FOR THE REST OF THE day, Erica fights her frustration. She feels like she’s so close, but with a murder investigation close doesn’t cut it. She has another lousy night, tossing in bed, edgy and fearful, filled with dark thoughts, and in the morning she feels aggravated, thwarted, fidgety, out of sorts—as if a way forward is tantalizingly close, in front of her but just out of her grasp. She sits up in bed and replays her time with Fiona. Her mind keeps going back to Desmond. If she could get to him at the right time—aka when he needs a fix—she might be able to buy a little information pretty cheap. Or maybe Samuels could apply a little pressure on him—after all, heroin possession is a felony.
Erica skips her morning Tae Kwon Do. She just can’t focus, and she can’t eat either—she’s too keyed up. An appetite seems like some distant luxury. She flips on the local news. The anchor reports on a large hurricane forming in the south Atlantic and heading northwest toward Florida, and then says, “Now let’s go to reporter Gabriella Garcia in the Woodlawn neighborhood of the Bronx, where a well-known local businesswoman was killed in a tragic hit-and-run accident last night.”
The screen cuts to Garcia: “I’m standing on the corner of Katonah Avenue and East 237th Street where, at just after eleven o’clock last night, Fiona Connor was walking her Rottweiler when a car ran a red light and struck her. The vehicle did not stop. Connor, fifty-seven, was pronounced dead at the scene. The lone eyewitness, an eighty-two-year-old male, is reported to be in shock and unable to recall any details about the accident.”
Accident? I don’t think so.
Erica switches off the set. She fights to contain the fear that floods over her. Another dead body. Another hit. Another killing. But under the fear, she senses an opening. Her hands shake slightly as she calls Fiona’s office.
A woman’s voice answers, “Celtic Home.”
“This is Erica Sparks, I was a client of Fiona’s. I’m so sorry about her death.”
“It sucks. This is her niece, Maureen Scarpetti. Yeah, I married an Italian. Almost got kicked out of the family. Oh, there’s another call coming in. It’s crazy around here.”
“Can you tell me where the funeral will be? I’d like to pay my respects.”
“She’s being waked tomorrow, starting at two at her house, 421 East 232nd Street.”
For the rest of the day and the next morning, Erica keeps her blinders on, head down, goes through the motions. She shows up at the office, tries to get some work done on her show, but she can’t focus. Finally it’s time to head up to Woodlawn—she calls Uber. She wants to arrive early at the wake so she can clock who comes and goes—she doubts the person she’s looking for will show up, but there’s no substitute for eyes and ears on the ground.
Fiona’s house is redbrick, looks like it was built in the 1930s, with a wide front porch. Erica gets out of the car. It’s a few minutes after two and already the place is jammed, people spilling out onto the porch, most of them with drinks in their hands. There’s lots of loud laughter, the kind you hear when people who’ve known each other forever are dragging up the greatest hits from the glory days. Erica is dressed casually, wearing just a touch of makeup, but as she heads up the walk, she notices stares of recognition. Someone on the porch calls her name, but she pretends not to hear and goes into the house.
To the right of the foyer is the dining room, the immense table covered with scores of mismatched casseroles and dishes. There’s a bar set up in one corner—it’s a popular spot. To the left is the parlor—with Fiona’s open coffin at the far end. Except for the ghoulish, somewhat surreal fact that there’s a heavily made up, perfectly coiffed corpse in the room, the wake feels like a drunken bash. Erica makes her way through the crush toward the coffin, hearing snippets of conversation:
“Ding-dong, the witch is dead.”
“What she put up with . . . that boy.”
“Is Diaz here yet? He’s going to miss her, for sure.”
“I hear she has millions stashed away in the Caymans.”
“Eddie Spellman never comes back to the old neighborhood.”
“I hope Saint Peter takes bribes.”
Erica wonders who Diaz is and why he’s going to miss Fiona. She reaches the coffin. The embalmers have done their best, but she still looks many miles from “at peace.” Desmond is standing next to the coffin, swimming in a cheap suit, greeting mourners. His eyes are lidded—the man is definitely high—but he seems pretty broken up.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Erica says.
“The world won’t see the likes of her again.” He starts to cry—and it starts to feel like a performance.
