The Darkness Gathers (17 page)

“Have a permit for that weapon, Ms. Strong?”

Oh, so it’s going to be like that.

“I don’t suppose you could have come to the lobby and called my room. Do they teach Stalk and Surprise One Oh One on your first or second day at Quantico?”

“I’m Special Agent Negron,” said Big Head, ignoring her smart-ass comment but looking as though he was sucking on lemons, “and this is my partner, Special Agent Bentley. We would like to talk to you about your visit with Valentina Fitore.”

She took the identification he handed to her, scrutinized it, making a show of comparing his face to the face on the card in its leather envelope.

“It was a short visit,” she said finally.

“So we heard. Can we go somewhere to talk?”

“Absolutely. You can meet me and my partner back at the hotel in half an hour.”

She turned her back on them and jogged toward the hotel. She didn’t appreciate being bullied by FBI agents; she would talk to them on her terms, or they could chase her and arrest her. Which they did not.

Back at the hotel, the agents came up to Lydia and Jeffrey’s room. Lydia ordered coffee and pastries from room service, and after introductions, the four of them sat in the room’s comfortable sitting area. The two agents sat on the couch, Jeffrey in the plush white chair facing them, Lydia perched on the arm of the same chair. Lydia told them about the tape and letter she had received, about her visit to Valentina’s home and how she had watched the Mercedes run her down.

“You told the police that there was no license plate on the car,” said Negron, tapping notes into his Palm Pilot.

“That’s right.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she said. She’d been frightened and shocked, but she’d had the presence of mind to look for a plate.

“And you’re positive that this couldn’t have been an accident?”

“What about the scenario that I’m describing isn’t getting through?” said Lydia. “Someone purposely
mowed her down
. There was no mistaking it.”

“And who knew you were going to see her that evening?”

“That I know of? Jeffrey, Detective Manuel Ignacio, and our office back in New York,” she answered. “Possibly you, if you’ve had Detective Ignacio’s phone tapped.”

“Why did you go to see her?” asked Negron, narrowing his eyes but not responding to her comment.

“Because I suspected that she had information on the disappearance of Tatiana Quinn that she was afraid to reveal. I wanted to convince her to confide in me.”

“But she died before she was able to do that? Or did she tell you anything?”

“She never had a chance.”

“Why did you assume that she was the one to have sent you the note and the tape?”

“It seemed like a logical conclusion to draw. She was in the house all the time and was close to the family.”

“Well, there’s a wrinkle in your theory, Ms. Strong, because Valentina was illiterate.”

Lydia frowned. That
was
a wrinkle. But it might also be good news; because if someone helped her to write the note, then that person could be found.

“How would you know that? That she’s illiterate.”

“How we get our information is not your concern,” Negron answered primly. “How would a relatively recent immigrant know who you were? You’re not exactly a household name. Why would she choose you and not, say, the police?”

“I can’t answer that, Special Agent Negron. But I would like to remind you that I haven’t done anything wrong, and I don’t appreciate your attitude. I am a private citizen and I had a private correspondence with someone who clearly was in need of my help. I had every right to pursue that. I’m just sorry our encounter led to her murder.”

“Ms. Strong,” said Special Agent Bentley, speaking up for the first time and revealing himself with a soft-spoken air of authority as the senior partner, “Valentina Fitore was the sister of Sasa Fitore, who, as you unfortunately already know, is currently under investigation by the FBI for his alleged participation in organized criminal activities. He is also part of a larger classified investigation. Because of this, I am not prepared to share any information or theories with you. I will tell you, however, that your investigation is complicating ours.”

“I don’t see how,” she answered.

“It doesn’t matter whether you see how or not,” he said curtly. “I’m just telling you that you are barking up the wrong tree. Trust me when I tell you that you will get no closer to Tatiana by taking a path that crosses ours.”

Jeffrey could see that Lydia was about to blow a gasket, so he placed a hand on her arm and leaned forward toward the agents.

“What do you want from us, guys? I’m sure you have done your homework enough to know who we are, the connections we have, the fact that my firm is run by former FBI men and still works with the Bureau. We’re here; we’re in this. Let’s try to help each other.”

