Chapter 15 #2
Not that his condo isn’t nice. It is. It’s a heck of a lot nicer than my crummy place in Hoboken. A little cold and plain, but nothing some plants and colorful paintings and some actual carpets wouldn’t fix.
Have I imagined how I’d decorate this place if I lived here? Maybe. But doesn’t every woman do that once she’s spent enough time at her boyfriend’s bachelor pad? A very expensive bachelor pad, but a bachelor pad nonetheless.
The word boyfriend gives me pause.
Is Nico my boyfriend again?
It’s still early days, but it feels like he is.
A light rap on the halfway-ajar bedroom door makes me jolt. Looking up, I find Knight standing in the doorway, an apologetic expression on his face. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wondered if you need anything. Jester was going to make some sandwiches, if you’re hungry.”
I shake my head. “No, that’s okay.” As if I could eat when Nico’s out there, tracking down a suspected killer who may have tried to kill me.
Knight leans against the door jamb. “He’s fine, Sofia. This is nothing for Nico. Not compared to—” He stops. His lips thin. “Well. Anyway. He can handle it. And he’s got Wraith with him, too. So there’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”
How can you promise that? I want to demand. You don’t know. You’re not there.
But I remind myself that Knight and Nico are best friends. They served on the same team together for over four years. If anyone would know what Nico’s capable of, it would be Knight.
Still. I don’t feel better. I won’t feel better until Nico’s back, safe and sound.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I lie. “And thanks for asking about food. But I think I’ll wait to eat until Nico comes back.”
Knight regards me for a moment. Then he nods. “Okay. If you change your mind, or if you want to come into the living room to watch TV with us… Jester’s got some documentary about a poop cruise on, but I can make him change it.”
“A poop cruise?” I ask. “Is that some new thing I haven’t heard about?”
He laughs. “No. Apparently, it’s about some cruise ship that lost power, so the toilets didn’t work for four days. Not a great thing when you’re out at sea.”
I make a little face. “No, it doesn’t sound like it. But I think I’ll take a pass.” Tilting my chin at the top of the dresser, where my laptop is sitting, I add, “I think I’m going to look through some more files. Maybe I’ll find something useful.”
“Okay.” He smiles. “We’ll just be down the hall.”
Once he’s gone, I get up from the bed and go over to the dresser, then bring my laptop back over to it. I’m not feeling particularly optimistic about finding anything helpful, not when I’ve come up with a big fat zero so far. But I have to keep looking.
What if it has nothing to do with any of your cases, a new, worried voice inside me asks. What if I was targeted for some other unknown reason? Or what if it turns out it was Brian after all, like Nico suggested?
No. Brian wouldn’t. I’m sure of it. If it’s not related to one of my riskier cases, it’s something else. A stalker. A crazed serial killer. A case of mistaken identity.
Setting unwelcome thoughts about Brian to the side, I flip open my laptop and open the program that holds all my files. As I scan the little folders inside, looking at the names and dates for each case, I can’t help worrying about the state of my business.
Will I have a business to go back to once all this is over?
I started calling my active clients the other day to apologize for my lack of communication, explaining that I’d had an accident and was indisposed for several days because of it.
Which isn’t even a lie, really—I was hurt and indisposed, except the injuries were intentional.
In the messages and emails I left, I offered to refer them to other private investigation agencies, since I don’t know when I’ll be able to go back to work.
I hate it, watching all my hard work essentially get flushed down the toilet, but what other option do I have?
I don’t know when this will be over, and I can’t leave my clients hanging indefinitely.
Sighing at the thought of it, I click over to my emails. As I read through my new messages, I find two from clients accepting my offer for a referral. I send them both a list of PIs I’ve worked with in the past and wish them the best. Then I sigh again.
I know it’s not my fault. But it still sucks.
Then I move on to the third client who responded.
Her name is Emily Weaver, and her case was one of my most recent ones, so I don’t recall much about it aside from meeting her.
I remember going to her house—a well-kept Colonial in Jersey City, near Lincoln Park—on the last day I remember before the attack.
