Page 77 of Tormented Diamonds
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Why would I?”
Ah, the good old “answering a question with a question” routine. I don’t want to laugh in his face, but using Socratic questioning to intimidate a psychiatrist is like trying to drown a fish in a pond.
“I don’t know,” I say, dragging the crisp playing card from my pocket and flipping it between my fingers. “Ever have your whole family murdered? It makes you somewhat jumpy.”
“That’s a rather blasé attitude to take about your father’s death.”
I shrug. “What reaction fits the box you’d most prefer me in, Detective?”
“Actually, it’s Agent,” he says coolly. “Special Agent Lattimore, to be exact.” He gestures to his rounder, less congenial counterpart. “And this is Special Agent Gibbs.”
My stomach lurches.Shit. I know those names.Gianni was right. This was a trap.
Swallowing, I give them a deadpan look I pray doesn’t give away my bubbling panic. “I came here to give astatement about my father’s murder, not to be ambushed by two federal agents with a vendetta.”
Agent Gibbs jabs a finger across the table. “Listen, you?—”
“So, in the spirit of one of us sticking to our word, here it is… My father came to visit me four days ago. We went to dinner, then parted ways. The next thing I know, I’m getting a call from Bushkill PD informing me he’s dead. End of quote.”
The room falls silent. If these two idiots weren’t so manipulative, I might feel a twinge of guilt at using reverse psychology against them. However, considering how badly they fumbled Gianni’s case, it’s satisfying to watch the upper hand slide off their fingers.
Agent Lattimore clears his throat. “That’s forthcoming.”
“Yeah, well, somebody has to do your job.”
Agent Gibbs opens his mouth to hurl another round of insults when his partner cuts him off. “You appear to be picking up a few of your husband’s bad habits,” Lattimore mutters, his attention no longer on my face. “Although,that’sone I’d advise against.”
I glance down to the card trapped between my thumb and forefinger. In the dark time between searching for my father’s murderer and becoming one, something shifted in me. I sat on that window seat staring at the ace of spades, searching for the strength it used to give me. But the harder I stared, the more it felt like I was holding on to a life that was no longer mine. So I lit a match and watched it burn, then replaced it with a new identity…
The queen of hearts.
“It’s not a habit, Agent. It’s a warning.”
“Of what?”
“That one bent card can bring down the whole house.”
“Strange choice of words.” He opens the folder in front of him and spins it around. “Consideringa playing card was found at the scene of your father’s murder.” My gaze falls to the crime scene photo of the charred land where a quaint log cabin once stood. On the other side, lies a zoomed-in close up of what appears to be the remnants of an ace of spades. “Don’t tell us you didn’t know.”
The card stills between my index and middle fingers, my nervous laughter cut short when he arches an eyebrow. “Do you really think he’d be that obtuse?”
Gibbs takes over with a shrug. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“We both know that’s not true. The cards left at the Providence crime scenes were all planted by men who worked for his father.” I offer a brittle smile. “Coincidentally, one of those traitorous men carried a government badge. Seems to me an FBI agent is the last person who should throw moral stones.”
I don’t back down from their glares. This isn’t about right and wrong or law and order. It’s about pride. They’re desperate to keep their foot on Gianni’s neck because he made them look like incompetent fools.
“If you want to protect your murderous husband, then fine. You leave us no choice.” Gibbs leaps to his feet and snatches the folder, the lines around his mouth sinking deeper the more papers he flips. Finally, he turns it around and slams it onto the table. “Recognize this?”
I cast a cautious glance at the folder. “So?”
“So?” he repeats, his temper beginning to crack. “This is a CCTV-captured photo of you and George Reese walking intoCucciola’s Trattoriain Hackensack.” He pushes the photo to the side, revealing a second one. “And this is you and Leo Castellini leaving the same restaurant fifty-one minutes later.”
“Which is exactly what I told you happened. I’m not sure what this is supposed?—”
“Less than twenty-four hours later, both men are dead, and you’re in the hospital. That makes you the lastperson to see either of them alive.”