“See, that’s the thing,” Negron said unpleasantly. “We don’t need your help. And if you want to help yourselves, you’ll stay out of our way.”

Bentley cast a disapproving look at Negron and said, “What my partner means is that the situation we are working here is very sensitive. If you fuck it up, trust me, it’s going to be bad for everyone. Now, please, just step off.”

The agents rose together. And Agent Negron said, “We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

They opened the door and surprised the blond baby-faced room-service waiter, who appeared just to have been about to knock.

“You won’t stay for breakfast?” asked Lydia sweetly. Bentley gave her a look and brushed past the waiter, Negron following behind. Lydia signed for the food and closed the door.

“We’re not very popular, are we?” said Lydia, unwrapping the basket of fresh hot pastries and choosing a raspberry Danish. The sweet sugar frosting, flaky pastry, and tart raspberry filling melted in her mouth and instantly nullified the healthy feeling she’d had after her run.

“It does seem that every time we turn around, someone is encouraging us to mind our own business.”

“Which generally means that there’s a good reason not to.”

T
hree pastries and a cup of coffee later, they were in the Jeep and on their way to Valentina Fitore’s memorial service. The light rain that had fallen in the morning had done nothing to diminish the stifling humidity, though the cloud cover was still thick, blocking the rays of the sun.

Jeffrey eyed the other parked cars, wondering which of them held the FBI surveillance team. He decided it was probably the white van on the corner. He hoped they wouldn’t get arrested today as they continued to poke around an investigation they had been encouraged to abandon. That would really set Jacob off, if he had to send the lawyers down to Florida. Jeffrey hadn’t even discussed with Lydia the problems he was having with Jacob. Last night would have been a good time to bring it up, but he still wasn’t 100 percent sure what was going on. Better to wait until he was positive.

Jacob, Jeffrey, and Christian Striker had started the firm nearly seven years ago. All former FBI men, they’d grown tired of the politics of the Bureau, tired of the paranoia about public perception of the organization, and decided they’d be more effective investigators on their own. They’d been hugely successful, in large part due to Lydia, her contributions as a consultant, and the publicity that surrounded the books she wrote on some of their cases. Jeffrey had been pushing to make her a partner in the firm. Christian was totally onboard. But Jacob was fighting it, confirming Jeffrey’s long-held suspicion that Jacob had some kind of personal problem with Lydia.

“She drains this firm of money,” he complained to Jeffrey.

“That’s bullshit,” Jeffrey snapped. Though her investigations did tend to be expensive, the publicity she received brought in more high-paying clients than they ever would have garnered on their own. Before the Cheerleader Murder case, Lydia’s first with the firm, they’d been doing insurance fraud and working freelance with the FBI and NYPD on cold cases and cases that were too messy for agencies whose people had to follow rules. The cash flow had been steady, although low. They never turned a profit until Lydia got involved. Recently, Jeffrey had asked to see the books, something he had never had any interest in before, leaving the money business of the firm to Jacob. But it had been nearly a month since Jeffrey had started asking, and every time, Jacob gave him some kind of runaround. When Jeffrey tried to log on to the firm’s computer to check it himself, tired of waiting for Jacob, he found that he needed a password to access the accounting program he didn’t have. That was the day Lydia came home from her book tour. Since they were off to Miami the next day, he hadn’t had a chance to talk to Christian about it. And he wasn’t ready to confront Jacob.

Jeffrey’s conversation with Lydia last night brought back a memory that he hadn’t shined a light on in years. A memory that he had chosen to omit in retelling the story to Lydia. It was not like him to sweep things into his subconscious. And he was beginning to question the trust he’d had in Jacob all these years. It hurt him more than it made him angry to think … Well, he wasn’t sure what to think. He just knew something wasn’t right. He could figure it out when they got back to New York, which he hoped would be tonight.

