Betrayed (Rosato & DiNunzio, #2)(95)
It was over.
Judy blinked, surprised, though she shouldn’t have been. Frank wasn’t the kind of man to drag things out, and she knew she had hurt him. Her mouth went dry. Something about his being gone seemed inconceivable, though she had willed it to happen. She found herself shaking her head. She crossed to their dresser and pulled out his drawer, which started with the fourth, but it was empty. She closed it and went to the fifth drawer, opening it even though she knew what she’d find, like a psycho ex on autopilot.
She left the drawer hanging open, straightened up, and looked around, seeing a bedroom she barely recognized, now that she started noticing things. Frank’s framed photos and favorite Oakley sunglasses were missing from the top of the dresser, and his series of black kettlebells in graduated weights were no longer lined up against the wall, where she used to trip over them. In place of the Frank-things were her mother’s things—a pump bottle of Cetaphil hand lotion, a small green jar of La Mer eye cream, and an old-school folding travel clock by the bed—and her Aunt Barb’s things—the compression bras she’d bought at the mastectomy boutique, a large-size Ziploc bag of medication in brown plastic bottles, and a stack of mystery novels.
Judy scanned the room, which struck her as a total mess, strewn with debris, damage of its own kind. She couldn’t help but see it as a mirror of her life, in matching disarray, with Frank gone and her mother and aunt jumbled together, the lines between the two women blurred, their respective roles impossible to delineate, much less define. Mother and aunt, aunt and mother, both women seemed to be occupying the same place at the same time, which everyone knew was impossible, most especially Mother Nature.
Judy turned away, left the bedroom, and walked stiffly to the bathroom, with the dog at her heels. She flipped on the light switch and avoided looking in the mirror because she didn’t want to play match-the-facial-feature again. She reached inside the shower and turned on the faucet, trying not to think another thought or feel another emotion. She undressed while she waited for the water to warm up, shedding her borrowed sweatclothes, which Penny came over to sniff avidly.
Judy stepped naked into the shower, letting the warm water run over her cuts and bruises, feeling it wash away the manure and the ashes, cleansing her of the blood and the grime, and she didn’t know when she started crying, but she was pretty sure she would never, ever stop.
Chapter Forty-five
Next morning, Judy emerged from her front door, reflexively raising her hand against the press stationed outside the row-house that held her apartment. Photographers aimed cameras with wide rubber lenses at Judy’s face, and TV reporters rushed forward, extending their black bubble microphones. She’d known they were there, having seen them from her window, so she plowed through them with her head down, ignoring their shouted questions.
“Ms. Carrier, was the car bomb intended for you?” “Why were you in Chester County?” “Did you know Carlos Ramiro and Roberto Rivera?” “How are you involved?” “Who are you representing?” “Is it true that Father Oscar Vega assaulted you?”
“No comment!” Judy called, hustling down the street, looking for a cab. Traffic clogged both lanes, and passersby stared at the scene, stopping on their way to work. It was a sunny day, and she knew she’d look like a freak in this light, with foundation hardly covering the tiny cuts on her face and lip gloss doing nothing to her split lip but making it look slicker. She’d dressed in a boring navy sweater and pants, with a trenchcoat on top, in case she had to go back to the FBI offices. Her trenchcoat flew behind her as she broke into a light run, but the reporters ran after her.
“Come on, Judy!” “Don’t you have a comment for us, Judy?” “Are you or Bennie Rosato stepping in for the defense of anyone? Do you know who the targets of the federal investigation will be?” “Can you comment on the murder of Domingo Gutierrez?”
Judy cringed at the sound of Domingo’s name. She’d thought of him all last night, hardly sleeping and replaying their meeting over and over in her mind. She spotted a cab and flagged it down, with reporters at her heels.
“Ms. Carrier, did you know the men who died at the treatment facility, Carlos Ramiro and Roberto Rivera? Were they conspirators with Domingo Gutierrez?” “How did you get involved?” “Are there any persons of interest? Any indictments coming down the pipeline?”
Judy ran to meet the cab as it pulled over to the curb, and when it stopped, she jumped inside and turned away from the reporters as camera flashes fired at her, inside the backseat.
“You somebody important?” the cabbie called over his shoulder, as the cab took off. He was young and African-American, in a mesh Sixers cap.
“Not in the least,” Judy answered, then told him where she needed to go.
Chapter Forty-six
“Hi, Mom, Aunt Barb.” Judy entered the hospital room, trying to suppress the tension she felt inside.
“Good morning, dear,” her mother said, looking over with a nervous smile. She’d been packing items from the bed table in a white plastic bag, but she walked over, bag in hand, and gave Judy a quick peck on the cheek. She was freshly made-up, back in her favorite long gray sweater, black knit leggings, and black ballet shoes, but her manner was stilted. “Did it go okay, at the FBI?”