Torture to Her Soul

  I put it on that day, and I never really took it back off.

  Not for a long time, anyway.

  I'm wearing it again, the first suit I bought. The chest is a little snug, but it still fits me almost like it did back then. It's strange, thinking I haven't physically changed much, but I feel like a vastly different man. Instead of wearing it like armor, it feels like it's rubbing me raw, exposing parts of me that I've kept locked away.

  Kelvin is working the door at Cobalt. He nods at me when I step inside, averting his eyes right away. I stroll past him, into the main bar area.

  Ray is sitting by himself in his usual chair, swirling scotch around in his glass.

  Wordlessly, I step toward the man, sitting carefully in the seat beside him. The waitress glances over, not even bothering to ask before bringing a bottle of pale ale over, still sealed.

  "Alone today?" I ask. It's a rare occurrence, Ray without someone to keep him company.

  "Not anymore," he says, looking at me. "The guys are, well... and Baby Doll had something she wanted to do."

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my keys and pop the bottle cap off, tossing it aside.

  Ray watches me, raising an eyebrow. "I see you've found your keys."

  "Yeah, they showed back up."

  "Funny how that happens," he mutters, sipping his drink. "Just when you think something's gone..."

  I shrug casually, taking a swig of beer when he trails off. "They're just keys."

  He's not talking about the keys anymore and we both know it. We sit in silence, drinking, the air around us tenser than I remember it ever being between us. I'm not sure how to diffuse it. I don't know what he wants. An apology? An explanation? He'll get neither, but I don't think he really expects either one.

  It's not in my nature.

  He wouldn't accept it, anyway.

  "So now that you're back home," he says, "where are you on our little problem?"

  "Which problem?"

  "The fact that Carmela's still breathing."

  No bullshitting.

  Straight to the point.

  "I'm working on it."

  "You've been working on it for a long time, Vitale. Too much longer and I might have to look elsewhere for a solution."

  My stomach coils.

  It's a thinly veiled threat.

  He's saying he doesn't need me.

  This job became mine because I had a personal vendetta, a reason to see it through. At the end of the day, any one of us could do it.

  It would probably be better, logically. She expects me, and these days I'd be grateful to have that burden lifted from my shoulders. But backing out now is the equivalent of bowing out, and you don't bow out when it comes to Ray.

  He takes you out instead.

  I'm already walking a fine line with Karissa.

  Maybe he'll let that slide.

  Maybe, if I can convince him she's innocent.

  But Carmela's non-negotiable.

  "Nonsense," I say. "I got it handled."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Positive."

  "And the girl?"

  I hesitate. "What about her?"

  "How's she going to accept what you have planned?"

  That's a different question than he usually asks.

  Maybe he's coming around.

  Maybe.

  "I don't see why she ever has to know."

  "You keep secrets from her?"

  I shrug a shoulder. "Some things are better left unsaid."

  Ray throws back the rest of his scotch before standing up. He discards the glass and strolls over to me, pausing beside my chair. His thick hand clamps down on my shoulder, squeezing.

  "You're like a son to me," he says. "I cut you slack because of it, because my daughter loved you, because she saw something in you, something I saw the day we met. You didn't cower, Vitale. You never cowered. Don't do it now. Don't cower."

  He doesn't sound angry.

  He sounds exasperated.

  Reaching up, I clasp my hand overtop his for a moment, silently letting him know I understand. I return to my beer as he walks away, leaving me alone.

  I finish my drink before standing up and strolling toward the exit. Kelvin is gone from the door, a guy whose name I don't know in his place. His gaze flickers to me only briefly before he bows his head.

  I walk out, into the late afternoon sunshine, and make my way around the building when I hear a car pull into the alley behind me. They drive slow, the sound of gravel crunching an agonizing groan. I slow my footsteps, an ominous tingle creeping up my spine, my fingers twitching at my sides.

