Last to Know: A Novel(48)

“I know it,” Harry said. “And thanks. For everything.”

Harry rang off and Rossetti thought, panicked, it was as though he had said final goodbyes. Jesus, he said to himself, climbing into the BMW and setting off for Beacon Hill. I hope he’s gonna be all right. I just hope he’s gonna be all right.

Harry had not even mentioned the two suspects and he seemed to have forgotten all about the fact that they were holding Bea Havnel for questioning and Wally Osborne for suspected murder. Harry’s own life had overtaken him and he was not coping. It was up to Rossetti to set him straight, remind him of his duty, of his respect to the dead girl’s family. They were cops. This is what they did.

Harry had obviously heard the car pull up and was standing on the steps to greet Rossetti. They held each other in a hug for a long minute. Rossetti could smell the alcohol on his friend’s breath. Squeeze whined softly, wagging his tail.

“Don’t worry, Squeeze, he’ll take good care of you.” Harry spoke to his dog, urging Rossetti indoors.

In the living room, he indicated the bottle of Jim Beam, lifted a glass questioningly. Rossetti shook his head. “It’s better if only one of us is drunk, my friend,” he said, taking a seat opposite Harry, who sank into his red leather chair, gazing back at him, as though, Rossetti thought, he had all the cares of the world on his shoulders.

“You didn’t do it, you know,” Rossetti said, deciding to get straight to the point.

Harry raised his brows, but said nothing.

“Jemima died because of her own foolishness, not your misguidance of her. You did not encourage her. You had no idea she would take matters into her own hands. Jemima was young but she was obviously very much her own woman. She was reckless and got herself into a game that was bigger than she knew how to play.”

Rossetti leaned forward, shoulders stooped, hands clasped between his knees, his handsome face worried. “Harry, the girl got herself into a situation she shouldn’t have, and suffered the unfortunate consequences. Unfortunately, ‘consequences’ is a word few of us ever think about when we lose our heads, whether in sex, marriage. Or murder. She put herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all.”

Harry’s eyes met his over his glass of Jim Beam. “Did you see the look on her face?” he asked, as though suddenly remembering it himself.

All Rossetti could think of was the amount of blood and those pearls like from a little girl’s necklace … they had grieved his heart, those pearls.

“Jemima was surprised when it happened,” Harry said, recalling her expression. “Not just that somebody was gonna strike her, but as though she recognized the person that did it. I think she knew him, Detective.”

Rossetti said nothing. He went to the bar and found some Perrier in the refrigerator. He drank it out of the bottle, went back and sat again in his chair opposite Harry, who, Rossetti thought, seemed to be coming to his senses. At least Harry was thinking again. Constructively thinking about Jemima’s killing, not simply hiding from it.

Rossetti said, “I have it from forensics that from the angle of the entry, the assailant was pretty much the same size as Jemima. Not more than an inch in it.”

“Then that would eliminate Wally Osborne, who’s well over six feet,” Harry said, surprised because he clearly recalled Wally standing over Jemima.

“It doesn’t eliminate Bea Havnel though,” Rossetti said, noting Harry’s startled expression as he took in what he’d just heard.

“That kid.” Harry got up and began to stride around the room, as far as the ebony baby grand in the window, then back again, and then again with the dog tagging at his heels, hoping for a walk. “She wouldn’t harm a fly. Christ, have you forgotten, man, she almost died in the fire that killed the mother, and she might have drowned if I didn’t get there in time.”

“But she didn’t,” Rossetti said, taking another slug of his Perrier. “Besides, let’s not forget we have some identity issues here. The woman was not Lacey Havnel. That woman died years ago, in Miami, Florida. The young woman who calls herself her daughter might be anyone. Anyone at all. One thing’s for sure, her name is not Bea Havnel. Besides, we need to think again about Roman. I’m willing to bet that kid was lovesick for Bea. And let’s not forget all we know about his movements that night to what he told us. Never forget, he’s the one who could come and go from that house, via his private outdoor staircase, with no one the wiser.”

Harry thought about it. A young man crazy in love? Did that description fit the silent, watchful Roman? He sighed. You just never knew, but for Rose’s sake he hoped not.

“Jesus.” Harry sat down again in the red leather chair. Squeeze went and stood in front of him, ears pricked, eyes pleading, still hoping for that walk. “So,” Harry said, after thinking for a while. “We have two dead people. At least, two that we know about. We know the woman was a drug dealer, how major we don’t yet know, nor who in that line of business might have wanted to eliminate her. We have Divon, who worked for her and claims to know nothing. And a young woman who shall be nameless and who is not anyway who she claims to be.”

“I think you and I have some questions to ask her,” Rossetti said, getting to his feet.

“No time like the present,” Harry said, also getting up, but Rossetti shook his head.