Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Natalia
I ask my supervisor if I can take an hour break if I stay an extra hour.
“I have some personal business I have to attend to,” I say and make a cringe face, hoping she sees my discomfort. “It has to do with my in-laws…” I roll my eyes and she nods in understanding.
“I get it,” she says. “Go ahead. Take what time you need. You can make it up when you can.”
“Thanks, Christina,” I say and squeeze her arm. “I really appreciate it. I know I’ve been given a lot of leeway lately, considering my family stuff, so thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” she says and shakes her head. “I’m just glad I’m not you. Go. Do your family stuff. Come back when you’re done. Everything will still be here waiting.”
I smile back and exhale with relief.
I have a plan.
I'm going to the nursing home where Deluca is staying. I don't know what he'll have to say, but at least I can see him in person. If he's in a nursing home, there must be something wrong with him. Did someone take care of him so to speak without killing him? That's what I want to know.
I take the driver that Harrison has insisted I use and give him the address of the nursing home in the Bronx.
"Sure thing Mrs. O’Connor,” he says.
Mrs. O'Connor…that sounds so strange to me.
I didn't actually take Harrison’s last name.
I figure my own name is important enough to keep.
We discussed it briefly before we signed the marriage certificate, and while Harrison wanted me to take his last name, I laughed and said neither of our last names are clean.
We probably should make up a new last name instead.
He understood.
We drive through Manhattan towards the Bronx, and I wonder what I'll find when I get there.
I researched Deluca and saw a photo of him on the FBI website after he received some recommendation.
From what I saw, he had dark hair, dark eyes and a round face.
The recommendation he received was from over a decade earlier, so for all I know, he could be gray.
We finally arrive, and my driver parks the car in the parking lot for visitors, and I get out.
"I won't be long,” I say as I lean into the passenger window. "Probably less than an hour."
"Sure thing, Mrs. O'Connor,” he says. He pulls out a newspaper and starts to read it, used to having to wait on his employer.
I go into the front entrance of the nursing home, wondering what I'm going to find. It's pretty nice from the outside, well maintained exterior and shrubbery. I approach the front desk and ask if Mr. Deluca is present.
"I'd like to talk to him about his past work with the FBI," I say. “I’m a journalism student, and I'm interested in law enforcement, specifically the FBI."
The nurse behind the front desk glances at a screen and nods. “He’s in room 213."
"Is he OK to have visitors?" I ask, surprised that she's letting me just go up to his room. “I mean, is he mentally okay? I wasn't sure when I decided to come and speak to him."
She smiles. “Well,” she says and raises her eyebrows. “I don't know if he's all there, so to speak, but there are no restrictions on his visitors, so just be aware he might be a little confused."
I take the elevator to the second floor and find room 213.
It's a single room, and sitting in a chair by the window is a man who looks very much like the Deluca I saw in the news releases.
His hair is greyer now, and he looks like he's in his fifties at most. Too young to be retired, so I expect there's something mentally wrong with him.
Maybe he has early-onset dementia or some other mental issue.
I take out my cell and turn on the record button, so I can record our conversation.
I knock on the door and enter the room.
"Mr. Deluca?" I say and take a step inside. “May I come in and speak with you?"
He looks back at me blankly and says nothing for a moment. It's then I worry that maybe he really is demented and will be of no use to me. But after a moment, he nods.
"Who are you?” he asks, his voice cautious. "What do you want?"
I close the door behind me and go and sit on the other side of the small table. I open my bag and take out a picture of my stepfather and mother and place it on the table.
When he sees the photo, he recognizes who they are, and his face actually blanches. He glances up at me quickly, his mouth open.
“Who are you? Are you from the FBI? If you are, I was told everything was taken care of."
That feels like a knife to the gut…
Why would the FBI take care of everything? It's then that I realize there's much more to the story than I knew.
"Those are my parents," I say and touch my mother's image. “That’s my mother. That's my stepfather. They died in a car crash five years ago."
He covers his eyes, and I hear a sob come from behind his hand. “I’m so sorry."
He's saying he's so sorry? Sorry for what? Is he actually confessing to me?
“What are you sorry for?"
He removes his hand from his face. “For what happened," he says simply.
“I had no idea. No idea," he repeats with emphasis.
“I only did what I was told by my supervisor.
I thought it was to get new vehicles for the field office.
Management has been repairing the vehicles for so long and has refused to get new models.
I thought I was doing something good. That they would point to the leaky brake line and say it was a problem and that they needed new vehicles. I never thought…"
"So, you're telling me that you knowingly broke the brake line in my stepfather's vehicle but had no idea he would actually drive it?"
“No, no, no,” he says emphatically. “I would never be part of anything like that. I thought…” he says, his voice breaking. “I thought they would show the manager this defective brake line and would impound the vehicle. I didn't think your stepfather would actually drive it out of the garage."
I take a deep breath. It's starting to come to me what happened. Deluca was told to tear the brake line to convince management to get new vehicles, not as part of a plot to kill my stepfather and mother. He thought he was doing something good. He had no idea.
