he’d finished the job. It was a hit, no doubt about it.”
“Did you give your statement?”
She nodded. “I told them what I saw.”
“And why you were there?” asked the detective, wondering how much damage control he was going to have to do with his superiors.
“More or less. I said it was for an interview, based on a correspondence I had received from Mrs. Fitore. In my capacity as a writer, of course.”
The detective smiled.
“Did you get a chance to talk to her? Did she say anything to you before she died?”
“She never had a chance.”
Lydia tried not to replay the moment in her mind over and over. But her brain was stuck in some sort of sick loop. Repeatedly, she saw Valentina lifted away by the Mercedes’s fender, heard the horrifying crack at impact, saw her lifeless eyes. But sitting there waiting for Jeffrey and the detective, she’d had a chance to consider a few other things, as well. Who suspected that Valentina had information she shouldn’t have, and how did that person know that Lydia would be there waiting to speak to her about it? How did Valentina afford to live in a neighborhood like that on a maid’s salary? And why wasn’t that a detail that seemed suspicious to Ignacio? Who was the young man driving the Porsche?
She looked over at the detective, who had his head down, one hand on his forehead, and was tapping his right index finger lightly on the table. He’s kept something from you, her inner voice warned as goose bumps raised on her arms. There’s another piece to the puzzle that he didn’t reveal.
She slid in closer to him. “I was thinking, Detective,” she said slowly, “that’s an awfully nice house for a maid. And another interesting thing I observed … I saw a young man leaving in a Boxster.”
The tapping finger stilled, but Detective Ignacio didn’t raise his eyes to hers.
“What’s going on, Detective? I get the sense that there’s more to Valentina Fitore than you let on.”
The detective looked a little embarrassed. She watched as a flush of red crept up from beneath his collar and painted his cheeks.
“Valentina lives with her daughter. Marianna is just a kid, like I told you. A sophomore in college this year,” he said, delaying what came next. “But Valentina’s brother, Sasa, spends a lot of time at the house. Sasa … he’s a real bad man in the Albanian Mafia. On a pretty high level, from what I understand. Anyway, that’s somebody else’s problem.”
“The feds?” asked Jeffrey.
“Yeah. And they’re pretty uptight about the whole thing. When this whole Tatiana thing came down, they more or less told us to back off the Fitores. They didn’t want us fucking up their investigation. I guess I was sort of hoping that maybe there wasn’t a connection between Sasa Fitore and Tatiana’s disappearance. I guess I was wrong.” He shook his head.
“That’s why you let Lydia go there alone? Because you knew you would get shit for going where you had been told to step off?” asked Jeffrey.
The detective looked down at the table. “I’m sorry, Lydia. I never imagined I was putting you in any danger. Not like that.”
“I know,” she said. She didn’t blame him for being desperate and taking his opportunity for a back door into the Fitore house. But Jeffrey did.
“I’d never even heard of the Albanian Mafia until all this came down,” he said, looking at Lydia but avoiding Jeffrey’s eyes. “Apparently, they flew onto the FBI’s radar in 1994. The feds call them YACS—Yugoslavians, Albanians, Croats, and Serbs, though they mostly consist of Albanians. They pulled a bunch of heists—ATMs, cell phones … small-time stuff but big money. They were superorganized, skilled paramilitary shit, planning for every contingency … even getting arrested. And when someone got caught, he never talked. Like I said, the American police and prison systems look like Club Med to some of these guys. The FBI spent years spinning
“Did you give your statement?”
She nodded. “I told them what I saw.”
“And why you were there?” asked the detective, wondering how much damage control he was going to have to do with his superiors.
“More or less. I said it was for an interview, based on a correspondence I had received from Mrs. Fitore. In my capacity as a writer, of course.”
The detective smiled.
“Did you get a chance to talk to her? Did she say anything to you before she died?”
“She never had a chance.”
Lydia tried not to replay the moment in her mind over and over. But her brain was stuck in some sort of sick loop. Repeatedly, she saw Valentina lifted away by the Mercedes’s fender, heard the horrifying crack at impact, saw her lifeless eyes. But sitting there waiting for Jeffrey and the detective, she’d had a chance to consider a few other things, as well. Who suspected that Valentina had information she shouldn’t have, and how did that person know that Lydia would be there waiting to speak to her about it? How did Valentina afford to live in a neighborhood like that on a maid’s salary? And why wasn’t that a detail that seemed suspicious to Ignacio? Who was the young man driving the Porsche?
She looked over at the detective, who had his head down, one hand on his forehead, and was tapping his right index finger lightly on the table. He’s kept something from you, her inner voice warned as goose bumps raised on her arms. There’s another piece to the puzzle that he didn’t reveal.
She slid in closer to him. “I was thinking, Detective,” she said slowly, “that’s an awfully nice house for a maid. And another interesting thing I observed … I saw a young man leaving in a Boxster.”
The tapping finger stilled, but Detective Ignacio didn’t raise his eyes to hers.
“What’s going on, Detective? I get the sense that there’s more to Valentina Fitore than you let on.”
The detective looked a little embarrassed. She watched as a flush of red crept up from beneath his collar and painted his cheeks.
“Valentina lives with her daughter. Marianna is just a kid, like I told you. A sophomore in college this year,” he said, delaying what came next. “But Valentina’s brother, Sasa, spends a lot of time at the house. Sasa … he’s a real bad man in the Albanian Mafia. On a pretty high level, from what I understand. Anyway, that’s somebody else’s problem.”
“The feds?” asked Jeffrey.
“Yeah. And they’re pretty uptight about the whole thing. When this whole Tatiana thing came down, they more or less told us to back off the Fitores. They didn’t want us fucking up their investigation. I guess I was sort of hoping that maybe there wasn’t a connection between Sasa Fitore and Tatiana’s disappearance. I guess I was wrong.” He shook his head.
“That’s why you let Lydia go there alone? Because you knew you would get shit for going where you had been told to step off?” asked Jeffrey.
The detective looked down at the table. “I’m sorry, Lydia. I never imagined I was putting you in any danger. Not like that.”
“I know,” she said. She didn’t blame him for being desperate and taking his opportunity for a back door into the Fitore house. But Jeffrey did.
“I’d never even heard of the Albanian Mafia until all this came down,” he said, looking at Lydia but avoiding Jeffrey’s eyes. “Apparently, they flew onto the FBI’s radar in 1994. The feds call them YACS—Yugoslavians, Albanians, Croats, and Serbs, though they mostly consist of Albanians. They pulled a bunch of heists—ATMs, cell phones … small-time stuff but big money. They were superorganized, skilled paramilitary shit, planning for every contingency … even getting arrested. And when someone got caught, he never talked. Like I said, the American police and prison systems look like Club Med to some of these guys. The FBI spent years spinning
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