FIFTY-FIVE

The following morning, Vitoria was sitting across from Detective de la Cruz down at Caldwell police headquarters when her burner phone went off in her purse.

“Would you like to answer that?” he asked her.

“Oh, no, Detective. This is all so much more important. It’s probably just gallery business.”

He nodded and put a folder on the table between them. “So you understand that you are not a suspect in any of this. You are not even a person of interest.”

“That is correct. That is what you’ve told me.”

The man pointed up to the corner of the shallow, utterly unadorned room. “And this is all being videotaped.”

She made a show of looking up to the camera and then nodded. “Yes, that’s what you told me was going to happen.”

“And you have declined to have a lawyer present.”

“Why would I need one? My car was stolen. I am a victim.”

Detective de la Cruz opened the folder, which turned out to only have a pad of white lined paper in it. “So I’d like to go over a couple of things again, if you don’t mind.”

As he paused to collect his thoughts—or perhaps to pretend he was—she glanced around the room. It was in dismal shape, the egg-carton soundproofing worn away where the back of his chair hit the wall, the brown carpet pitted and stained, the ceiling tiles yellowed with age. Even the wood top of the table was fake, the grain pattern repeating over and over across its surface.

It was vaguely insulting to think that people who worked in this environment were armed with laws that could send her to jail. If she were going to be threatened like that, it would have been more apt for the police to be housed in a military installation with bulletproof windows, tactical vests, and flamethrowers.

But no, these folks were more like data processors in a company that was about to go under.

“Have you found my car?” she prompted.

“The Bentley was your brother’s, wasn’t it?” He looked up. “Correct?”

In her head, she cursed the man in Spanish. And then said calmly, “Yes, of course. It was Ricardo’s. Forgive me.”

“I totally understand.” The detective smiled. “So last evening, around what time did you come out and discover that the Bentley was gone?”

“It was right when I called you. Nine o’clock, perhaps? Ten?”

“And you stated the key was in the vehicle.”

“I’m afraid I’m a little forgetful. Women drivers. You know.”

“Actually, my wife is a better driver than I am. So is my daughter. But that’s neither here nor there.” He lifted up the pad. “So we did locate the vehicle. Unfortunately, it was involved in a hit-and-run down on Twentieth Street. A police cruiser found it and towed it in.”

He took out two color photos, both of which provided different angles of the beautiful car smashed grille-first into a concrete median that went around some sort of road repair work.

“Oh…dear,” she murmured.

“At this time, we have no suspects in the theft.”

“No?”

“But we’re concerned the vehicle might have been used in the commission of a crime.”

Vitoria made a point of lifting her eyebrows in alarm. “What kind of crime?”

“Do you recall mentioning a man by the name of Michael Streeter?”

She nodded. “Of course. You and I spoke of him. He was the security guard I met after I arrived here in Caldwell.”

“He was found dead at dawn.”

At this point, Vitoria slowed everything down and made sure she chose her response and words well. The detective, she noted, was giving away no details in an attempt to trip her up.

“Where? What happened to him?” She leaned in. “Do you think he might have taken my brother’s car?”

“Why would he do that?”

Vitoria shrugged. “I don’t know. He just seemed…well, as I told you, he made me very uncomfortable and I wasn’t the only one. Margot Fortescue also found him worrisome.”

“Well, the car is being carefully dusted for prints. The CSI team is going over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

“CSI. Like the old TV show.”

“Exactly.” The detective sat back. “I imagine we’ll find lots of prints of yours.”

“Yes, you will.” She fanned her hands out. “I drove it for an entire day. Perhaps two.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s a work of art on wheels—or was.” There was a long pause. “Do you have any reason to think somebody would want Streeter dead?”

“I am not familiar with him at all. So I can’t really say.”

“We spoke to his girlfriend. She told us that he dabbled in drug dealing.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Mmm.” The detective sat forward. “You know, I’ve been either a policeman or a homicide detective for a lot of years. I mean, we’re talking decades. And I’ve developed a sense about things.”

“I imagine you would.”

“I guess I just think it’s a little curious.”

“What is?”

He shrugged and pulled the lapels of his sport coat in closer. The jacket was dark gray this time and didn’t really go well with his coloring, in her opinion. “Well, your two brothers disappear. And you show up in Caldwell. And suddenly, I’ve got bodies in different places. Two deaths in the same gallery in how many days? With the only real change that I can see being your arrival.”

Vitoria put her hands up to her heart. “I am a woman, Detective de la Cruz. Where I come from, we are not capable of any such things—how can you insinuate I could possibly kill anyone? Much less a security guard who was so much bigger than I am.”

“He was shot multiple times at point-blank range. Execution style. Guns are a great equalizer for height and weight discrepancies.” He made a steeple out of his fingertips. “And here in the States, women are equals—or at least I treat them as such. So it means they can drive well, and they can stand up for themselves, and they live their own lives. They can also decide to take over a drug ring for themselves, kill off family members, and make people who ask too many questions or get in their way wake up dead. How about that.”

Which card to play, she thought. There were a couple of choices.

After a moment, she lifted her chin. “Detective, I have been nothing but accommodating. Your officers are at the West Point house now, as we speak, getting security footage—”

“Well, see, there’s a rub on that one. You did let them in, it’s true, and we thank you for that. But it turns out the cameras were off, and have been for quite some time. So if you’re using that as an example of accommodation, it would go further if there was anything for us to use.”

She already knew all this, of course. It was the first thing she had checked when she had gotten back there last night.

“When were they turned off?” she asked.

“We’re looking into that.”

“I’m sure you’ll let me know what you find.”

“You can bet your life on it.”

Vitoria drew her long hair back and clasped her hands primly in front of herself. “Is there anything else for me?”

“Not right now, no. But something tells me there will be more. And I’m never wrong about these things.”

“There’s a first time for everything, Detective.” She got to her feet. “I also want you to know that I realize you are just doing your job here. I shouldn’t take things personally and I won’t. You don’t have any suspects for either of those deaths, no solid ones, at any rate—or you wouldn’t be throwing baseless accusations at me. My conscience is clear. I do not need a lawyer. And you may feel free to call me back down here anytime you like.”

“So you think you’re leaving, huh.”

“Are you making me a suspect? Or…how did you say it, a person of interest?” When there was a pause, she smiled at him. “Then I’m free to go, aren’t I.”

“Do you mind if we fingerprint you before you take off on us?”

It took everything in her not to narrow her eyes and glare at him. “Of course not, Detective. Provided you give me something to wash my hands off with afterward.”