Twirled Bond (Holly Woods Files, #5) (30 page)

This interrogation is painful to watch. Not because Jason and Drake are tearing into her, but because she won’t stop crying. There’s a brick wall with a thick-ass mirror-window between us, but her sobs just echo off the walls. Nobody has been able to speak for several minutes because she simply can’t calm down.

She doesn’t seem to be able to comprehend what she’s being told, but the problem with tears is that people cry for any number of emotions.

Sadness. Anger. Stress. Guilt. Happiness.

There’s no saying what her tears are for. Until she starts speaking, nobody is getting anywhere.

That’s the motto of this case.

Of course, it doesn’t help that Samuel Goldberg is pushing for someone to come and see to her because she’s having a panic attack and telling her that she doesn’t have to answer anything she doesn’t want to.

I don’t understand that mentality. If she has nothing to hide, she can answer every question, right? She has no need to remain silent.

I mean, she can’t talk right now, but sure. Whatever.

Drake sighs loudly enough that I hear it through the mics. “We’ll come back in a little while, when you’ve calmed down. Mr. Goldberg, please remember that this room has cameras and mics and both are running for your client’s safety. Refrain from attempting to put words into her mouth the way you did Mr. Russo.”

Samuel glares at him as he leaves with Jason on his heel. I spin in my chair as they come in to join me and Trent.

“That didn’t go well.” I’m stating the obvious here.

“I understand why you hate him.” Jason shoves his hand in his pockets. “He’s a legal cockblock, isn’t he?”

I purse my lips, nodding. He’s more than a cockblock—he’s a downright pledge of celibacy.

“What’re y’all gonna do if she can’t talk?”

“Bring the doctor in to see her, prescribe her something if necessary, and keep her overnight. She’s married to our main suspect, who isn’t yet in custody. She’s a liability.” Drake shrugs and fills a small cup from the water cooler. “She’s not leaving this building until she’s talked.”

That seems fair. She’s not breaking down—she’s just crying. She’s in shock at worst. Nothing a glass of cold water, a few deep breaths, and lying down with her feet up ain’t gonna cure.

I look back through the window. She’s pushed her chair back from the table, and the mics have obviously been turned down, because I can’t hear her endless sobs anymore. That or she’s stopped and was acting up until one minute ago. A glass of water is taken in to her, as well as a box of tissues, and she sips the water with a visibly shaky hand.

I tilt my head to the side. She’s legitimately shaken over something. What it is, I can’t tell, but the way the glass trembles in her grip, even with both hands, is genuine.

Shaking hands aren’t easy to fake, especially not when you’re holding something. People usually go overkill.

“What are—” Jason starts.

“Shh,” Trent interrupts him.

Stacia has her head down, hiding her face from the cameras, but not entirely from me. She’s looking down at the floor—her knees at the very least—and her hands are clenched together on her lap. Her shoulders are hunched, and Samuel Goldberg is having to lean in pretty close to speak with her.

Her hands are still shaking when she takes another sip of water.

“She’s not acting,” I say, righting my head before my neck threatens to snap with the pressure of it being tilted. I keep my eyes on her though. “Something about what she’s learned has upset her. No idea what without her talking, but her emotion is genuine. She’s very shaken, so giving her half an hour to calm down is wise. I can try to figure out what it is when you go in and question her.”

“I’m missing something,” Jason says slowly. “But I feel like I should know why you’re cross-examining her like a teenage girl cross-examines the hot guy at the front of her math class. Or how I examine the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders whenever they’re on TV.”

Trent snorts at that. “She’s a body language expert. We don’t have one, so she tends to fill the role.”

“Really? Since when?” Jason frowns.

“Not long after I left the police academy. I thought it would be a good skill to have, and I was right.”

“What made you do it?”

I shrug. “I hate people, but they fascinate me. It comes in handy for what I do. I can spot a cheater a mile away. I do refresher courses online every now and then to keep myself on the right track. I thought you knew I was.”

“I probably did and forgot, but your reason seems as good as any.”

A smile stretches across my face. “I can help here too. It used to be an annoyance.” I glance at Drake, remembering the time he all but forced me into an interview room to watch body language then kissed me in front of everyone.

His smile tells me he remembers too.

“But, now, it’s kinda fun,” I say, turning my attention back to the conversation. “I like watching people, and here, I get to sit and do that and help.”

“Interesting. What does Samuel Goldberg’s body language tell you?”

“That he’s a smug, arrogant piece of crap who thinks he can get any client off the hook by telling them to remain silent. Oh—you might wanna turn the mics up. He’s whispering to her.”

“How did you know that?” Trent asks, leaning forward.

“He’s barely moving his mouth. See? You move your mouth less the quieter you talk and more the louder you talk. That’s not even body language. That’s just common sense.” My lips twitch. “Whatever he’s telling her, he doesn’t want you to hear.”

Drake turns up the mics.

Repeatedly, he tells her that she doesn’t have to answer any questions. He reminds her that she’s not being charged with anything and she doesn’t owe anyone any explanations. It’s one thing to do that in a private room, another entirely in a room with mics and cameras.

I wonder if he realizes how guilty he’s making her look.

“I’d tell him to shut up,” I offer.

Drake’s eyes dart from Stacia to me. “I’m going to have her taken to the bathroom by Deputy Anders. She’ll wait outside. You go in first, and when she comes in, work your magic.”

Jason frowns. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“You do that, buddy.” I slap his arm on the way out.

“She’s so fucking sassy,” he mutters to Trent.

“If she hears you say that, her temper will pop out,” my brother replies dryly.

I spin back around, narrowly miss bumping into Drake, and shove the door open an inch. “Asshole. I don’t have a temper. I’m passionate. We know this.”

