Monster in His Eyes(53)

Sorry if I've worried you. I can be reached at the number below. Call me as soon as you can. I love you.

I stare at the number, the area code 201 striking me.

She's in New Jersey?

I reread the words a few times, going over the numbers in my mind. I  push my confusion aside, grateful to have something. I don't have any  answers, but at least she's okay. She's out there, and I have a way to  reach her.

I fold the letter up and stick it back in the envelope, shoving it in my  pocket. I make the trip back to Brooklyn and am approaching the front  door of the house when someone speaks. "Karissa Reed?"

I stall and turn around, eyes widening at the sound of my name on this  stranger's lips. He's nobody I've ever seen before, an older man with  graying hair, wearing an ill-fitting blue suit. Another younger man  lingers on the sidewalk, trying to act casual, his hands on his hips,  pushing his coat out of the way and exposing a shiny gold badge clipped  to his belt.

Police.

"Uh, yes," I say hesitantly, staring at the badge for a moment before turning to the one who addressed me. "Can I help you?"

"We're hoping so," he says. "We wanted to ask you a few questions."

"About?"

"About Daniel Santino."

My brow furrows. Professor Santino? "What about him?"

"Would you mind coming down to the station with us?" he asks, smiling  tersely. It doesn't escape my notice that he avoids answering my  question. "It'll only take a few minutes."

I glance between the two men and the car parked near them-clearly an unmarked police cruiser. "I don't know."

The second officer struts toward me, his expression hard. I watch enough  mindless television to know the good cop/bad cop act, and this one  obviously is the latter. "You can come with us now voluntarily or we can  pick you up later and take you downtown, whether you like it or not."

Frowning, I oblige, climbing into the backseat when the older officer  opens the door for me. He's kinder, trying to be friendly and chatting  as he drives toward the police station. Detective Jameson with the  Homicide Unit.

His partner, Detective Andrews, is clearly naturally an asshole. He sits in the passenger seat, silent, scowling.

When we arrive, I'm taken to a small drab room with nothing but a table  and some chairs, the walls slate gray, a sign on the door that says  'Interrogation'. I nervously sit down in a chair with the men across  from me. They offer me something to drink, but I'm too anxious to accept  it.

Their questions seem simple on the surface: When's the last time you  spoke to Daniel Santino? What did you talk about? Why were you there?  They ask me again and again, the same tedious questions in a loop just  worded a little differently each time, as if they expect to trip me up  and get another response eventually.

I was the last person seen with him.

His estimated time of death coincided with my visit.

"Wait, you don't think …  I mean, you seriously don't think I had something to do with this, right?"

Both men just stare at me.

"He was alive when I left him," I say, in utter shock that they're  insinuating I could be involved. "I would never hurt someone, much less  kill them. I wouldn't... I couldn't. Check the security cameras. You'll  see!"

"The cameras in that building weren't recording," Detective Andrews  says. "They recycle on a 24 hour loop. By the time he was discovered,  the footage was erased."

"Well, I swear he was alive. He was! I would never do something like that. I'm not that kind of person!"

"I believe you," Detective Jameson says. "We're just trying to lock down a timeline of that afternoon."

He sounds genuine, but his words are at odds with Detective Andrews's  attitude. He's treating me like a flat out criminal. His expression is  hardened, his voice icy when he chimes in. "How long have you been  involved with Ignazio Vitale?"

Naz's name catches me off guard. "Excuse me?"

"Ignazio Vitale," he says. "How long have the two of you-?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business," I say, slipping my hands  from the table onto my lap when the man's attention shifts to the ring  on my finger.

"You're aware of his reputation, I presume? It's not a far stretch to think-"

"Naz is a good man," I say defensively, cutting him off. "He has nothing to do with any of this."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Of course," I say. "I don't care what reputation you think he has. He's  done nothing wrong, and neither have I …  I didn't do anything. I just  went to talk to him about my grade, and then I left, and he was still  alive."                       
       
           



       

"And where was Ignazio at that time?"

My brow furrows. Before I can respond, the door to the interrogation  room opens, another man poking his head in. Clearly their superior,  based upon the way both men straighten their backs, giving him their  undivided attention. He struts in, eyes skimming me, as he shakes his  head. "You're free to go, Miss Reed."

Detective Andrews shakes his head in disagreement. "We still have a few more questions."

"Tough," the man says. "She's lawyered up."

My eyes widen. I did what?

Detective Andrews is just as surprised, turning to me. "I didn't hear you ask for a lawyer."

I didn't know I needed one.

Detective Jameson, on the other hand, stands and gathers his things. He  pulls out a business card, slipping it across the table with a smile.  "If you ever want to talk, my door is always open."

He walks out, past his superior. I stand, rubbing my sweaty palms on the  legs of my jeans and slip the business card in my pocket with my  mother's letter as I look between the men. "So I can go?"

"Of course," the man says, nodding tersely. "Thank you for coming in."

"Sure," I mumble, my head down as I bolt out of the interrogation room. I  hear the officers whispering behind me, their conversation heated, as I  head into the lobby. Looking up, my footsteps stall when I come  face-to-face with the last person I expected to be standing here. "Naz."

The corner of his lip twitches. "You okay, jailbird?"

I nod.

"Good." All humor fades from his expression, eyes darkening with rage as  he turns his focus to the officers gathering behind me. His gaze shifts  between them, taking them in, the pure hostility wafting from him  enough to make the hairs on my arm stand on end. "If you gentlemen have  anything else, my attorney will be more than happy to field your  requests, which you're well aware of. It's why I pay him, after all."

"We had no questions for you," Detective Jameson says. "We just had a few for Miss Reed."

"Who is my fiancée, which you're also now aware of," Naz says. "Bullying  a young woman is quite unbecoming of you, Jameson. I thought your  mother would've taught you better than that."

Naz doesn't wait for the officer to respond. He motions with his head  for me to come with him. I step past, and he presses his hand to my  back, leading me out of the police station. His car waits by the curb  for us. I slide in nervously, sickness brewing in the pit of my stomach.

Naz pulls into traffic, heading toward Brooklyn, before he relaxes. He  slouches somewhat in the seat, letting out a deep sigh. I'm not sure if  it's relief I hear or if it's exasperation.

"How did you know I was there?" I ask quietly.

"An associate gave me a courtesy call when he saw you brought in. I got there as soon as I could."

"Thank you," I say. "I'm glad you showed up."

He looks at me. Reaching his hand out, he cups my cheek, stroking the skin with his thumb. "I'll always show up."

"You promise?"

"I swear it."





I'm sitting on the bed, the note from my mother sprawled out on my lap.  My gaze shifts through the numbers over and over, reciting them to  memory. I'm stalling, I know it, and maybe it's senseless, but I'm  almost afraid to call her.

She'll have questions.

Much the same ones I have for her.

What are you doing?

Where are you staying?

Why?

My answers are probably more scandalous than hers.

Sighing, I pull out my phone and dial the number, bringing it to my ear  as it rings. I wait, almost expecting some sort of answering machine to  greet me, when the line picks up. "Hello?"

This is not my mother. This voice is male, gruff with a thick sort of  accent. I sit in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say or how to  react, when he says it again, impatiently. "Hello?"

"I, uh …  can I speak with Carrie?"

"Who?"

My stomach drops as I glance down at the paper. I know I got the numbers right. "Carrie," I say. "Carrie Reed?"

"Ah, yeah, hold on." I hear shuffling, then his muffled voice rings out in the background. "Carmela! I think it's her!"