This Is How It Happened (24 page)

He’s dead, Madeline.

Carlton! No!

My body goes cold. And my mind whirls in circles. Carlton is dead. And I, Madeline Piatro, killed him. It wasn’t an intentional murder, but I did hire Florence or Dickie or whatever his name is. I did show him Carlton’s photograph. And I’m responsible for whatever happened next.

“H-h-how?” I ask, and my voice is hoarse. Cracking.

“Multiple gunshot wounds,” Nick replies. He’s staring at me from the front passenger seat, while Agent Sanchez drives us toward some federal building, or maybe a police station.

I feel sick, suddenly. My stomach jumps into my throat. I start gagging a little, and making gurgling noises like I’m going to puke.

Nick swings around to Agent Sanchez and says, “Pull over.”

The sedan screeches over to the curb, and I watch as Nick jumps out and runs inside a convenience store. He returns a minute later with a bottle of Ginger Ale.

“Drink,” he says, handing me the cold bottle from the front seat.

I take a small sip and wait for my churning stomach to settle down.

“Better?” Nick asks.

I consider the question. How can I feel better knowing that my ex-fiancé is dead? And that I, essentially, had him killed?

Thoughts go whizzing through my head. I consider how this happened in the first place. Me—stubborn, ridiculous, scorned, damaged little me—going to my brother to ask him for a name of a bruiser. Someone in the business of breaking ribs. And then I hire a guy I barely know—to do these little projects for me. And—just like in the movies—things turn violent. Maybe Dick is a psychopath. Or maybe Carlton pissed him off and Dick decided to shoot him. Even if Dick took matters into his own hands, I’m still to blame. It was me—all me.

I drop my head into my hands and let the tears come. I literally sob. A loud, heaving type of sob.

I think of my brother saying to me,
“What would Jesus do?”

And Heather advising me to
“Let it go, Maddy.”

And then, I think of Carlton. My sobbing grows louder as a world of regret and shame comes crashing down on me. After the break-up, I was filled with so much loathing toward him. So much angst.

But, now—Now that he’s dead—All I feel is a tremendous and unflinching sorrow.

Carlton. Dead!

Oh, God!

I wipe wet snot from my nose and look through my blustery tears at Nick.

“This is the second time in my life that someone I was very close to died tragically!” I whimper.

Nick stares off into the distance.

“I’m sorry about the loss of your parents, Madeline,” he says, finally, taking a deep breath. “But what did you expect would happen this time? You hired a professional hit man for chrissakes!”

I nod and hiccup. More sobbing. I start saying, “Oh God! Oh God!” And I can’t stop.

We pull into the back of an official bureaucratic-looking building that I didn’t even know existed. It’s gray and imposing, with small square windows. I’m suddenly frightened and my body shivers uncontrollably.

Nick steps out of the car, opens the back door, takes my arm, and leads me gently out of the car.

Agent Sanchez pushes a buzzer on the building, flashes his credentials to a camera, and the three of us walk inside.

I consider calling Michael. That would be the smart thing to do. The calculated thing. But should I really hide behind the cloak of a lawyer at this point? When it’s my fault to begin with?

I think of the words engraved in the clock tower at the University of Texas. My Alma Mater.

And the Truth Shall Set You Free.

I gulp down some air, steady my shaking hands, and decide to accept my fate. Telling the truth—and the whole truth—is my only option.

Nick leads me into a plain-looking interrogation room. I was expecting a two-way mirror, like you see in the movies. But there’s just a small round table and a few chairs.

Agent Sanchez informs me that the conversation is being recorded.

We sit down and Nick and Agent Sanchez look at me a moment, as if waiting for me to start. I notice that both agents rest their arms flat on the table. Not crossed over their chests. They’re trying to assume a relaxed, physical stance, as if to encourage the criminal to start talking.

I don’t say a word.

The minutes tick by, and then Nick says, “Look, Madeline. I know your brother put you up to this. That you were just the middleman in the whole deal. The go-between. Because, obviously, Ronnie Piatro can’t be seen in public meeting with Florence “Dickie” Ferguson. And he didn’t want to leave a record of phone calls or e-mails that could be traced. So he enlisted you—his older sister—to do his dirty work for him. What I don’t understand is—why you agreed to it?”

