I hadn’t seen him since the warehouse, and I had been hoping I would never have to see him again. But unfortunately for me and my pulse, we were bound up in this investigation together, and as the Falcone consigliere, Felice was not about to let it go on unsupervised by him any longer.
‘Buongiorno, detectives,’ he offered, sweeping around them in an arc and coming to stand mid-way down my bed. The air was thick with that dreadful cloying sweetness, and I wondered if I would ever again smell honey without experiencing the accompanying sense of certain death.
Felice laid a hand on the side of my bed, his fingers curling around the bordering bars. I felt myself stiffen at his closeness. It brought back unwelcome memories of being tied up in his huge bee-infested mansion right before Calvino, his brother, beat the crap out of me. I shifted away from him. On the other side of my bed my mother squeezed my shoulder.
‘It’s OK, sweetheart,’ she whispered, but there wasn’t an ounce of conviction in her voice. The last time she had seen Felice Falcone, he was pointing a gun at her head. If she thought I couldn’t feel her hand shaking on my shoulder, she was wrong.
‘Mr Falcone,’ croaked Detective Comisky, his cheeks rouging. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave. We’re conducting a private interview with Miss Gracewell.’
‘Whatever for, Detective Comisky?’ Felice’s smile, while fake, was a lot more practised than that of his adversaries.
‘Well, we—’ Detective Comisky faltered. He shut his notebook and shoved it back into his shirt pocket, but kept the pencil clamped in his hand. ‘I don’t recall telling you my name, Mr Falcone.’
Felice raised his almost invisible brows. ‘But you know my name, detective. Is it that strange that I should know yours?’
Detective Comisky blanched. Felice seized his surprise, stepping closer to him. ‘Walter Comisky,’ he mused. ‘342 Sycamore Drive, I believe. Beautiful residential neighbourhood. Those quaint brick houses, and then there’s that fabulous park on the end of your street. I expect your girls adore it.’
Detective Comisky rolled his shoulders back and made himself stand a little straighter. He was a half-head shorter than Felice but he jutted his chin to account for the difference. ‘They do, Mr Falcone. Now if you could just—’
‘And your wife must love that backyard. So much open space for her gardening. All those beautiful hydrangeas, and I’ve always adored long-stemmed daisies. It’s Alma, isn’t it?’ He flashed another thirty-two-tooth grin.
‘No,’ said Detective Comisky, with obvious relief. He hiked his belt up, returning a small, not-so-practised smile that flickered underneath his moustache. ‘It’s not.’
Behind him, Detective Medina’s expression had crumpled.
‘No, no, no.’ Felice rubbed his temples as though his mind had betrayed him. ‘That’s not your wife, Walter, that’s Detective Medina’s wife … isn’t it, Doug?’ He peered around Comisky, making a show of his sudden interest in Detective Medina.
It took several long seconds before Detective Medina responded. ‘I don’t see why that m-m-matters in a p-p-professional investigation, Mr Falcone.’
My mother squeezed my shoulder a little harder, and beneath the sheets I squeezed my leg to stop it from shaking. Felice was a master of intimidation and it was hard not to feel the horror in the detectives’ faces as they realized exactly what was going on. Here was a cat sharpening its claws in front of two quivering mice.
‘It matters,’ clarified Felice, without taking his eyes off his prey, ‘because maybe I have a gift for her. Both of your wives, in fact. Alma and …’ He made a show of tapping his chin thoughtfully, but there wasn’t a person in that room who didn’t believe he already knew the name of Detective Comisky’s wife. ‘Rose!’ he whooped, feigning excitement in his fake Aha! moment. ‘How could I forget? Rose. Beautiful, like a flower. Beautiful like her garden. They fit together seamlessly.’
Detective Medina raised his hand to his chest, rubbing at it with casual slowness, but there was a real possibility he was having a heart attack. I pictured Felice stepping over his body, being careful not to scuff his shoes. Ugh.
When Felice spoke again his voice was low. ‘Perhaps your wives might like a jar of my home-made honey? I could have it delivered to them, it wouldn’t be a problem …’ He trailed off, letting the sentence, and everything that went unsaid in it, hang in the air.
The pencil snapped inside Detective Comisky’s fist.
Felice smirked.
I sank deeper into my sheets. I remembered the jar of honey Felice had sent to Jack, and exactly where it had led us all. By the looks on the detectives’ faces it was clear they knew exactly what that black-ribboned jar meant. In the underworld, he was ‘The Sting’, and his honey brought death.
‘That’s all right, Mr Falcone,’ said Detective Comisky, shifting to the side so he was no longer standing between Felice and the doorway. He gestured at the door. ‘We don’t want anything from you. We want to proceed with this private interview. If you would please leave now.’
Felice threw his hands in the air, clapping them together once. ‘Of course,’ he said with blithe indifference. ‘I have to be with my nephew anyway. I heard all your questions this morning tired him out, and I would hope you don’t plan on doing the same thing to this poor girl. I’m quite sure she needs her rest, and even more sure that this investigation is an utter waste of your precious time, which could be spent more productively elsewhere.’ He left the room without so much as a backward glance.