The man who walks through the door is Inspector Tucci.
Who’s he, you ask?
Close readers of whatever this is will find the name familiar. That’s because it’s the name of the inspector Connor and I took our evidence to ten years ago. The one who didn’t like Connor. Who didn’t believe us to start out with. And who was pissed at us even once it turned out that everything we told him was true.154
Back then, Inspector Tucci was a rising star in Rome’s police department. What he’s doing in Naples is anyone’s guess. But given the expression on his face155, 156 as he surveys the room, then lands on me, then Connor, we’re about to find out.
“Mr. Smith,” he says in nearly perfect English with a slight British accent to it. I think he studied in the UK, or maybe he did an exchange with Scotland Yard. It’s not like policemen’s résumés are just out there on the internet. “And Ms. Dash. Together again.”
“Inspector Tucci,” I say, mustering a smile. “How nice to see you.”
Connor shoots me a look, but then smothers it and holds out his hand. “Small world.”
Inspector Tucci looks at Connor’s hand like it’s a snake. “It is not, as you say, a small world, but a cruel one.”
“Yes, I … It’s terrible what happened to Shek…”
But Inspector Tucci’s not looking at Connor anymore. Instead, he walks past him and toward the easel near the fireplace with our theorizing on it. Isabella steps aside, capping the pen she’s been using, and Inspector Tucci stands in front of it for a long moment, then takes a photo of it with his phone. Then he turns to face us, taking us in one by one while we wait for him to say something.
Anything.
I believe this is what they call a pregnant silence.157
Inspector Tucci’s dark eyes stop on the small table next to the couch I’m sitting on. He walks toward it and picks up my notebook. “Does this belong to someone here?”
I feel the need to put up my hand like I’ve been called on in class but squash it. “Yes, it’s mine.”
He pockets it in his blazer. He isn’t wearing a uniform, and he didn’t in Rome either. Back then, he was always well tailored, but now he’s a bit rumpled, and his suit has that shine to it that clothes get when they’ve been dry-cleaned one too many times. Inspector Tucci has come down in the world.158
“What are you—?”
“All of you will turn in your bags and the items in your pockets to Officer Salvo, and then I will bring you in for individual questioning.”
“Do you know what happened to Shek?” Emily asks.
“Mr. Botha? He is dead.”159
“Yes, we know that, Tucci, but how?”
Inspector Tucci gives Connor a cold glare. “It is Inspector Tucci. And I do not have to answer your questions.” He turns back to the rest of us. “You will stay here while your rooms are searched.”
“Don’t you need a warrant?” Guy asks. He and Inspector Tucci also met once or twice back in the day and had a grudging respect for each other.
“This is Italy, not America.”160
“And if we don’t agree?” Connor asks.
“Is there some reason why you don’t want your person or room searched, Mr. Smith?”
Connor works his jaw. “Of course not.”
“Then we will not have a problem.”
“Oh, but I do have a problem. I know why you’re in Naples. You got reassigned there, didn’t you, after you failed to solve the Giuseppe robberies on your own?”
Inspector Tucci doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare at Connor with enmity.
“You should recuse yourself from the case.”
“Pardon me?”
“You can’t investigate this,” Connor says. “I’m the intended victim. You have as much reason to want me dead as any of them. Maybe more than some. You’re biased.”
“That is ridiculous. As ridiculous as your assumptions generally are. I do not hate you. I have a beautiful life in Naples. The ocean is warm, the pizza is delicious, and the cases are generally easy to solve, as I’m sure this one will prove to be.” He looks to the easel. “Who is Allison?”
This time, Allison does raise her hand. “That’s me.”
“Allison…?”
“Smith.”
Inspector Tucci glances at Connor and then back to Allison. “How unfortunate.”
Allison laughs. “Don’t pity me. I divorced him long ago.”
Inspector Tucci’s eyes flit in my direction.
“Yes, that’s right. It was her fault. Hers and Connor’s.”
I sink into the couch, feeling a wave of shame. Oliver hasn’t said anything in a while, and while I want to catch his eye, this isn’t the moment.
Allison laughs again. “Don’t look like that, Eleanor. I forgive you.”
“And me?” Connor asks.
“Let’s not take things too far, shall we?”
“I see you are as good at creating enemies as you always were,” Inspector Tucci says.
Connor places his hands on his hips. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You can’t be on this case.”
“But I am.” He extends a hand. “Mrs. Smith, please come with me.”
“It’s Ms. Smith, now.”
“My apologies.”
She tilts her head down in acknowledgment. “What do you want to speak to me for?”
“Since your party seems to think that you are responsible for this tragedy, I will question you first.”
“You got all that from this?” Isabella says. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be,” Connor says. “You don’t have to talk to him, Allison, if you don’t want to.”
“Oh, now you care about my well-being?”
“I—”
“Forget it, Connor. I can take care of myself.” She gives a little shrug and follows Inspector Tucci out of the room.
