3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Lorenzo
Donna Costa does not react the way most people would when I say it.
There is no startled breath. No immediate sympathy. No shift in her posture that tells me she has already decided whether my son is guilty.
She simply studies me.
Her eyes are blue, sharp without being cold, and far more experienced than the rest of her suggests.
She is young. Julian told me that much, but knowing it and seeing it are different things.
Twenty-five should look too young to sit behind a desk and decide whether to involve herself in a murder investigation.
Donna does not.
She wears jeans and a plain shirt, her blonde hair pulled back without much effort.
There is nothing polished about the office or the woman in it, but I do not mistake casual for careless.
She noticed me checking the room. She noticed where my hand went when I reached for my card.
She has been assessing me since I stepped through the doorway.
The German shepherd standing between us has been doing the same.
Mocha does not growl or bare his teeth. He does not need to. His body is still, his attention fixed on me beneath the dark blue working vest. Donna keeps one hand near the side of his neck, though I am beginning to suspect the gesture is for my benefit rather than his.
“Arrested?” she asks.
“Last night.”
“Since Julian is the one who referred you, I assume he's been released.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze does not leave mine. “Has he been charged?”
“No.”
She leans back slightly in her chair and folds one leg over the other.
“What do the police have?”
“Hotel footage showing my son with the victim. More footage that shows him leaving after the estimated time of death.”
She studies me for a moment. “Well, Mr. Conti, if your son left the hotel after the woman was murdered, chances are pretty good that he's the one who did it.”
She's testing me. I know she is.
I don't rise to the bait.
“The footage has been doctored. The timestamps were faked.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He is my son,” I say. The urge not to rise to the bait is getting harder.
“That evidence is inadmissible in court,” she says calmly. “What was the estimated time of death? What time does the footage show him leaving?”
“The estimated time of death is between 12:30 and 1:00. The hotel footage shows him leaving at 1:30,” I say. “He left shortly after midnight.”
Her fingers tap once against Mocha’s neck.
“So the altered timestamp puts him there exactly when the police need him to be.”
“Yes.”
“And you have something that supports his version?”
“Security footage from the house showing he was home before 1:00, plus his personal security’s statement. And the word of his brother.”
“That’s an alibi by his brother, security paid by your family, and footage controlled by your family.”
“Yes.” I hold her gaze. “That does not make it false.”
“No,” she says. “It makes it easy to attack.”
I look at the open boxes stacked around the office, the temporary sign taped to the window, the single lamp near the desk. Julian sent me to a private investigator who has not officially opened her doors, and within five minutes she has reached the same conclusion he did.
That is either reassuring or irritating.
Both, I decide.
Donna glances down at the business card I placed on her desk.
“So you think he's being set up?”
Another conclusion she's come to without my having to spell it out.
Julian was right to send me to her.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because of his name.”
Donna studies me for a long moment.
“That's not a reason.”
Maybe I was wrong about her being the right person.
She continues, “His name makes him believable as the killer. His name puts him in the line of fire for something like this to happen, I suppose. I don't discount that. But what’s the motive? Why him? Why now?”
I consider her again.
“That is what I do not know.” It kills me as his father not to be able to answer questions like that.
“So what do you know?”
I sit back in the chair.
“I know my son did not kill that woman.”
Donna rests her forearm on the desk. “You believe him.”
“I know him.”
“That was not my question.”
I hold her gaze.
Most people soften when they realize who they are speaking to. Some become overly respectful. Others become defensive before I have said anything at all.
Donna does none of those.
“I believe him,” I say.
She nods once, as though the distinction matters.
“What was the victim’s name?”
“Genevieve Sorel.”
“And your son?”
“Alessio.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-four.”
“How did he know her?”
“He met her for the first time at a club last night.”
Donna is quiet for a moment.
“Tell me about your son. Does he have anger issues?”
“Far from it.”
She waits for more.
“Alessio is easygoing. Charming. He likes people, and people usually like him.”
“Any history of violence?”
I don’t answer right away. She meets my eyes.
“Not of the personal variety,” I respond.
She says nothing to that and just continues her questioning.
“Jealousy? Possessiveness?”
“No.”
“Has a woman ever accused him of frightening her, hurting her?”
My answer comes without hesitation. “Never.”
Donna watches me closely, looking for the pause that does not come.
“He enjoys women,” I say. “He does not hurt them. In fact, he is angry at himself for leaving her there alone.”
“What exactly did Julian tell you about me?”
“That you were good and discreet.”
The answer seems to be good enough.
I wonder briefly about the familiarity between Donna and Julian.
There is something in the way she says his name. That familiarity, certainly. Perhaps irritation. Whatever exists between them, it is more than a professional recommendation.
Julian wouldn’t have sent me to her if he didn’t trust her.
Donna reaches for a legal pad from the open box beside her desk, pulls off the plastic wrapping, and places it in front of her.
“You have the footage?”
“Julian has a copy of the hotel recording. We have the footage from the house.”
“Autopsy?”
“Preliminary estimate only.”
“Witnesses?”
“Nothing useful yet.”
She uncaps a pen.
The movement is ordinary, but it changes things. A moment ago, she was deciding whether to hear me out. Now she is preparing to work.
“Tell me everything from the beginning,” she says.
I look at the unfinished office again.
The crooked sign. The boxes. The dog standing guard beside her. The coffee cooling near her laptop.
Julian could have sent me to investigators with larger offices, established firms, full staffs, and names that appear regularly in court filings.
He sent me here.
I am beginning to understand why.
“My son met Genevieve at a club,” I say. “They left together and went to the Halston Hotel.”