He cries in front of me like a baby. He actually sobs out loud.
“When I found out? When I heard about the accident?
I knew what happened. I knew they used me.
I went straight to management, and they took me aside and said that it was all taken care of.
Not to worry. But that's easy to say when you had no hand in it.
I was the one who tore the brake line, but I thought I was doing it for a good cause. I would never have never never never."
He cries some more, and I hand him a tissue from a box on the chest of drawers next to the bed. I actually feel sorry for the man. He's truly broken up about it. When he did what he did, it wasn't to kill anyone, but to procure better vehicles for the FBI.
He's no longer the enemy. But what I really want to know is who he talked to and who in management said not to worry and that it was all ‘taken care of.’”
"Can I ask who you talked to in management?"
He looks up at me and wipes his eyes. "I don't know…" he says with hesitation. “I don't wanna get into any more trouble than I already am. I'm in here because it was either here or jail."
I frown. “You’re in a nursing home instead of going to jail? Was that the price of your silence?"
"Yes," he says, nodding like it's a good thing.
“Yes, instead of going to jail for my part in this, even though I didn't know what was happening, I would go into a nursing home. I could still get charged with damaging one of the Bureau’s vehicles even if I wasn’t charged with murder.
When it all blows over, and management thinks I'm in the clear, they'll get me out of here, but until then, there's a hold on me, a psychiatric hold.
They say I have dementia, and then I don't know what I'm talking about.
That I make up stories, and that I'm a danger to myself. "
I see his wrists, and there are cut marks on both of them. “Did you try to take your own life?”
He nods and examines them. “Yes. Yes, I did.
I couldn't live with myself at first. Being in here," he says and glances around.
“It's almost like a jail, only slightly better, but the way I'm treated?
Like some old, demented man? It's almost worse than being in jail, I imagine.
I'm just waiting until they figure it's safe for me to leave. Then I’m done and have my pension, as long as I stay put and follow orders.”
I wonder if the FBI is trying to protect their own management from any taint in case there ever was a real case opened into my parents’ deaths.
“Who ordered you to tamper with the brake line in my stepfather’s vehicle?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t know it was your stepfather’s vehicle, like I say. It was just a vehicle. I was told… Giordano told Rossi to do it. He said…”
He sobs again, and I can see he’s really, truly broken up over his role in their deaths.
“Who’s Rossi? Is that your supervisor?”
He nods. “I was only doing what I was told. I was told it would be better for the officers to have new vehicles.”
So now I have confirmation it was Giordano who was involved. Giordano ordered Deluca’s supervisor, someone named Rossi.
How many of them are involved? Are either of them tied to the Marinos?
I sit with Deluca for a while longer but then check my cell and see I’ve been gone for almost three-quarters of an hour.
“I have to get back to work, but thank you so much for talking to me,” I say. “It’s been a real comfort to know that you didn’t intend to kill my parents. It was just a big mix-up.”
He nods, his face a bit brighter, like he wants to believe that lie as well.
“Don’t tell anyone I spoke with you,” he says. “I’m not supposed to, but when I saw who you were…”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I say and feel bad that I’m lying, but at that point, I don’t really care. I just want to get back to work and then talk with Harrison about what I should do.
I get up and open the door, turning once more to Mr. Deluca. “I hope you’re out of here soon. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” he says. “And please. Know that I never meant for it to happen. None of us did. It was purely an accident that your stepfather took the car. It was supposed to stay in the garage.”
I nod and force a smile, although I know damn well that he’s wrong, but I don’t want the poor man to suffer any more than he has already.
I leave the nursing home and get into the waiting limo. I tell the driver to take me back to work and watch the scenery as we drive back to the hospital in Manhattan, my mind whirling at everything Deluca told me.
Poor man. It was Giordano who ordered Rossi to have Deluca tamper with the brakes. Giordano and Rossi — were they both part of the conspiracy? Or just Giordano?
I need to speak with Harrison about this. He’ll have ways of finding out more intel on Rossi and Deluca so I can know if the story he told is true.
I rub my belly and think about the tiny embryo inside.
What kind of world are Harrison and I bringing this baby into?
I spend the rest of the day at work, trying to catch up and stay an extra hour, like my supervisor said, to make up the time I was away.
Then, I take the limo home, and after I thank the driver, I take the elevator to our apartment. When the door opens, I see Harrison is sitting at the kitchen island, his cell is in his hand, and an expression of concern on his face.
“There you are,” he says and comes to me as I remove my coat and shoes. “I texted you, but you didn’t answer.”
I check my cell and see that it’s died. “Ran out of juice. Sorry.”
We embrace, and I let him hug me close for a long moment. It feels so good to be in his big, strong arms. I glance up, and when I do, he kisses me. We kiss deeply, and then he picks me up. “Do you have enough juice for me?”
I smile. “Try me,” I say, needing the pure pleasure of release to forget about my day.