The police officer who’s been guarding the door, whose name I’ve already forgotten (I told you I was bad at this), comes in with a notepad and takes our names and basic details. Then he collects everyone’s backpacks and bags, and gets us to turn out our pockets. He also takes our phones, labeling each with our name. He gives no indication of when we’ll get them back.
Then he leaves with our things, and we’re alone again with our thoughts.
“Maybe we should keep working on this?” Harper says, pointing to the easel.
“I’m game,” Emily says.
“But it’s not a game,” Oliver says. “Shek is dead.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” Emily says. “We all saw it happen.”
“If that’s the case, then, did you see anything useful?”
She cocks her head to the side. “I’ve been thinking … Everyone was standing around, holding their glasses. It’s a small deck. We were all near one another. Someone could’ve slipped the poison into Shek’s glass after he took it off the tray.”
I think it through. “But then that would mean Connor wasn’t the intended victim.”
“Yep.”
“Why would someone want to kill Shek?” Isabella asks.
Emily shrugs. “I’m sure the police will figure it out.”
Connor scoffs. “That man is barely a detective.”
“Surprising you don’t get along better, then, isn’t it?” Guy says.
“Really, Guy? You’re so smart? Then tell me why someone would want to kill me, Eleanor, and Shek? Explain it to me like I’m five.”
“I don’t think this is helping,” Oliver says. “We should leave all this to the professionals.”
“I agree,” I say. “We’re not getting anywhere.”
“We got Allison somewhere,” Harper says. “Right into the hot seat.”
I lean against her. “Maybe she did it?”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“No, but my instincts are for shit. That’s pretty well established.”
“Then we should keep on with this,” Harper says. “We can’t let Allison suffer for something she didn’t do.”
I look at the easel. “But the problem is, clearing Allison means making one of us the suspect.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“It’s okay. Solving a murder is fun on paper, but not so much when it’s someone you knew.”
“None of this is okay,” Harper says, looking around the room slowly. “Shek’s dead and one of us did it.”
We don’t talk after that. Instead, we sit there, waiting for our turn to be interrogated, each of us lost in our own thoughts.161
I think about someone going through my things, running their hands in my suitcase, flipping through my notebook, seeing what shows and books I’ve downloaded on my Kindle.162 It feels like judgment, but I’m the one judging myself.
An hour goes by, and then Inspector Tucci returns with Allison.
It’s my turn now, he says, and this time no one makes a move to discourage me from talking to him.
Harper gives my hand a squeeze, and Oliver watches me leave the room,163 but no one else seems to be paying much attention. They’re all too wrapped up in their own fears.
I remember someone telling me once that everyone has something to hide and it’s always at the forefront of their mind when they’re being interrogated, whether it’s related to the crime or not. So the first time a question comes anywhere near the subject you’re afraid of, out the secret comes.
This is somehow related to why people confess to crimes they didn’t commit, though I’m not entirely sure how. All I know is I’m supposed to let Inspector Tucci finish his questions before I say anything, and only answer what’s asked.
In other words, be the opposite of how I usually am.
He takes me to a small conference room on the other side of the reception. There’s one big window, a square table, and a couple of comfortable chairs around it. A small black recording device is in the middle of the table.
Inspector Tucci sits and indicates that I should sit across from him. “Ms. Dash, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Is it?”
He frowns. “I see that you have not changed.”
“What does that mean?”
“Still hostile to the authorities. Still keeping company with Connor Smith.”
“That’s only because of the book tour.”
“Ah, yes. When in Roma,” he says. “I have read this book.”
I sit in my chair. “Good read?”
He raises his eyebrows. “A lot of facts have been rearranged. And this inspector character. He’s me, yes?”
“It’s fiction.”
“He’s described exactly like me.”
“Are you going to sue me?”
“No, Ms. Dash. Italians are not so quick to go to the courts as you Americans.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve had much success with this book.”164
“Yes.”
“A whole series, many millions of copies sold?”
“That’s what it says on the cover.”
“And Mr. Smith, he’s the hero in all of these books.”
“I’d say more that Cecilia Crane is the hero. Connor’s the sidekick.”
“Regardless, they go together. They are, how do you say, the backbone of the series.”
“Yes.”
“But you are sick of Mr. Smith.”
“In the book or in life?”
“Both, I think.”
“We’ve had our differences. As you know, Connor can be … a lot.”
He taps the table with his fingers. “But you’re still romantically involved?”
“No.”
“Since when?”
It sounds like he already knows the answer. Which he might. But how? The only person I ever told about that was Oliver, and Tucci hasn’t talked to him yet.
Unless Allison knows? Maybe that’s why she wanted to kill us? Because she still has feelings for Connor?
That doesn’t feel right, but what do I know.
In the meantime, I have to answer the inspector’s question.
When in doubt, go with the truth.
“We had a dalliance a few years ago. It didn’t mean anything.”
“But this is the reason your relationship with Mr. Oliver Forrest ended, correct?”
“Correct.”
“You dated for four years, I believe.”
I’ve counted out the minutes and days, but if I recite them now, I’m going to seem pathetic.
“That’s right.”
“You must have been upset.”