Erica feels intrusive but can’t let that stop her. “Listen, Desmond, do you think we could talk at some point?”
He nods his head. “The funeral’s tomorrow. I’m flying to Vegas two days after that. It was Mom’s favorite place.”
“How long will you be out there?”
“Week or two. I’m staying at the Bellagio.” He can’t contain a tiny smirk—someone just came into some money.
There’s a murmur in the room, and Erica turns. A middle-aged Hispanic man, an aide on either side of him, is making his way through the throng. He’s working the room, shaking hands, touching arms, leaning in to listen.
“Who’s that?” Erica asks a woman standing next to her.
“That’s Assemblyman Ruben Diaz. Fiona was involved in local politics. She knew how to deliver votes. Among other things.”
Diaz reaches the coffin and looks down at Fiona’s dead body with exaggerated sympathy. Then he turns and hugs Desmond. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks, Ruben. It’s rough.”
“You need anything. Ever. You call me.”
“Thanks, man.”
Then Diaz notices Erica. “Wait a second . . . It’s Erica Sparks!” He beams and holds out his hand. “What a pleasure to meet you.” Diaz is nice looking, expansive, charming, with cunning eyes. “Did you know Fiona?”
“She showed me a building.”
“Erica Sparks wants to buy a building in my district? I’m honored.”
“We were also in preliminary discussions on another matter,” Erica says.
“Oh?” Diaz’s voice grows wary. “And what might that be?”
Erica senses she’s hit a nerve. “I’m not sure this is the right place to talk.”
“Agreed. Why don’t you call my office and we can set something up.” He nods to one of his aides, who pulls out a card and hands it to Erica.
“Actually, do you think we could talk outside? The matter is pressing.”
Diaz’s eyes narrow. He looks around the room as if he’s searching for an escape hatch. He rubs his jaw. “Yeah, sure, of course. I’ll be right out. We can talk in my car.”
Erica puts his card in her purse and then gets Desmond’s cell number. As she makes her way out of the party, she’s cajoled into several sloppy selfies. The whole scene starts to give her a bad case of claustrophobia—the screaming voices, slurred speech, exaggerated emotions—boy, is she thankful she’s sober.
Down at the curb Diaz is standing in front of a long black car, talking intently on his cell. As Erica approaches, he hangs up and gives her another big smile. Then he opens the car door and gestures her in with a little bow.
The inside of the car is a hushed world of buttery black leather. Sweat has broken out on Diaz’s hairline.
“So, Erica, you’re the last person I’d expect to see in Woodlawn, at Fiona Connor’s wake. She seems like pretty small fish.” He laughs nervously, his suave showing some cracks.
“Some small fish swim with sharks. I understand you and she had a mutually beneficial relationship.”
Diaz takes out a handkerchief and mops his brow. “Fiona was very committed to her community.”
“To maintaining its character, you mean?”
“You might put it that way.” Diaz looks at his watch, looks out the window, looks at Erica, beseeching. “Look, we rubbed each other’s backs, okay?”
“I’m listening.”
Diaz takes a deep breath, slumps a little in resignation. “A halfway house wanted to come into the neighborhood. Fiona didn’t want them. I was able to get the zoning . . . adjusted. Quickly. Without a lot of people noticing.”
“That’s your scratch. What was hers?”
Diaz leans forward, elbows on knees, palms clasped, eyes closed, silent. He stays that way for a long moment, and when he speaks, it’s in the steady voice of truth. “I love my wife. More than anything in the world. But we’ve been married for twenty-five years. There’s a lot of temptation out there. I’m human. Fiona owns apartments . . . quiet apartments on quiet streets.”
Erica sighs to herself. Midnight zoning changes and enabling extramarital affairs are a million miles from where she wants to be.
“Look, I talked to my lawyer,” Diaz says. “What I did was stupid, but it’s not a felony. And what Fiona did wasn’t even illegal. But it’s humiliating. For my wife and kids. You understand. I don’t want it plastered on the front page of the Post.”
Erica likes Diaz, he seems like a sincere guy. She just has to make sure.
“Did you know Fiona was involved in Kay Barrish’s murder?”
Diaz jerks upright and looks at Erica, his mouth open. She nods. A big smile of relief spreads across Diaz’s face.