Detective Caruso, really? Of all the NYPD blue’s, why this guy?
Everything about the Italian man, with his kind-etched eyes, and the smile wrinkles around his lips, made me sad. Soon as he stepped on the scene, his face drained of color upon seeing me. We have a history.
A year ago, Detective Caruso had been so sure about catching Mom’s murderer. For six months, I would come into the precinct each and every day, just to see what new information he had on the case. Breaking my heart each time I came by. Till one day I kept Gina from my mind. Totally and utterly from my mind, only to be resurrected on Wednesday’s an hour before noon, when I meticulously streamed together black roses.
And then there was Victor who has brought a flurry of unwanted happy memories back to me.
Now, back then, all though sure of himself, and encouraging, Caruso hadn’t been entirely forthcoming from the start. Caruso would tell me that speaking of the potential suspect wasn’t in the best interest for the case. He would promise that Mom’s murder would be vindicated.
Each time I close my eyes, feeling Notwisky’s heavy body wrapped around me, I can see Mom…
13 months ago
… We had a two bedroom in the Bronx. Childhood home. Just shy of 21, bottle of wine in one hand, with the other, I unlatch the arsenal of locks at the front door. It’s that annoying daylight’s saving time again, providing such a dark and dreary evening as early as 5:17pm. I’m walking in; trying to deal with Arnold’s dumping me, my dropping out of college. I really don’t drink, but Aliyah had said this Moscato was the tastiest. Since it was on sale, I picked it up, deciding Mom and I would enjoy it this evening.
“Mom, … Mommy, nothing is better than your words of wisdom, but I bought us a drink,” I begin, stepping into the apartment and pulling off my crossover purse. It’s one of my hobo days, in khakis and a crumply t-shirt that may or may not have been clean when I picked it off the floor this morning.
Smiling at the thought of Mom-and-me time since Dad is away at a health convention, I flip on the lights, saying, “Why is it so dark in here?”
The smile on my face fades.
At this very instant, my life as I know it is dead to me.
Nothing would ever be the same, as my knees gave way to gravity. Equilibrium in disarray, I hit the floor as a sob escapes my lips. I begin to crawl frantically to my mom’s body, pierced with stab wound on top of stab wound, and soaking wet with blood.
The smell of death brings bile up from the pit of my stomach, but I choke the sourness back down. Gina’s blouse is painted red, if I didn’t know that it was a blue and white flower design before, it’s fully indistinguishable now. Tears stream down my face, twining with snot and dribbling at my chin as I touch her once beautiful warm, brown skin. Lips purple.
“Mommy, please,” I cry so hard that spit flies from my mouth. For a while, I hold Gina closely as every thought escaped me.
Then I called the cops, and Detective Caruso promised that my heart would one day begin to beat again…
Now I’m at the very same place, explaining a situation to Caruso, verbatim, what I told the uniform cops a few hours ago. We’re seated in a white interrogation room at the precinct off 157th street. There’s a two-way mirror to the left of us, besides that, and these two chairs and table chained to the ground, only cement and brick complete the sore ambiance. I take a sip of the stale, cold coffee that was offered to me about two hours ago.
Stifling another yawn, I finish up the story. “The Russian guy, or Nots…? Nowitsky, as you say, was forcing me out of the back of my store. At that moment Deondre came in and pulled out a gun. Deondre was probably halfway into the store by now and he shot, twice.” I consider if I said two or three times before. But I’m so ready to go home that I hope I have satisfied the detective by now.
“Miss. Whitson we’re almost done,” the Italian detective gives a warm pat to my hand. “So, Deondre Watts, he’s your boyfriend?”
“No,” I shake my head.
“How well did you know Xander Nowitsky?” he asks.
“Not at all, Detective Caruso. He came into my shop at lunchtime. I thought he was going to rob me, then I… well, I guess I did something stupid,” I shrug, feeling so uncomfortable speaking with Caruso. This all plunges me back to the past when we were going over the timeframe that I stepped out to get more eggs for Mom’s éclairs. I’d ended up hanging out with Aliyah, since we hadn’t really gotten together while I was away at college.
