Page 93 of Twice
“That’s a business?”
“I take pictures all over the world, Detective. I’ve published nine books. Done countless exhibits. I have two galleries,in New York and San Francisco. So yeah.” She sighed. “It’s a business.”
“Sorry—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“And your ex—”
“I made him a partner when we got married. Another mistake—on top of marrying him in the first place.”
LaPorta reached in his pants pocket but realized he’d left his Life Savers behind. He desperately wanted a cigarette. Coffee. A drink. Anything. He dropped into a chair and tried to sum up the facts.
“So you have a lousy ex, who blows money. You have an employee who has crazy fantasies about you. These two guys don’t like each other, but they’re at a roulette table together the other night. Alfie wins the money, even though he doesn’t need it, while your ex walks away with nothing. Then Alfie wires the money to you, and someplace in Africa. And when we arrest him, he says everything is explained in a notebook. How the hell does that make sense?”
“Africa?” Gianna said, leaning in. “Where in Africa?”
“Zimbabwe. Does that mean something to you?”
“No. I’ve never been there.”
She leaned back. “Look, Detective. Alfie needs our help.”
“Maybe. But first he’s gonna confess what he did, return that money, and face the charges.”
“He’s innocent,” Gianna said, staring at the notebook. “I know he is.”
She thumbed the pages, then slowly let them fall. LaPortawatched, trying to picture these two as soulmates, a happy couple, the way Alfie had described them.
“Can I ask you something?” LaPorta said.
“All right.”
“Did you ever love him?”
Gianna’s gaze drifted. “Not like that.”
“Well. He obviously loved you. Or still does.”
LaPorta rose.
“Where are you going?” Gianna asked.
“To find your ex. And everyone else around that roulette table.”
“Wait.” She put her hand on the notebook cover. “Don’t you think we should finish this?”
LaPorta couldn’t fathom the idea of reading any more fantasy.
“Knock yourself out,” he said. “But you’re still a suspect, Ms. Rule.” He nodded to the guard. “She doesn’t leave this room. Got it?”
The Composition Book
I’d never seen the movieAlfie, Boss. Not until recently. I guess I was so tired of people singing that song to me—What’s it all about, Alfie?—I never wanted to bother.
I had been living Down Under for decades. I’d developed into a pretty good carpenter, plumber, electrician, what the Aussies call “a ripper.” I made enough money to cover my needs and lived a fairly healthful life, lots of walks and fruit drinks and swimming in the ocean. I rented a flat near the beach. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen with a dishwasher. And plenty of private storage in the basement, which I used for my massive collection of notebooks—although I wasn’t as meticulous in my record-keeping anymore. There wasn’t much I wanted to repeat.
I won’t bore you with the details of those many years, Boss. I lived. I worked. I slept. I drank with the locals. I played piano on Sundays in a nearby church, which would have made my mother happy. I had a couple of health blips. Nothing too serious.