I look at Nick and, in the firmest voice I can muster, say, “My brother had absolutely NOTHING to do with this. It was ALL ME.”

“No use trying to protect him, now,” Agent Sanchez says. He raps his fist loudly on the table, and the noise makes me jump in my seat.

“Ronnie Piatro may not have been the triggerman himself,” Agent Sanchez says, “but what he did is get you involved in conspiracy to commit murder. You’ll both be charged as accomplices.”

I look into Nick’s eyes, and he watches me, carefully, as a tear rolls down my cheek.

“This can’t be right,” I whisper.

“If you testify against your brother, we’ll work out a deal,” Agent Sanchez says.

“Hey, take it easy,” Nick says to Agent Sanchez.

I guess they’re giving me the good cop/ bad cop routine.

“Your brother is
going down
,” Agent Sanchez says, his eyes narrowing to little slits.

“Ronnie is innocent! He’s a drug rehab counselor! He had no motive!” I nearly shout.

Both of the agents digest this information, and then Nick says, “We disagree. He had a very big motive. And it’s called ‘money.’ Pure and simple.”

I think of the twenty-thousand-dollar donation I made to Ronnie’s anonymous “Just Say Yes!” to Sobriety fund.

“As if my brother would commit murder for twenty thousand dollars,” I say, hanging my head.

I can’t believe I got Ronnie mixed up with this. If I were my brother, I’d never forgive me. No matter how Christian he is.

“Twenty thousand dollars?” Nick asks. “Try again, Madeline.”

“Please listen to me! You’ve got it all wrong!” I say, in a pleading voice. “How can I convince you that it was all my idea…”

Nick passes a large manila envelope across the table.

I stare down at it. “What is this?”

“Photographs,” he says. “Of the crime scene.”

I finger the envelope and my body goes cold. Photographs of Carlton. Dead. With multiple gunshot wounds.

“Wh-wh-where did it happen?” I ask.

“In his car,” Nick says.

I think of Carlton inside his black BMW. Shot to death. I can’t bear to look at the photographs.

Agent Sanchez grabs the envelope, opens it impatiently, and sends the photos flying across the table.

I look up at the spackled ceiling. At the brown watermark stain creeping out from the air conditioning vent. This will be my fate from now on. Miserable jailhouse conditions. The smell of mold and stale, recirculated air. And I deserve every minute of it.

I grip the table with my hands and steady myself for what comes next.

The first photograph is blurry. I pick it up. It’s the inside of a car, and what looks like blood stains over the seats.

The second picture is more graphic. It’s of the top of a man’s head. Slouched over the steering wheel. There’s blood everywhere in the car, all over the upholstery.

My heart is suddenly pounding in my chest and I can barely breathe.

I pick up the third photograph and gasp.

The dead man is in clear view now. He’s the same size and build as Carlton, and even has the same movie star quality hair. But, he’s definitely
not
Carlton Connors.

“I don’t understand,” I say, in a meek voice. “Is this some kind of trick?”

Agent Sanchez says, “This is the drug lord, Teddy Santino. Better known as Snoop. That’s the name he goes by on the streets. Snoop Santino. This is the man who you hired Florence ‘Dick’ Ferguson to kill. The man your brother wanted dead.”

I sit for a moment in total silence. Taking it all in.

“S-so. Carlton isn’t dead?”

Nick leans across the table and stares into my eyes. “Who’s Carlton?” he asks.

Michael bursts into the interrogation room, jabs his finger into my chest and says, “Never talk to the feds without your lawyer present.”

He’s wearing a suit and tie and carrying his briefcase. He sets it on the floor and takes an empty chair next to me.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask.

“A little birdie called me—your brother. They’ve got him in another interrogation room down the hall,” Michael says.

He looks from Nick to Agent Sanchez, and then at Nick again. “This is a case of misunderstandin’ and you guys know it. My clients, Ronnie Piatro and Madeline Piatro had nothing to do with the murder of Snoop Santino. Zero. Zip. You fellows are grabbin’ at straws.”

Nick looks at Michael and says, “The weapon used at the crime scene matches the gun that Florence ‘Dickie’ Ferguson carries.”