Drake drags me away. “We made it this far with it being mentioned once. I’m calling this a successful investigation.” He steers me in the direction of the nearest bathroom, and I go in before anyone sees.

I hide in one of the stalls for a couple of minutes until the door opens and swings shut with a creak. I peer out the crack in the door and see Stacia stop in front of the mirror. With shaking hands, she splashes water over her face then runs a paper towel under the tap.

I open my stall door. She freezes when she sees me in the mirror.

“Don’t,” I say quietly. “Stacia, listen to me. You need to answer their questions. I know something has you shocked, but you need to cooperate with us if we’re gonna find out what happened to your sister.”

“But Eddie...” Her voice cracks.

That’s not sadness.

That’s fear.

“Do you believe he did those things to Daniela?”

She nods, but it’s so short and jerky that the confirmation is barely there.

“Then say it in the interview. We need anything you can give us. Can you do that?”

Another nod, this time stronger. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” I squeeze her hand and walk backward. “Take your time, but I gotta hide in here, because I’m not supposed to be in here talking to you.” I wink and shut the stall door.

Seconds later, the door opens and closes.

I make my exit a minute later and stalk back to the viewing room as quickly as I can. Drake, Jason, and Trent are all waiting for me, and I shut the door right behind me.

Jason meets my eyes immediately, clutching his phone. “Eddie Thomson was just picked up at work. We’ve got him.”

Good.

“What did Stacia say?”

“She didn’t so much say anything, but she nodded a lot. She thinks he abused her, but she’s scared of him. I could see it. She flinched when she said his name.” I suck my bottom lip into my mouth before slowly releasing it with a smack.

“What are you thinking, sweetheart?” Drake gently asks me.

“I think we’ve got the right guy, but I think the key to throwing this case wide open is sitting in that interview room.” I point toward the window. “And, for whatever reason, she’s too afraid to do what’s right.”

I
barely shut the front door behind me before I drag myself into the front room and throw myself face-first down onto the sofa. Nine hours after Stacia was brought in for questioning, we have a big, fat nada out of her, despite my plea in the restroom.

It doesn’t make any sense to me. For someone who basically led me to her husband, intentionally or not, her silence is puzzling. The aura of fear that radiates from her whenever he’s mentioned is just as confusing—as well as why she never mentioned she was married. Or why she doesn’t wear a wedding ring.

I’m assuming they’re separated. Headed for divorce, perhaps. That’s personal speculation though. It’s the only logical explanation I can come up with right now.

It still doesn’t explain why she won’t talk.

One would assume you’d want to stick it to your ex-husband, but what do I know?

I turn my face to the side so I can breathe.

My coffee table has been cleaned. My mug from this morning is no longer there.

Panic shoots through my body, and I instinctively reach inside my purse for my gun. My alarm didn’t go off, it doesn’t feel like anyone broke in, and I know Drake hasn’t been home...

I feel like an idiot for carrying my gun, but I do as I get up and walk into the kitchen, only to find the simplest explanation known to man.

There’s a two-feet-tall pile of Tupperware containers in varying sizes, all full to the brim with Italian food. Several white paper bags are stacked next to the pile, and the gentle scent of garlic wafts out of one of the open tops.

I shudder, setting my gun on the table. There’s only one person who could be responsible for all this, and her handwriting is on the envelope taped to one of the boxes. I tug it off and pull the letter inside out. The page is full of Nonna’s scrawly handwriting, every word written in Italian, but as I read, my brain translates it the way it’s done so many times before.

Noella,

I’m sorry for upsetting you. I was only playing. I didn’t think it would hurt you so much, darling. Here is my apology—all of your favorites. Your mamma spoke to me, and I realize now you are like me and you will get married when you are ready.

Love always,

Nonna

P.s. Ice cream is in the freezer.

I narrow my eyes. Forgive me for being slightly skeptical, but that’s a big-ass jump from breaking news of a proposal that isn’t going to happen. Still, I’m going to have to take it at face value, but we still need a big-ass chat about sticking our noses into other people’s business.

It’s a lesson I could give myself. At least I stayed out of Bek and Jason’s fight.

I’m feeling super hungry, so I put some cheesy garlic bread into the oven and boil some water for some of the bacon-tomato-and-basil ravioli. Then I set to work storing each and every container in various places. And, yes, the ice cream is in the freezer—all eleven tubs of it.

I’m gonna have one hell of a happy Drake when he gets home. Nonna’s ice cream is about his favorite thing in the entire world. Except me.

When everything is said and done, I take my food into the home office and set it on top of my desk. It’s the only place in this house I feel like I can concentrate fully on the case at hand. Surrounded by books and files and important things, my brain puts itself into a zone where everything can fit together like a puzzle.

And this case is so close. I know it is. Even if it is the thousand-piece baked-bean puzzle, there are only a handful of pieces left to fit.

It’s just getting them to fit that is the problem.

Trying to figure out Eddie’s relationship with the Russo family is one. His affair with Dori, his marriage to Stacia, his abuse toward Daniela...

Without answers from Stacia or Dori, none of it fits.

I bite into a piece of garlic bread.

That’s it. None of it fits.

Even if nobody other than Daniela knew that Eddie was the man Dori was having an affair with, why would he flip from mom to daughter, knowing he’d raped another member of their family?

There are some fucked-up people in this world, for sure, but at least that kind of fucked up makes sense.

This doesn’t.

And, if Stacia didn’t know that her husband slept with her mom or abused her sister, why is she so afraid of him?

There’s something about this that’s wrong. Somebody, somewhere, in this family, has to know something. Stacia has to know something about what her husband did. Maybe she knows he killed her sister and her way of telling us was by guiding me to the evidence.