“I told Nowitsky that I had a gun, but–”
“Was there another gun?” he asks, speaking slowly and articulate, “Besides Deondre’s gun?”
“No,” I shake my head sniffling back tears. “I’ve never touched a gun in my life. Thank God Deondre was coming by to ask me for a late lunch. Today was the first time we had really talked.”
Detective reroutes the questions again and I get confused.
“You sure there wasn’t another gun?”
“Look, I have blood on my shirt,” I say, looking down at myself. My hands come up and they’re shaking. For an instant, my slender fingers are drowning in cold, steely crimson. That familiar smell of blood has my mind playing tricks on me.
“This is the craziest day of my… of my…” In another world I could complete the sentence, as ‘this is the craziest day of my life.’ Yet, I can’t stop thinking of Gina. Before Victor, like I said, Mom was only on my mind during the times that I took flowers to Dad. It has become my ritual to help me cope. Then Victor just listened as I talked about Mom and me from the past. The coupon shopping, the baking, the cooking. Victor had given her back to me.
Now I need Gina to cease to exist. To leave my mind for a while again.
Detective Caruso’s head tilts; he appears to have been asking me something, “Luxury… Luxury… Lux…”
“Like I’ve said before,” my spine is ridged as I robotically reply, “Nowitsky, I don’t know him. Never heard of him.”
“Luxury, my apologies.” Caruso gives me that comforting smile again. He gives this ‘you have the worst look in the world’ face, even though in know cops are supposed to be cool and aloof. Yeah, he’s still feeling it for not finding Gina’s murder.
“Listen, Luxury, we had a few hits on Nowitsky around the States and he’s wanted by Interpol. So, if this had been just any bum off the street coming into rob Urban Gardens, I wouldn’t be asking so many questions.” Caruso smiles again as to apologize for what I’m going through. “My apologies for asking so many questions.”
I frown, “Sir, I really don’t think you believe me.”
“Why is that?” His eyes flicker to the glass mirror to the left of us.
“You keep asking me the same thing. Never met Nowitsky in my life, and if I had crossed paths with him, I would know. Soon as he came into the building, I felt odd.” I shrug. “What else can I say about this man? You’ve been asking me so many questions that I feel like I’ve done something wrong.”
“That was neither my intention Miss Whitson. As I said, any other perp and closed case,” Caruso almost winces at that inference. Closed case… “Deondre will be in some heat for that unregistered gun. But as far as our lengthily conversation goes, it’s for the purposes of Nowitsky’s sordid past. So, I will keep in touch.”
Legs shaky, it takes all my strength to stand, “Sure you will.” I begin. Then I bite my lip, hadn’t meant to appear so sardonic. Yes, I expect Caruso to keep in touch. But after a year of my mom being gone, the detective won’t be keeping in touch about that. Still, I try to take some tiredness that has been transposed into mockery out of my voice. “Thank you for the coffee.”
He nods. “If you think of anything. If you feel like you’ve been watched in the past, let me know. We’ll want to piece together Nowitsky’s time in the area, Miss Whitson.”
I nod and start out the door. There has to be something that the cops aren’t telling me. But as suggested, I call Victor while a uniform cop escorts me from the interview area into the lobby of the police department.
“Little one, I’ve been thinking of you.”
Though he’s a delight to hear, my body is feeling heavy at the moment. I sigh, “Hello, Victor…”
“You sound stressed? Where are you?” he asks, and I can hear honking of cars in the background.
“At the Precinct on 154th street. My shop was almost robbed. Luckily a friend from one of the neighboring stores came in and shot the guy.”
“My car is on the way, Lux,” he tells me.
I open up my mouth to say that I just want to go home and be alone, but with Victor, that is not an option. Had Victor been at Urban Gardens earlier, maybe I wouldn’t have been so crazy or reacted so crass to Nowitsky. Surely telling Nowitsky I had a gun escalated the entire situation. But what am I saying, if Deondre hadn’t been there, Vic and me would’ve gotten murdered.