  My heart beats wildly, but it's soothed right away when colored lights bounce off of the buildings, a high-pitched squeal echoing behind me.

  Police.

  Who thought I'd ever be relieved to encounter them? But on the hierarchy of people who could potentially sneak up on me, the police are currently the least of my problem.

  I stop where I am, slowly raising my hands without turning around. I hear doors open, footsteps approaching hastily before hands are all over me, patting me down from behind. They're checking for weapons we all know they won't find as others stroll around in front of me. The familiar face of Detective Jameson greets me with a smile that has all the warmth of dry ice. "Mr. Vitale."

  "Detective," I say, nodding at him as his partner joins his side. "To what do I owe this honor?"

  Just as I say it, the officer patting me down roughly grabs my crotch. I close my eyes, groaning, willing myself not to react. Jackass.

  "Just in the neighborhood," Jameson says casually as the officer grabs the back of my coat and yanks. I stumble, clenching my hands into fists, as Jameson's smile freezes, his eyes darting over my shoulder. "I think that's enough. He's clean."

  "As always," I say, lowering my arms.

  "Can never be too sure," Jameson says. "By the way, I heard you were out of the country last week… Italy, was it? Vacation looks good on you. You look… refreshed. Better than you looked a few months ago after your little trip to Vegas. Could be worse, though, right? Heard you lost a friend on that vacation."

  I curve an eyebrow at him. "How about you cut the bullshit and tell me what you want? I'd like to be on my way."

  "Ah, I thought maybe we could chat."

  "Chat."

  "Yes."

  "Man to man? Or detective to witness?"

  An officer behind me laughs. "More like suspect."

  Detective Jameson shoots him a look that silences the man. Tension escalates. Suspect.

  "If you have any questions for me, refer them to my attorney," I tell them. "Otherwise, I have nothing to say."

  I try to walk away when Jameson steps directly in my path, blocking me from leaving. Scathing words are on the tip of my tongue from impatience, but they're stolen from my lips when he motions toward the uniformed officers. All at once someone grabs a hold of me, forcing my hands behind my back. I struggle as they yank me backward, slamming me against the hood of the police cruiser as they put handcuffs on my wrists.

  Pain rips through my side as I grimace.

  "Uh-uh," Andrews says, strolling over and bending down so he's eyelevel with me. "You know not to resist."

  I'm yanked back upright once I'm handcuffed.

  "You have the right to remain silent," Jameson says, his voice monotone as he mutters the words. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand your rights?

  He doesn't wait for my answer.

  I'm shoved in the back of the police cruiser and hauled down to the police station, taken right to an interrogation room and left there.

  An hour passes, maybe two.

  It feels like forever until the door opens again and the detectives walk in with my lawyer on their heels. The man doesn't greet me. It's pointless. He's here to do business and he gets right down to it.

/>   "What's my client charged with?"

  "He's not charged with anything yet," Jameson says casually, taking a seat across from me. "He's being detained under suspicion of murder."

  "Which murder?"

  I nearly laugh at the way my lawyer words that, unable to stop the small smile from tugging my lips, as Jameson stares at him incredulously. It wasn't a "what" murder; it was a "which" murder, like maybe it could be more than one.

  It could be…

  "The murder of Daniel Santino, of course," Jameson says, looking between us. "Is there another we should be looking into?"

  "Of course not," the lawyer says. "And as far as Daniel Santino goes, we have humored your questions numerous times, and the answers have always remained the same. Mr. Vitale had no reason to want to harm the man. There was no bad blood between the two of them. With no motive, and no evidence, it's clear you're just grasping at straws, and you have been for quite some time."

  "Oh, but we have a motive," Andrews chimes in, sitting up in his chair attentively. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, Vitale, but your fiancée was one of Santino's students at the time of his death."

  "So?"

  "So our sources tell us she had a bit of trouble in his class, so you did something about it."

  "Sources?" I chime in curiously. I hate that word. Sources. They're rats. "And who, exactly, would your sources be?"

