We are woken up the next morning to the sound of Enzo’s phone ringing.
I rub my eyes as he fumbles around to find it on the nightstand. I hear his sleepy, “Hello?” And then his body goes rigid.
“Yes,” he says into the receiver. “I can come to the station. I just I have to reschedule some things, and Yes, she can come too. We just need to get the kids off to school, but Yes, okay. I’ll be there.” Enzo hangs up the phone, looking about as wide awake as I have ever seen him at this hour of the day. “That is Detective Willard,” he says. “He wants us both to come to the station. To talk.”
And now I am equally awake. “Did he say anything else?” “No. That is all.”
Again, I know from experience that asking us to come to the station isn’t a good thing. He wants to make sure whatever we say is on the record.
I wonder if they found out anything else.
“I think,” I say, “that we should call Ramirez.”
Enzo sighs. “I do not want to bother him. And he is retired, no?” “He said he was retiring last time we talked, but I bet he didn’t.” He hesitates for only a second. “Okay. Call him.”
Enzo and I don’t have a ton of close friends, but one of our closest is Benito Ramirez, a detective with the NYPD. I met him during a dark time in my life, when I was accused of something terrible that I hadn’t done, and he went a long way to make sure that all the charges were
completely dropped. We have become good friends since then, and we have helped each other out when we can. When Ada was born, we asked him to be her godfather. He’s the biggest workaholic I know—even worse than Enzo—but we’ve spent a lot of time together over the years, and he’s always had presents at the holidays and birthdays for his godchildren.
Also, he’s the only person who might be happy to hear from me at this hour of the morning.
I select Ramirez’s name from my list of contacts. Enzo keeps his dark eyes on me as I place the call. It rings twice, and then the detective’s familiar gravelly voice fills my ear.
“Millie?” he says, sounding as wide awake as I am. “Is that you, Millie Calloway?”
He’s the only person who still calls me by my maiden name, even though I have been Accardi for over a decade. “Yes, it is.”
“Then I’m guessing you’re in some kind of trouble,” he says. But he doesn’t sound angry about it. More like amused.
“We have a bit of a situation,” I admit. I drop my voice, even though the only person in the room is Enzo. “We moved out to Long Island, like I told you last time we talked.”
“Right! You’re a Long Islander now! Are you listening to a lot of Billy Joel? Going to diners every night?”
“My neighbor was just found murdered, Benny.”
That stops him in his tracks. “Jesus, Millie. I’m really sorry to hear that. What’s going on?”
I tell him the whole story about finding Jonathan dead yesterday in his house. I tell him about Detective Willard and being asked to come down to the station this morning. I start to tell him about the blood on Enzo’s hands, but then my husband gives me a look and I shut my mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Ramirez, but well, he’s a cop.
When I finish telling him what happened, Ramirez lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s a wild story. But they don’t got any real reason to suspect you or Enzo, do they?”
“No ”
“So go down to the station and talk to them,” he says. “If anything starts to sound funny, you stop and don’t say another word. Then you
get a good lawyer.”
A good lawyer. I wonder what that would cost. “Benny, I don’t know if we can afford a lawyer right now.”
“Yeah, but they gotta provide you with one. They can’t question you if you say you want a lawyer.”
It will be some public defender who might have no idea what they’re doing. The last time I had a public defender, I ended up in prison for ten years. But it’s better than nothing. I guess.
“Meanwhile,” he says, “I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.” “You still work for the NYPD?” I ask him. “You were talking about
retiring.”
He snorts. “Yeah, well, I’m still here. If I had a wife, she would be furious.”
I give Enzo a thumbs-up. He nods and heads in the direction of the bathroom. The shower starts up, and it’s only then that I blurt out, “Benny, Enzo had blood all over his hands when he came home last night.”
There’s a long silence on the other line. “Blood on his hands?” “He says he cut himself.”
“Maybe he did.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know ”
“Millie,” he says, “one thing I know about Enzo Accardi is that he is a good guy. I don’t think he would kill anyone. But if he did, it would be for a damn good reason.”
That is not untrue.
“Don’t overreact to this,” he advises me. “Your neighbor just got murdered. Of course they’re going to want to question you. The sooner they find the person who did this, the sooner it will be over.” He pauses. “But don’t tell them about the blood on his hands.”
If I had a dime for every time I lied to the police, I wouldn’t have to worry about mortgage payments.