She was convinced her ex husband had gotten into her house and stolen several pieces of expensive jewelry. “He took everything else in the divorce,” Emily told me tearfully. “But the jewelry was my mother’s. He couldn’t take that, too. And I know he was angry about it.”
But Emily couldn’t prove her ex had done anything wrong.
Her security system was excellent, and it hadn’t shown any sign of a break-in.
“I changed the codes on the smart locks and the alarm keypad,” Emily explained, “and he doesn’t have them.
So he couldn’t have gotten inside. But the jewelry is gone.
No one else has been here. I didn’t sell it, so I know he must have taken it. I just don’t know how.”
When she went to the police, they looked at the lack of evidence and brushed her off.
One of the officers even accused her of lying to get her ex in trouble.
“He insinuated that I sold it,” Emily recalled.
“And that what I was doing was fraud. That I could get in real trouble if I kept up with my story. But it’s not a story.
It’s real. I wouldn’t have sold my mother’s jewelry. Ever.”
Obviously, her case struck a chord with me. So I agreed to take it, even though she couldn’t afford to pay the full retainer. “Pay what you can,” I told her. “And I’ll do my best to find out the truth.”
In contrast to my other emails, Emily doesn’t want a referral. She wants to wait until I feel better.
You believed me, she wrote. You didn’t make me feel like a crazy person or a fraud. Take care of yourself, and let me know when you’re feeling better.
My eyes sting a little while I read her email. Maybe I’m not doing important things like working for the FBI or serving in the Army, but I try to help people, just the same.
After I send Emily a quick reply, agreeing to stay in touch and let her know as soon as I can pick up with her case again, I click back over to my case files.
And hers is the first one I open. Not because I think she’s the one responsible for me being attacked, but because it feels like something positive I can work on.
As I read through her file, I contemplate asking Nico to help. He wouldn’t mind, and I know he has so many more resources than me. And with his computer skills, he might be able to find something I didn’t.
Halfway through her files, something jumps out at me.
Her security system was installed by Parisi Protective Services, which is Nico’s dad’s company.
It’s not surprising, when I think about it—Elio Parisi has been installing home security systems in the metropolitan area for decades.
But it’s an odd coincidence, just the same.
But there’s nothing else odd about Emily’s case, except her claim. I can almost understand why a harried police officer would look at the evidence and send her away.
Except I don’t think she was lying. And I saw her tears when she talked about her mother’s jewelry. She didn’t sell it. I’m certain.
At the end of the file, I find several phone numbers in the miscellaneous notes section, but no other details. Rather than call them, I look them up with a reverse phone number finder and jot down the names.
Do I think this will help me find my attackers? Not really. But it’ll take my mind off worrying about Nico. And it makes me feel useful again.
I plug the names into the website I use for background checks and sit back while I wait for the results.
While I watch the little loading bar chug along on the screen, I think about Elio Parisi’s company again.
It’s ironic, really—he’s supposed to help keep people’s belongings safe, but in reality, he’s a liar and a thief.
A ding comes from my laptop, announcing the results are complete.
As I scan the first of the reports, my attention sticks on something.
This person, a woman named Rachel Endicott from Tribeca, is also divorced.
Which wouldn’t be a notable thing on its own, but she also filed a police report about a theft from her house.
I lean closer to read the rest of the details.
Six months ago, Rachel claimed her coin collection worth tens of thousands mysteriously disappeared from her house.
Like Emily, her claims were summarily dismissed due to lack of evidence.
No one had broken into her house and her security system never signaled an intruder.
So the conclusion from the police is that she’d either sold it or one of her friends had taken it.
Something niggles at me. A hunch? A forgotten memory?
Moving on to the next report, my pulse speeds as I read something eerily similar. Another woman, divorced, with an unexplained theft from her house. Another claim that was dismissed by the police for lack of evidence.
The fourth report is more of the same. Except this woman’s house was vandalized, too. All her expensive paintings were shredded to pieces, and she’d been accused of doing it herself.
Once I’m done reading, I sit back, my heart racing.
While I initially thought Emily’s case meant nothing, now I’m not as sure.
I can feel the memory, right there. It’s so close, I can almost reach out and grab it.
Four cases. All strangely similar. All in the New York metropolitan area.