  "Now that we can't tell you," Jameson says. "But the informant is credible."

  Informant. Yet another synonym for rat.

  "Let me get this straight," the lawyer says. "A nameless source told you Mr. Vitale murdered a lifelong acquaintance because of conflict in a college class? Your motive is a bad grade?"

  "It goes a bit deeper than a bad grade," Jameson says. "Santino was giving her a hard time."

  "Is there any record of this?" the lawyer asks. "Complaints to administration? Grievances filed? Requests to transfer out of his class? Any proof she struggled? No, of course not. Instead you're relying on secondhand stories from anonymous sources. I have to tell you, detective, you're probably better off trusting the testimony of Pinocchio if you're looking for a grain of truth."

  Neither detective is amused by the declaration, but I find it quite humorous. I would laugh if I weren't so uneasy by what he just said. I have suspected it for a while, but they all but confirmed it for me this afternoon.

  Someone has loose lips that I'm going to have to seal shut again.

  "Speaking of lifelong acquaintances," the detective says. "I want to talk about John Rita."

  "Then talk about him," I say, "but I can't promise I'll listen."

  My lawyer shoots me another look that tells me to be quiet. This time I listen.

  Jameson glares at me. "It's curious that tragedy befalls everyone around you. Do you have any childhood friends left, Mr. Vitale?"

  I shrug as the lawyer interjects, threatening to end this conversation if he doesn't get to the point.

  "The point is he seems to be the only one left standing. Maria Angelo... Daniel Santino... John Rita..." He pauses, eyeing me. "You haven't seen Carmela Rita recently, have you?"

  I say nothing.

  It goes on and on, the same inane questions tossed at me, none of which I answer. It's after nightfall when I walk back out of the police station, a free man as usual. For as many times as they've dragged me down to this place in handcuffs, they've never once booked me into the system or paraded me in front of a judge. Suspicion alone can't make a charge stick, but this time they have something they never had before, something that gets them closer to making a case.

  Information.

  It takes me about an hour to collect my car and get on the road home. The house is lit up when I make it to Brooklyn, loud voices carrying through outside, feminine laughter that does nothing to ease my nerves.

  Karissa has friends over again.

  Unlocking the door, I step inside, immediately seeing the three of them. Karissa is sitting on the living room couch with Melody on one side of her, a surprising face on the other. I stare at the blonde visitor for a moment, stunned by her presence. Brandy.

  Ray's girlfriend.

  Guess befriending Karissa took precedence over Ray today.

  "Hey," Karissa greets me, her voice tentative. "Look who we ran into today."

  I'm not sure if she's nervous about my reaction, or if she's just not at ease with her company, but her apprehension is clear. Instead of questioning it, I offer a strained smile. "Hello."

  "Vitale," Brandy says as she glances around. "Nice house."

  Before I can respond, Melody chimes in, jumping to her feet. "Well, it's getting late, so I ought to get to getting, you know." She strolls my way, pausing in front of me. "Looking good, Ignazio. Can't wait to see what you look like in a penguin suit."

  I regard her warily as she pats my chest, running her hand along the folds of my suit coat. Karissa grumbles, telling her friend to stop it, but Melody laughs it off.

  "I should go, too," Brandy says, standing up. She avoids looking at me as she brushes past, heading for the door behind Melody. "We should share a cab back to Manhattan, Mel."

  "Absolutely," Melody says, flashing a smile back at us. "You be good, kids. Drugs are bad, m'kay?"

  I stare at them, watching as they leave the house. Karissa stands up once they're gone and strolls over, relocking the front door behind them.

  "Sometimes I'm not sure if I even speak the same language as that girl," I say, pulling off my coat. "It feels like she's speaking in code."

  Karissa smiles sheepishly. "I don't think even Melody knows what she's saying most of the time."

  I unbutton my cuffs. "Penguin suit? Is that what I think it is?"

