Read Chapter 1 of The Worried Man, Q.C. Davis Mystery #1.
Chapter 2
The detective sat across from me at the worn kitchen table. His tan suit jacket was large and too boxy for his frame, but his tie was knotted in a perfect half-Windsor. Between that and his silver crew cut he looked ex-military despite the ill-fitting jacket.
“What was your relationship with the deceased?”
During the time it had taken the police and paramedics to arrive I’d pulled the armchair close to the couch and sat. I couldn’t leave Marco alone, and I couldn’t look at his body. I’d scrolled through photos of him on my phone over and over.
It seemed like I sat on that chair in my new green dress for days. It also felt as if only seconds passed before lights and voices shattered my last moments with Marco.
A policewoman had led me out of the apartment and taken down everything I said. When she brought me back in, she gave me a glass of water and introduced me to the detective, whose name I couldn’t remember.
The glass sat in the thin layer of fingerprint dust that covered the scratched wooden table.
“Ms. Davis?” the detective said.
“We were about to move in together,” I said. In my head, my voice reverberated and sounded too loud, but the detective scooted his chair closer as if to hear me better. “He was moving in with me. Tomorrow.”
Some of Marco’s things had already migrated to my place, just as mine had made their way into his. Last weekend to make space for his clothes I’d filled paper bags with skirts, tights, and dress pants I hadn’t worn during the last twelve months to donate to a local women’s shelter. Marco and I had rearranged my bedroom and living room areas to clear space for his chest of drawers and armchair, the only furniture he was bringing. We’d bought a futon for the loft for Eric.
“I should call his son,” I said. “Or should I? Telling him on the phone, I don’t know.”
“You didn’t call him yet?” the detective said.
“I wanted to give him a little more time. Even a few minutes. To still have a dad.” I wound a section of my hair around my fingers, twisting the strands into a braid that I immediately unwound. “We just made a place for him to stay.”
I opened my phone and found the photo of the loft with the new futon against the interior brick wall. I handed the phone to the detective.
He put on silver-framed reading glasses, looked at the photo, and handed it back. “How old is he?”
“Thirteen. He lives with his mother. In Lincoln Park.”
“We’ll send someone in person to tell her. Better to let her talk to him. Mirabel Ruggirello, correct?”
I set the phone on the table and ran my finger over the photo. The image shivered. I started to swipe to look at the next photo but realized the detective had asked me a question.
“Yes. Mirabel. I don’t know if she still uses Marco’s last name.”
I’d spoken to her once on the phone about plans for a weekend with Eric, but I’d never met her.
“Is there someone we can call for you?” the detective said.
I rubbed my hands over my bare arms, which were covered in goose flesh. “Someone’s coming.”
I’d given the policewoman Joe’s information. I hadn’t called anyone myself. To do that was to make it real. To admit Marco was dead.
The detective set his phone on the table face down. “How long had Mr. Ruggirello been divorced?”
I stared at the Dinkel’s bakery bag. It had been shifted to the top of some boxes near the back door. All we’d had left to pack was the kitchen.
That thought kept coming back to me. Marco couldn’t be gone, he couldn’t have relapsed to drinking or started taking pills, because all we had left to pack were pots and pans and dishes.
“They’ve been divorced about nine months,” I said.
Marco and Mirabel had been married seventeen years counting three years of separation, but they’d dated since high school. A long time.
A uniformed officer came into the room. Embroidered on the right shoulder of his short-sleeved shirt was a white flag with six-pointed red stars sandwiched between light blue bars. He whispered something to the detective and left, camera in his hands.
He must have been taking photos of Marco, the couch, and the end table with the rum and soda and clear amber pill canister.
“The pill bottle, the label. What did it say?” I asked.
I’d looked at it without touching anything right after calling 911. I hadn’t been able to see the label. I couldn’t believe it was Marco’s.
The detective tapped one finger against the side of his chin. He looked like he’d just shaved despite that it was early evening. “It’s still being processed. When did you last talk to Mr. Ruggirello?”
“About six,” I said. “Last night about six.”
“What did you talk about?” the detective said.
“It was a text. Some texts. About tonight. Dessert for tonight.”
I sipped some water. The glass shook, so I gripped it with both hands. My fingers felt like ice.
I wanted to leave, to go home, except that home was a place with empty closet shelves and the King-sized bed I’d bought around Christmas when Marco had started sleeping over most weeknights.
“You still have the text?”
I keyed open my phone again, entering my passcode three times before I got it right, to double-check. “No. I clear them every day. So if I lose my phone, no one who finds it sees any messages about my cases.”
“Did he seem upset about anything?”
“He sent a smiley face and a soda emoji. Said he loved me and we’d talk later.”
My fingers tangled in my hair and I unwound them one by one. I wondered if I would have known something was wrong if we’d spoken rather than texted. If we’d talked, maybe it would have changed everything.
The detective made a note on a small yellow pad. I hadn’t noticed him holding it before. I stared at the pen as it moved across the paper. It made a scratching sound. “Did you worry when you didn’t hear from him?”
“Not at first. I was working late. I’m a lawyer. A litigator. But I file taxes, too, for theater people I know. I figured Marco was leaving me alone to finish. It only seemed strange when I didn’t hear from him today.”
I’d been so worried about getting the filing done on time, about the scanner working properly and my calculations being correct, that my heart had kept racing after I clicked the last few keys. I’d made herbal tea and sat in my office for a few minutes staring at the street below to unwind before walking home. Now it seemed insane to have been so concerned about filings. About things that could be fixed.
While I’d been sipping tea to feel calmer, Marco might have been drinking or taking pills. He might already have been dead.
The detective leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the opposite knee, and asked if I’d been alone in my office.
I told him yes, that I’d been sitting on the floor of the reception area, crinkled receipts, 1099s, and scraps of paper spread around me. A new client had brought them to me in a literal shoebox on April 13.
As I spoke, it hit me why he was asking.
I sat straighter. “You’re thinking murder? You’re asking me for an alibi?”
“We need to look into all avenues.”
I’d grown up hearing from my parents about police investigations. All their warnings flooded my mind.
My pulse pounded at my temples. “Could you tell me your name again?” I said. “And could I have a card?”
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