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With the adrenaline waning, I could feel the exhaustion starting to seep in. One look at the big clock on the wall told me it was almost sun-up. I couldn’t help but wonder if Detective Hart had been there all night, or if he was on his way in.
There was no wedding ring on his hand that suggested a woman was at home, frustrated by his erratic schedule.
“I, ah, sure,” I said, nodding, then watching as he moved toward the middle of the room where a small coffee station was set up, mini-fridge and all. He poured us each a disposable cup, slipped some cream and sugar into his, then grabbed sugar and little coffee creamers in his other hand, and headed back toward his desk. “You’re going to want the sugar and cream,” he advised me. “I normally drink it black. But this coffee black would eat right through your stomach lining.”
“Thank you,” I told him, busying myself with making my coffee for a moment, glad for the distraction.
As soon as I was done, and my gaze lifted, Detective Hart let out a slow, deep breath.
“Okay, Miss Pearson. You hypothetically saw a mafia murder tonight.”
“What? No. Not hypo—“
“Miss Pearson,” he cut me off, voice a bit firmer. “Let’s say that a woman hypothetically witnessed a mafia murder tonight…” he started.
“And was kidnapped and held in a basement by this mafia man who also happens to be her boss,” I added.
To that, a muscle in Detective Hart’s jaw started to twitch. But when he spoke, he continued on was with his weird story.
“And she was hypothetically held in a basement against her will,” he said, nodding. “The way I see it, in this very hypothetical situation, most normal women would come to the police station to report the murder, kidnapping, and false imprisonment.”
“But, hypothetically, in this story of mine,” I said, catching on that this was very important that we discuss it this way, “that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Correct. In your story, going to the police station and reporting this would be a very bad idea.”
“In this story, why would that be a bad idea?” I asked, taking a sip of the too-hot coffee, feeling it burn down my throat like battery acid.
“Hypothetically, if the man in this story is part of a New Jersey mafia family that has been around for generations, and has a stronghold on this area with both legitimate and illegitimate ways. And in this story, men like that have a lot of power and wealth. And what they do with that wealth is make it so that if allegations about them that makes them out to be anything other than law-abiding citizens don’t make it to court. And if they do make it to court, they have ways to make sure they never get convicted.”
“Oh,” I said, my whole life, my future, my hopes and dreams exiting me with that sound.
The police weren’t going to help me.
That was what I was hearing.
And even if I did find someone to agree to help me, the judges or juries could be tampered with.
So Matteo Grassi would walk free.
Even if he was absolutely guilty.
“Hypothetically, there are officers and detectives who would believe you, but their hands would be tied.”
“Hypothetically, does the mafia, ah, make witnesses disappear?” I asked. “In a permanent way?” I added.
“In many situations, yes. These fictional mafia men have been able to hold onto their positions and stay out of prison by silencing anyone who would speak against them.”
“But?” I prompted, sensing one hanging there in the air between us.
“But while some of these fictional mobsters do hurt women, some of the ones, especially the ones that supposedly live near the shore in Jersey, they don’t like involving women in their business.”
“Then why was I—“
“The woman in this story,” Detective Hart said, jerking his head toward the side where another detective was dropping down at his desk, close enough to overhear our whole conversation.
“Right. So, in your professional opinion,” I started again, getting an approving nod from Detective Hart, “why would the woman in my story be brought to the basement and left unharmed after what she witnessed?”
“That’s an interesting hypothetical, Miss Pearson,” Detective Hart said, leaning back in his chair to appear more conversational and casual to anyone who might be looking or listening on. “The way I see it, this character in your story, he was the younger brother, right?” he asked, giving me a raised brow. “The one with the hair? Matt, wasn’t it?”
“Ah, yes. Matt,” I agreed.
“Well, it seems like maybe he isn’t fully committed to the whole Family business. And maybe something happened that he had no control over. And he was trying to protect this woman in your story from the rest of the Family.”
“Yeah, he told me—my heroine in the story,” I said. “He told my heroine in the story something just like that,” I agreed.