  "Yeah, we were, uh..." Her cheeks flush. "They asked about the wedding."

  "Did you set a date for it yet?"

  "No."

  Nodding, I walk past her, into the den, and kick off my shoes right in the doorway. I drop my coat down on the arm of the couch before plopping down on the cushion, stretching my legs out as I lay my head back. A slight pain knocks at my temples, the onset of a headache from hours of stressful interrogation.

  "Are you okay?" Karissa asks, following me.

  "Just a bit of a headache," I respond, watching her as she sits down beside me. "Long day."

  "I bet," she says, tucking her feet up on the couch beneath her as she shifts her body to face me. "I thought you'd be home early, but I figured… well, I just assumed you were… working."

  Working. She says the word tentatively, barely a whisper from her lips. Her eyes are peeled to my face, narrowed contemplatively, like there are questions she wants to ask but might not want to hear the answers to.

  "I had a drink with Ray this afternoon," I offer, hoping she won't ever ask me the tough questions about how exactly I fill my hours. "I would've been home hours ago, but I ran into a little predicament."

  "What sort of predicament?"

  "The law enforcement kind."

  Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't push for more of an explanation. Instead, she shifts around on the couch, positioning herself to lie on me, settling under my arm with her head against my chest. Sighing, I pull her tighter to me, kissing the top of her head before closing my eyes.

  "I hope you don't mind I had company," she says quietly. "I made sure they didn't go in the den… or anywhere, really, except for where they were."

  "It's fine," I say. "I was just surprised to see Brandy here. I wasn't aware she was a friend of yours."

  "She's not… not really. Melody and I ran into her at the café. Turns out her and Melody know a lot of the same people. She actually knows Melody's dad, oddly enough, met him through work ages ago. I guess she worked with the Wall Street crowd or something. I don't even know what she does for a living."

  "Ray."

  I feel her lift her head up. Peeking an eye open, I see she's looking at me incredulously.

  "Ray?"

  "She does Ray for a living."
r />   A moment of silence passes before it seems to strike her what I'm saying. She gasps, shoving against me. "Really?"

  Laughing, I shrug a shoulder. "He pays her bills and gives her an allowance in exchange for being at his beck and call. She doesn't have to work, since Ray takes care of her. And before Ray, there were other men… one, I assume, being Mr. Carmichael."

  "You mean she, uh… that she's a…"

  She can't even say the word.

  "She's a professional girlfriend," I say, choosing the nicest of the terms. I'd usually call her a whore, but I'm not in the business of offending Karissa's potential friends. I have nothing against Brandy, per se. I barely know her, have no interest in knowing her, but Ray trusts the girl for some inexplicable reason, so she can't be too terrible. After all, it might help Karissa to befriend someone connected to the life, and maybe it'll help Ray come around to my side of things. Ray's a sucker for his Baby Doll. If she likes Karissa, Ray will be more likely to warm up to her himself.

  "But she seems so… sweet," Karissa says incredulously. "I mean, I knew she was with Ray and all, and that he's, well… and she's his, you know… but I thought what they had was genuine."

  "It is," I reply. "We do what we have to do to survive, Karissa. Ray won't marry her, but it doesn't mean he won't give her a good life. And they're not alone. Men like Ray view wives as obligations. They're possessions. They treat them like work, like it's their job to care for them. Ray probably fucks his wife once a month, if that, but he's with Brandy almost every night. Because Brandy is where he wants to be. She's not an obligation. She's his happiness."

  "He can't find happiness with his wife?"

  "Ray? No. I'm sure it was possible at the beginning, but not anymore. They don't even like each other."

  "But you're not like that, right? You wouldn't…"

  "No, I wouldn't. I've told you before—I'm not interested in anyone else."

  "But you might be someday," she says. "What if you wake up one day and don't like me anymore?"

  "I don't know, Karissa. You tell me." I cock an eyebrow at her. "How does it feel to be stuck with somebody you don't like?"