The center, a small nondescript building painted a cheerful yellow and white, sat on a dusty side street, without much else surrounding it. There was a shoe-repair shop with a cracked window and a
CLOSED
sign on the door. The sign looked like it had been there for a while. A larger building that looked like a warehouse lacked identifying signage. An empty lot, where weeds and patchy grass had taken over and a few cars were parked, dominated the rest of the street. There was an understated sign over the door that read
ALBANIAN CENTER
in English, below which were some words in another language, which Lydia brilliantly deduced to be Albanian. Next to the door was a bulletin board behind a glass case containing a picture of Valentina, the date and the time of the service, and a few paragraphs in Albanian. It seemed like a meager memorial for a life to Lydia, who thought, You live a hurricane of emotions, dreams, experiences, hardships; you raise children. Your life seems so important, your problems so consuming, your successes so thrilling. And in the end, your picture winds up on a bulletin board, your life reduced to a snapshot and some kind words on a piece of paper. She could hear a powerful voice speaking through the closed wooden doors. They moved inside quietly and found a dim spot at the back of the room, but off to the side, so that they could see faces.

The room was plain—freshly polished wood floors and newly painted white walls. Rows of theater seats faced a simple stage area, where a larger copy of the picture of Valentina from the bulletin board sat atop an easel and was surrounded by bouquets of carnations. A large man in a bad suit and worse toupee stood at a podium, speaking loudly in Albanian, his eyes occasionally tearing. The rows were sprinkled with people, some fidgeting in their seats, someone coughing, someone weeping.

Lydia’s eyes scanned the room. She saw Sasa Fitore sitting in the front row, his arm around the slumped shoulders of a woman with long red hair and pale skin, her face hidden as she wept into her hands. Lydia assumed it was Marianna, whom she and Jeffrey had decided was a good bet on who had helped Valentina write the note. Sasa’s eyes were red and had dark smudges underneath, but his face was expressionless, except for his mouth, which was drawn into a tight line.

The two rows behind Marianna and Sasa were nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with a motley group of men. Wearing ill-fitting black suits in various shapes and sizes, they almost all sat stone-faced, their arms crossed. The one closest to Lydia had a scar that ran from his eye down his neck, disappearing into his shirt collar.

“Rough crowd,” Jeffrey whispered.

“They must be his crew,” Lydia whispered back, and Jeffrey nodded in agreement.

There didn’t seem to be a religious tone to the service at all, and Lydia remembered that religion had been outlawed in Albania by dictator Enver Hoxna in 1967 and that even after the Communist regime fell, people had been slow to practice again. Valentina had likely been raised a Muslim, but chances were that Marianna didn’t have any religious affiliation. Lydia thought of her own mother, a devout Catholic, and only vaguely remembered her service and funeral through a fog of grief. But she did remember the horrible empty hole in her heart, the crippling fear and sadness that had assailed her as she watched her mother’s coffin lowered into the ground. The urge to scream, which she’d choked back, the thought of her mother alone in the cold earth breaking her in half. Lydia shook her head as if to rattle the memories from it, and Jeffrey put his hand on her arm, knowing instinctively where her thoughts had taken her.

Of course, they weren’t actually here to pay their respects. In Lydia’s experience, things often shook loose at weddings and funerals. Emotions ran high; people broke down. Not that it was a reliable or appropriate place to gather information, but sometimes you learned things just the same … merely by observing people’s reactions, their connections to one another. Marianna and Sasa looked about right to her, though Sasa looked a bit stiff, as though he was conscious of eyes on him, as if he was watching his back. Marianna grieved with abandon, not concerned with appearances. The men behind him had the look of soldiers, watchful and protective, grim. The rest of the mourners gathered looked solemn but not as though they were personally grieving; Lydia assumed they were neighbors and fellow immigrants, present out of respect. If this had been a different kind of murder, they would be looking for suspects in the crowd. But as it was, they were just looking for the direction in which to take their next step.

The man speaking at the podium stepped down off the stage and offered his hand to Marianna, who, when she stood, was a full head taller than Lydia expected. With skin the color of cream and green eyes that rivaled oceans and gems in their color, in their depth and glimmering facets, Marianna was a radiant beauty. Her hair, as orange as wires, was as thick and straight as unraveled bolts of velvet, and she moved with the grace and bearing of a dancer. She had the kind of beauty that brought men to their knees and women to plastic surgeons.