“I’ve spoken to Mr. Ferguson, and he’s also retained me as his attorney.” Michael pulls a sheet of paper from his briefcase and passes it to Nick. Here’s my contract with Mr. Ferguson’s signature on the bottom,” he says.

Nick looks down at the Retainer Agreement and says, “Continue.”

“Mr. Ferguson is retired from his old business. He’s had no contact with Snoop Santino for several months. He thinks he knows who killed Snoop Santino, though, and he’s willing to talk, in exchange for full immunity.”

“So you’re telling us that Maddy was meeting with Florence Ferguson for reasons other than the murder of Snoop Santino?” Nick asks, and I notice his voice sounds almost hopeful. He also called me Maddy.

Michael looks at me, pointedly, and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I think Ms. Piatro can best explain her reasons for meeting with Mr. Ferguson,” he says, and then adds, “at Starbucks coffee of all places.”

Nick, Agent Sanchez, and Michael all turn in their chairs and stare at me.

I take a deep breath. “It started back in grad school…” I begin. “At one of these cocktail mixers for young professionals…”

An hour later, I’m in a large holding cell with my brother and Florence “Dickie” Ferguson. There’s another guy in there with us. Ronnie tells me that he’s probably an undercover agent posing as a busted criminal. I can smell the guy’s cologne. The same shit Carlton used to wear.

Terrific.

It doesn’t smell like a romantic log cabin in the woods. It smells like a damn forest fire.

“What kind of cologne are you wearing?” I ask the undercover guy.

“It’s called ‘Audacity’,” he says.

Perfect‚
I think.

My brother glances around the jail cell. Apparently, he knows his way around the place.

“Have I told you lately, Maddy, how much I love the DEA?” Ronnie says, in a sarcastic tone.

I chew on my lip because what can I say? I’m the reason he’s here.

“I’m really pissed off at you, Sister,” Ronnie says. But he doesn’t have to say it. I can see it in his eyes. He’s back to his old eyes again. The angry eyes I used to see all the time when he was doing drugs. Funny how my brother forgets the whole “Jesus forgiveness” thing when the shit hits the fan.

“What happened to turning the other cheek?” I ask. I’m not trying to rile him up; I’m just making a point.

I’m surprised when my brother says, staring down at his feet. “You’re absolutely right, Maddy. We should pray.” He bows his head and makes the Sign of the Cross.

“Wow, you really do practice what you preach.”

“I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t.”

He mumbles a few words, a silent prayer under his breath. I know he’s asking God to forgive me and so on and so forth.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on with our favorite SS guard?” Florence “Dickie” Ferguson asks, pointing to the undercover guy joining us in the cell.

“Don’t worry. I think Michael will be springing us soon,” I say, and I actually use the phrase “springing us.”

Florence “Dickie” Ferguson glances at his watch and sighs.

“Wherever Florence goes, the shit storm follows,” he says, to no one in particular.

He turns to me and says, “I’m glad I retired from all that dirty business, Jane. Or else I’d be doing hard time. I’ve got you to thank for that.”

“Uh. You’re welcome, Dick,” I say. It’s odd for me to start calling him Florence, so I’m still calling him Dick. I think he likes it, because he smiles his big white smile.

Heather and Michael suddenly appear in front of the jail cell bars.

“My white knight has appeared,” Florence says. He stares Heather up and down. “And he’s brought a Princess with him. So, who might this be?”

“That’s my wife, and she’s off limits,” Michael says, in a strong voice. And I guess he’s kind of kidding, and kind of not. Michael can be a tough nut, sometimes.

A guard appears and lets us all out of the cell. I notice that the undercover guy steps out, too. Well, well.

Heather rushes up to me and gives me a little hug.

“Why didn’t you tell me!” she squeals.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

We exchange meaningful looks. Goodness. What would I do without my dear, sweet friend?

Michael says, “Heather’s cookin’ up a storm so you guys are welcome to come over for dinner, tonight.”

Ronnie says, “Free food. You’re on.”

Florence shuffles his boot-clad foot along the floor. “Does that include me?”

Michael claps the former hit man on the shoulder. “Sure does, buddy. You’re a new client, ain’t ya?”

