, Marco Giuseppe.”
I look at Mark—Marco—whoever he is—as he stands there, still struggling in the arms of the two officers pinning him in place.
There were two boys in the Giuseppe family—Gianni, dead, and Marco, too young to think about ten years ago.
I never met him, but he has the same fair coloring as his mother and sisters.
He doesn’t look anything like his dead brother or his dead father.
They were both more stereotypically Italian—olive skin and dark hair.
But I’m feeling pretty stupid anyway.
“He’s the murderer?” I say to Officer Rolle.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Marco says. “They’re the killers.” He points at me, then Connor. “They’ve murdered half my family.”
I want to defend myself, but what can I say?
I did accidentally kill his mother when she was trying to murder me.
And his father did die in jail after we exposed him as a murderer.
And I guess Gianni maybe never would’ve died if Connor had simply refused to plan the heists that got him killed …
so yeah, we are connected to half his family dying.
The math is mathing.
But that doesn’t make us responsible. Correlation versus causation. Sometimes it’s both.
“Who killed Guy, then?” Oliver asks.
Marco’s eyes shift away. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Where’s Marta?” I ask.
He looks at me briefly, enough for the hatred to come to the surface, then get buried again. “I’m not talking to you. I’m not talking to anyone. I want a lawyer.”
“That sounds so innocent,” Connor says.
“I know my rights.”
“I thought you weren’t talking?” Oliver says.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Yes,” Officer Rolle says. “I am arresting you for fleeing from an officer. We will determine other charges in due course. You will be taken to the lockup, where you’ll be given a phone call to contact a lawyer.”
Marco lifts his chin. “Fine. Fine. I accept.”
My body floods with a sense of relief, and I almost want to laugh.
It’s a beautiful night. The sky is clear, a ribbon of stars across the inky black.
The moon is reflecting in the ocean, whose waves have quieted to ripples.
There are lights around the trunks of the palm trees that line the edge of the beach and the berm behind it.
If I were alone, I’d peel off my clothes and dive into the water and swim out to the island and just sit in the quiet.
It’s that kind of evening. But it’s also this kind of evening. The kind I can’t seem to escape.
So I don’t laugh. Instead, we all watch as the officers take Mark away. Officer Rolle doesn’t leave, though. He stays with us, and an ominous feeling comes over me.
I mean worse than before, which it seems is possible.
Fantastic.
“Did he do it?” I ask.
“I do not know yet. But the fact that he’s here…”
“It makes sense,” Oliver says. “If the family owns the business, they’d need someone to run it. And that must be why Marta chose this location. They thought it was a safe space. Until Guy reached out to Marta…”
“What if … they figured out why he was really coming here? So they decided to flip the script. And the conference…” I look at Connor. “They saw you coming from a mile away.”
“It was a stupid plan,” Oliver says.
“I say, at least we had a plan and—”
“Or wait,” I say. “What if Guy was working with them?”
Connor looks shaken, not stirred.70 “I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“You built a trap and fell into it.”
“Yes, thank you again, Eleanor.”
“Did Guy turn on them?” Oliver asks. “Is that why they killed him?”
“It makes sense.”
“And Inspector Tucci?”
I follow the trail of breadcrumbs. “He was nosing around. Investigating. Maybe he stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have. Or they didn’t want to wait to find out if he would. Maybe he recognized Marco.”
“Why wouldn’t he say anything?”
“Why did Inspector Tucci do any of the things he did? Maybe he was in on it, too. Maybe he was on the take.”
“Oh, you never said, Officer Rolle. How did he die?”
He clears his throat. “We do not know. He was in his bed. He looked asleep at first, but then, when we checked his pulse…”
“No way he died in his sleep,” Oliver says.
“I tend to agree with you. The most obvious cause would be poisoning.”
“Not another poisoning,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Because of the small groups … One is Gun, and Brian was shot. One is Poison, and Guy was poisoned. Marco just tried to use a knife on us … Inspector Tucci’s death should follow the pattern.” I think it over. “Rope or Heavy Object.”
“What are you talking about, Ms. Dash?”
I explain about the small groups. How we were divided into them.
“But what does that have to do with Inspector Tucci’s murder?” Connor asks.
“Maybe nothing. If he wasn’t part of the plan.”
“You think the Giuseppes were following a plan to kill you? That they always planned on killing five people?”
Do I have to tell you that Connor’s tone is sarcastic?
You’re picking that up from context, right?
Just checking.
“No, I guess that doesn’t make sense. Inspector Tucci must’ve learned something that set them off,” I say, looking at Connor pointedly.
“Not about me.” Connor puts his hands up.
“I find it interesting that you said anything.”
“This is ridiculous. I didn’t kill Tucci. Or any of them.”
“You simply set this whole plan in motion.”
Connor works his jaw. “I admit we didn’t think it through. I didn’t know about Marco. And I certainly shouldn’t have trusted Guy. But I’ve told you all that I know.”
“Marta has a motive to kill Inspector Tucci,” Oliver says. “He put her father and sister in jail.”
“And Marco could’ve done it, too, even though he denies it. How did you get into Inspector Tucci’s room?” I ask Officer Rolle. “With his master room key, right?”
“Yes.”
“Marco has access to everything. Our original room. Brian’s room, too.”
Oliver rubs at his chin. “But what about Brian? How does he fit into it?”
“I still think he’s connected to Guy.” I look at Connor. “Right?”
“I’ve already answered this question multiple times.”
“What do you think, Officer Rolle?” Oliver asks.
He’s been watching us, silent. “Is this what you always do?”
“What’s that?”
“Throw out theories until something sticks?”
“Pretty much,” I say. “You don’t do that?”