“People will go out of their way to find a way to believe that everything is fine, that nothing needs to disturb their perfect little lives.” Dante replied cynically. “Acknowledging otherwise would be a real hassle.”
“He blew a .28 at the site of the crash.”
“We need the police report and any other information we can get on the accident.” Cesare replied. “There’s no mention of a baby or any minors?”
Dante shook his head. “The article quotes a local officer who says it was a good thing there were no children in the car. Oddly enough there’s no mention of Crawford being a social worker, or that he was driving a work vehicle.”
“That’s juicy shit.” Cesare muttered. “Journalists don’t leave out the juice for no reason.”
Dante nodded. “If Crawford was at the hospital at 7:37, and was a .28 at 8:15, there’s no way he wasn’t intoxicated when he picked up the baby. It’s a fucking miracle he made it as far as he did.”
“The hospital would have been liable for signing a baby out to anyone that was drunk, and liable for failing to detect the signs.” Cesare whistled. “If anyone on the medical staff heard about the crash, their legal team would have shut down any information sharing that wasn’t legally requested.”
Dante nodded. “And the State of Maine would have been embarrassed enough about a DUI in a government vehicle. But if a child were in custody in that vehicle?”
“It would have made national television.” Cesare finished grimly. “Why mention it? Why make it worse if the police didn’t see any evidence of a baby to begin with?”
“Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they did.” Dante folded his arms, an ominous expression crossing his dark features. “I’ll have a friend at the bureau request the records of the crash, and go from there.”
Cesare nodded. “This was a good catch.”
Dante grunted. “I’ve got Tom’s address. I can pay him a visit this evening; he may be a little more sober.”
Cesare’s jaw worked as he looked over the reports through the lens of new information. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. If he’s at the bar every night, lie low today and catch him on the way home again tonight. We want him too drunk to give admissible testimony about speaking with you.”
“What about the bartender?” Dante asked.
“Did anyone see you talking to Tom last night?” Cesare asked.
“I didn’t speak to him last night at all.” Dante shook his head.
“Perfect, that’s exactly what we say in court if you’re ever subpoenaed. Anything anyone else says is hearsay.” Cesare nodded.
Dante grunted, sitting down in the stuffed chair beside the bed. “You going to tell me about the girl?” He asked, a wry grin suddenly tugging at his mouth.
“What girl?” Cesare evaded.
“The girl for whom you emergency landed a helicopter in the middle of York Harbor.” Dante replied with a shit-eating grin. He sat back, folding his arms behind his head, looking more relaxed than he should have.
“It was a private roundabout. Nothing dramatic. And I can still gut punch you.” Cesare muttered, starting the coffee.
“You can, but then you lose the best P.I. you’ll ever find.” Dante answered evenly. “What’s your angle?” He asked.
“My angle?” Cesare frowned.
“Yeah, your angle.” Dante replied, the faintest twinge of an Italian accent coming out. “You always have an angle. So what is it?”
Cesare stared hard at the coffeemaker, feeling unusually stunned at the realization that Dante was right. He did always have an angle. But for the first time in his adult life, there was no angle. He saw Sabrina, he wanted Sabrina, and he was going to have Sabrina.
And he would keep her innocent, cinnamon-rolls-and-baby-seals-world as separate from the underbelly of his as possible.
He looked up at Dante, unready to say any of this out loud.
Dante stared at Cesare’s almost crestfallen expression and let out a whistle. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” Cesare nodded.
“Does she know who you are? Who we are?” Dante asked.