I watch Florence break out into a huge grin. He turns toward Heather and introduces himself with a formal handshake.

“Is this joker really your husband?” he asks, thumbing his finger toward Michael.

“My one and only,” Heather says, kissing Michael on the cheek.

“Let me know if you ever have problems with him,” Florence says.

“Why?” Heather asks.

“I’m an expert in nonviolent retribution,” he says, winking at me. “I specialize in female revenge therapy.”

“May come in handy,” Heather replies.

Michael says, “Hey now. Be nice to your lawyer.”

We start walking toward the door. I take Michael to the side and ask him if there are going to be any further ramifications with the Carlton issue. Particularly the stolen bike and stolen wristwatch.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Michael says. “The Feds don’t dick around with nickel-and-dime stuff.”

“It wasn’t exactly nickels and dimes,” I say.

“You gave the money to Ronnie’s rehab program, didn’t you?” Michael asks.

“Don’t tell Ronnie. He’ll be crushed.”

Michael bolts around and grips me by the shoulders. “Okay, Maddy. But promise me you’re finished with this.”

I hold up three fingers and say, “Boy Scouts Honor.”

Michael says, “That’s not the way you do it, but it’s close enough.”

We reach the parking lot and amble toward Michael’s car. Ronnie lights up a cigarette first thing. And Heather says, “You know those things will kill you.”

Florence “Dickie” Ferguson chuckles out loud and says, “Among other things.”

I hear someone calling out my name, “Maddy, wait!”

Turning, I see it’s Nick. Racing across the parking lot. We all stop walking. Michael mutters under his breath. “Great. Now what?”

Nick Montana jogs over to us and I notice he’s out of breath. Our eyes meet and the electric sparks are back. We could light up a stadium over here.

“May I speak to you a moment?” he asks. “In private.”

Michael says, “Not without her lawyer.”

“Hold on,” Nick says, sticking his hand up in the air. “It’s not about that.”

I wave my hands to shoo away my friends, and my brother, who is eyeing me, suspiciously.

“It’s alright. Go ahead, you guys. I’ll catch up,” I say.

Nick waits for everyone to get out of earshot.

“I want you to know that I felt there was something between us,” he says, finally.

I look into his eyes, this stranger, and part of me wants to walk away. But I don’t.

“I understand,” I say. “You were just doing your job.”

Nick stares down at the pavement. When he looks back at me, his eyes are burning a vivid blue. “I’ve been investigating a drug operation led by Snoop Santino. Florence Ferguson was Snoop Santino’s main hit guy, so I followed him all the time. Imagine my surprise when I saw you meet up with him at that coffee shop. And then to find out who your brother was. Talk about a smoking gun.”

“Clever tactic, Nick. To join my tennis club and then take me out to dinner and make me think I was out on an actual date.”

I shake my head. “Silly, silly me. You must’ve been shocked when I kissed you out of the blue.”

“I have to admit, it’s the first time I’ve been kissed by someone I was investigating.”

“I’m glad I made history,” I say.

Nick grabs my arm in that rock hard grip of his, but this time, instead of scaring me, it sends shivers running through me.

“Wait. Let’s not end things like this. The night we went out—and at tennis—I felt…” he trails off.

“I don’t know anything about you,” I say.

Nick pulls me toward him and stares down into my eyes. “I told you my last name was Montana. I’ve never told a suspect my real last name,” he says.

“I’m flattered.”

Nick drops my arm. “How do you feel about giving this a second chance?” he asks. “Making it real this time.”

I glance over my shoulder and see Heather and Ronnie staring at me from across the parking lot.

They’re both giving me the thumbs-up sign.

I take a deep breath and think,
what the heck
?

“We’re all going over to Michael and Heather’s house for dinner, if you’d care to join us.”

He looks at me and hesitates. “Are you sure? I mean, I’d love to. But I don’t want to intrude.”

“Leap first, look later,” I say.

Nick grins and reaches for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. I don’t know what it is, but I feel great all of a sudden. The best I’ve felt in a very long time.

“Shall we?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes.”

As we turn toward the car, Michael, Heather, Ronnie, and Florence “Dickie” Ferguson begin to clap.