“I was, yes.”
“And Mr. Forrest, too?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You perhaps both blamed Mr. Smith for this occurrence?”
He’s not getting me to fall for that. “No, Inspector Tucci. I was an adult who made a bad decision. Oliver was upset at me, and so was I. It wasn’t Connor’s fault.”
“No? The man generally has some part in it.”
“I was upset at the situation. But that was three years ago. It’s in the past.”
“For Mr. Forrest as well?”
I’m not falling for this either.165 “You’ll have to ask Oliver how he felt.”
“I will. But you resented Mr. Smith. You have for a long time, maybe.”
“We’re not friends.”
“You felt trapped with him. That you, perhaps, had to write about him?”
“He’s the main character in my books, as you pointed out.”
“Books you didn’t want to write anymore?”
Goddamn it, Allison. Couldn’t you throw suspicion off of yourself without putting it on me?
“I’m on the last book of my contract.”
“Ah, yes. Amalfi Made Me Do It.” Something flashes in his hand. It’s my notebook. My notebook, where I’ve been outlining Amalfi Made Me Do It. The book where I kill Connor off.
Shit.
“I was thinking of ending the series, yes.”
“By killing Mr. Smith?”
“Yes.”
He flips open the notebook. “And you contemplated many ways for him to die? You enjoyed this, perhaps.”
“It’s an outline. For the book. It’s how I figure out the plot. I write down questions and suggestions, and eventually the story comes together.”
“And one of the things you contemplated was poison.”
“I thought of a lot of things. But those are just ideas. Not anything I did.”
“No?”
“No.” I pause, trying to remember what I wrote in there. This is why I hate outlining. I never remember what I write and end up taking the story in an entirely different direction anyway.166 “Didn’t Allison tell you that someone is trying to kill me and Connor?”
“She did say that, yes.”
“So, then you know that I’m not the one who tried to kill Connor.”
“I do not know that at all. What Ms. Smith told me was conjecture. Suggestions that could have been planted by you.”
“What do you mean?”
He opens up his hands and lays them palms up on the table. Nothing to see here. “What is the evidence that someone is trying to kill you?”
“Someone pushed me down the stairs last night.”
“You could have, how you say, staged that.”
“Ask Oliver. Mr. Forrest. He saw me … He saved me…”
Inspector Tucci watches me as my words die in my mouth. “Ms. Dash, I will speak with Mr. Forrest, but in the meantime, what I have to deal with are facts.”
“What are the facts, according to you?”
He holds up his index finger. “Fact one: You have a tumultuous relationship with Mr. Smith. Fact two: You are outlining how to make him disappear from your life. Fact three: Mr. Smith knows about this and is unhappy. Fact four: Someone has been trying to kill Mr. Smith and may have gone so far as to kill another person to cover up that crime. Fact five: A master room key was stolen from your sister’s purse, a master room key which we found in your room.”
“I don’t know how that got there. I just found it yesterday.”
“That is a convenient excuse.”
“It’s the truth.”
“I deal in facts, as I said, not what you decide the truth is.”
“What about the fact that I didn’t try to kill Connor?”
He ignores me and moves on to the fingers on his second hand. “Fact six: One of the methods you contemplated using on Mr. Smith was poison. Fact seven: Mr. Botha died of poisoning after consuming a glass of Champagne that was meant for Mr. Smith—”
“It was Prosecco.”
Shut up, El.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. It was nothing.” I try to regulate my breathing. “But wait. I knew Connor didn’t drink Champagne. I would never have tried to poison him that way.”
“That is not a defense.”
“Am I on trial?”
“You might be, Ms. Dash.”
I swallow down my fear. “I didn’t try to kill Connor.”
“Then how do you explain this?” He holds up a small needle attached to a plastic disk with a loop on it, like one of those candy engagement rings I used to love when I was little.
“What is that?”
“Mr. Botha wasn’t poisoned with the Champagne.”
“What?”
“He was poisoned with this. Injected into the back, like so.” He positions the device between his fingers, then makes a stabbing motion. “You see, it is quick, over in the blink of an eye. No one would notice.”
My mind is a tilt-a-whirl. “I … Shek was the intended victim?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was hoping you could illuminate me on that.”
“I don’t know why anyone would want to kill Shek.”
“Perhaps he saw you do something in the last few days. I see from your notebook that he was near the Vatican when the attempt was made on Mr. Smith’s life.”
“But I wasn’t there. I mean, I was, but I didn’t push Connor into traffic.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“No, speak to Harper. She was with me that whole day.”
“Harper, your sister?”
“Yes.”
“She would naturally provide you with an alibi.”
I shake my head. “No, she’s not a liar.”
That’s me. I’m the liar. “Why would I be trying to solve the case if I knew who did it all along?”
“Cover.”
“Cover for what?”
“For this,” he says, holding up the ring again.
“I’ve never seen that in my life.”
“I’m very surprised to hear it, given that it was found in your backpack.”
AMALFI MADE ME DO IT—OUTLINE
I don’t think I can write this book anymore.