Chapter 18
Detective Yankovic sits across from me, jacket off now, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s got a legal pad he hasn’t written on yet. A power move. Make the suspect fill the silence. But I don’t.
“How long was it since you last saw Ivory Cobb?” he begins our interview with.
“Three days ago,” I answer with ease. “At her house.”
His pen moves with a light scratching. “Why were you there?”
I watch the clock on the wall tick like it’s counting down to my doom. “I stopped by to tell her something she deserved to hear.”
“And that was what?”
My brain grabs on to an image of Fred—sweaty, guilty, stammering—and the woman at the waterfall. “That I saw her husband cheating on her.”
Yankovic’s eyebrows lift, just a fraction. I caught his interest. “You just drop by a friend’s house to tell her that kind of news?”
“I do when the alternative is letting her live a lie,” I say. “Ivory hates liars.” And cheaters.
“Did she believe you?”
I shrug. “I think so.”
“How did she react?”
The room hums as the heat kicks on. I have to think before I answer. “Calmer than I expected, which scared me a little.”
“Did she say anything about leaving? About being afraid of Fred or his alleged mistress?” He taps the pen on his bearded chin, filing that away.
“No.” Then his question strikes me as odd. “Why did you say alleged mistress? Did you ask Fred about it? Because when a spouse goes missing, a lot of times someone hasn’t been faithful in the relationship.”
The detective grins. “Yes, MacGyver, we asked Fred if he or his wife had been unfaithful in the marriage. He claimed he hasn’t been, and his cell phone records and friends that we interviewed all seem corroborate that.
No unknown calls or texts, and his time is all accounted for.
From what his friends and daughter tell me, Fred was a strict nine-to-five employee who spent every other minute with his wife and kid. ”
“You don’t think Fred could have had a burner phone and might be lying to cover it up? I mean, why would anyone with something to hide be honest with the cops?”
He leans forward and peers at me with a curiosity that makes me feel like I’m the one who cheated. “That’s a very good question, Ms. Catalano. Do you have something to hide?”
“No.” Except I do—Ivory’s texts. If I want to prove he can trust me, I need to show him my hand. “Can you look at something?” I take out my phone and open the messages from Ivory, the first text and the follow-up beach photo. “Ivory texted me from her phone. But I don’t know if it was her.”
He studies my screen. “Yeah, we traced these messages already. They pinged off a tower near a beach resort, the same place her phone was last active. The photo even matches the resort, right down to the umbrellas. We checked. But we haven’t yet been able to confirm if it was her staying there.
They don’t have cameras, and the woman working the check-in desk that night has been unreachable so far. ”
I swallow hard. My stomach doesn’t believe it’s Ivory, even if the evidence does.
Detective Yankovic steeples his fingers. “When you told her about Fred, did you argue? Sometimes people get defensive when they don’t want to believe something.”
I lean back in the metal chair. It groans like it’s uncomfortable being associated with me. “Detective, I think I’d like to speak with my lawyer before we go any further.”
“You seem pretty well-versed in this whole interrogation process.”
The unspoken conclusion hangs between us like my mugshot. I feel my shoulders tense up, a reflex I thought I’d unlearned. Prison teaches you posture. And how to convert fear into anger.
“I watch a lot of crime shows,” I say lightly.
“Hm.” He folds his arms and leans back, broadcasting a nonchalance better than I do. “Most people don’t ask for a lawyer this early unless they’ve done this before.”
I need to give him a convincing enough answer to deter him from looking into me further. “I have a brother who’s proficient in petty crime. Shoplifting, unpaid parking tickets, that kind of stuff.”
That earns me a double-take. “And?”
“So I’ve had personal experience with this before.” From the way he chuckles, I think I’ve succeeded. “Speaking of my brother, he’s currently enjoying the hospitality of your fine facilities. Can you direct me to where I can bail him out once we’re done here?”
Yankovic exhales, something between a laugh and a sigh. “You really don’t miss a beat, do you?”
“I try not to. Silence has a way of filling itself in.”
He closes the legal pad. “You’re free to go, but we’re not done, Ms. Catalano.”
“I didn’t say we were,” I reply. “I only said I want my lawyer.”
Yankovic stands and I follow suit. “I’ll see what I can do about your brother.” He pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you hurt Mrs. Cobb.”
“Good, because I didn’t.”
Afterwards I’m led to the front desk where a stack of paperwork waits for me. The officer taps the top document like he’s proud of it.
“Your brother’s charge sheet,” he declares.
I scan it and read over the legal jargon, along with the bail bond agreement and receipt. Suspect information, arrest details, and charges. Under the additional notes the victim’s name stops me cold.
Victim: Marshall Szabo
Yesterday’s bruise-eyed, pride-trampled Marshall is not only trying to threaten my business by writing bad reviews about my company, but also showing up at my house drunk and uninvited in the middle of the night.
And now he’s pressing charges against my brother for assault.
This guy is the ultimate thorn in my side. But at least I now have his full name.
I look at the officer. “Did Marshall Szabo accuse my brother of hitting him?”
The officer taps the top page. “That’s what the report says. Your brother punched him in the face during a confrontation at Dirty Dan’s, but everyone’s fine. One black eye, one busted knuckle. Happens more often than you’d think.”
Oh, I believe it. Especially with Luca. By the time he emerges from the back—shoelaces returned, ego intact—his grin is so wide it must physically hurt.
“Shari!” he says, like he’s greeting me at an airport and not a holding cell.
“Why can’t you keep your hands to yourself? You got thrown in jail for punching a rich asshole with too much time on his hands and enough money to hire a lawyer.”
“Whatever.” He winces, flexing his bandaged hand. “I barely touched him.”
“Define barely.”
“I only hit him once! The rest was… gravity.”
“Unbelievable.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You know I can’t afford this.”
“I did it for you. You’re welcome,” he says sweetly.
“Also, we should really get a jailtime punch card. You know, like one of those buy ten sandwiches get one free things? Except it’s for getting processed.
‘Welcome back, Luca and Shari! You’ve earned a free coffee for serving time in the slammer! ’”
I stare.
He shrugs. “Hey, Mamma would be so proud.”
“Oh, she’d be thrilled,” I mutter. “And Dad would be rolling in his grave.”
“At least we kept the family tradition alive.” He pats my shoulder. “Some families pass down heirlooms, but we pass down arrest records. Let’s just hope Dad’s not watching from heaven aware of what you’re hiding in that room behind your bookshelf.”
I swivel toward him so fast my neck cracks. “What did you just say?”
“I found your secret, sis. But don’t worry, I’m not judging. Sorry if I knocked things over. It was dark and uh, well, I didn’t know what I was looking at until I ran into it.”
I’m about to tell him to shut up because he’s discussing this in a police station of all places.
Then Detective Yankovic walks by and I remember why I was brought here for something other than my brother’s latest disaster.
It’s not about me or Luca, but about finding Ivory. That needs to be my focus right now.
“Can we get food on the way home?” Luca asks as he hops down the steps toward the parking lot. “I fight better with carbs.”
“No.” Because my car is still sitting in front of the jewelry store probably getting towed. This means we can either hitch a ride with Detective Yankovic—no thanks—or pay money I don’t have for an Uber.
The Uber is five minutes away from home and Luca is regaling the driver with a story about last night’s bunkmate who got arrested for setting his mother’s curtains on fire while attempting to flame-throw a kitchen torch with his fart.
The idiotic story keeps getting drowned out by something tugging at the back of my mind.
A detail I shrugged off. Something that could maybe help the investigation. Then the thought clicks into place.
Oh no.
I need to show Detective Yankovic immediately.