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Uncle Red’s fond memory fades. “Th-that day, Gina lets me out the door, so I could grab us some lunch. I don’t even think she closed the door. Just blew me a couple of kisses. Ms. Petty,” his voice ribbons in sorrow, “told me by the time I returned with our pastrami sandwiches, she would’ve written the letter.”
Burt mutters, “Your story didn’t line up for Detective Caruso. No luggage. No letter.”
“No, it didn’t. I told him she wasn’t taking any clothing. Heck, we were gonna invite you over for dinner the next night. Anyway, Gina was leaving the letter and grabbing a box of baby photos of you and a few token pictures from her younger years. Photos she said I’d laugh over.”
As Uncle Red begins to ramble, I sit forward and drop my hands over the back of his. “What? My momma was so pretty. You wouldn’t have laughed at the pictures.”
“Ms. Petty claimed she had buck teeth.” With a shake of his head, Uncle Red adds, “I was gone fifteen minutes for fucking pastrami sandwiches.”
As Uncle Red breaks out into a sob, Burt inquires, “But you saw Orson?”
Planting a palm to his forehead, Uncle Red says, “Twice. Excuse me. I was supposed to mention that part. When I left for our lunch, Eugene Orson was across the street, leaning against the stop post, smoking a cigarette. I said hello. It’s the Christianly thing to do, and I’d seen him in passing over the years. I-I thought nothing of it. Maybe he was visiting a neighbor and went out for a smoke.” He blows out a tormented sigh. “I thought nothing of it.”
Though the same questions plague me as Burt, it’s my good, old companion who speaks up. “You saw him again?”
“Yes.” Angry eyes flicker toward Burt. “That motherfucker came out of the building. Waltzed right out of the fucking brownstone while I was on my way back up the steps. But you gotta understand, Luxxie, I beat on the fucking door. Ibeaton the door.I thought she’d changed her mind. Maybe she actually chose the house with Jonah, and our time just—just meant nothing. Then I blamedme.I thought perhaps she didn’t want to wake up with me looking likethis.”
Still grasping at fragments of ashes, I murmur, “But how did heknowher? Why? If you say Momma fed himwhen he was down and interacted with him at church, thenwhy?”
“As I said, she helped at the soup kitchen. I’d look through the window. I saw them interact a few times, no different from the others. A harmless pat on the shoulder, perhaps she quoted a friendly proverb or Psalms. He’d smile and nod his head. She was a kind woman. Treated everyone the same.”
I let my shoulders drop. “So, we don’t know exactlywhy?”
“If it’s any consolation, here’show,” Burt thoughtfully edges into our tensed discussion. “Paul. I’m sorry, Dr. Everhart, he’s part of our security team.”
“I remember. The man who attempted to hack my security system and the reason I knew Victor’s identity.” Uncle Red snorts, wriggling his jaw. “But please, continue.” His demeanor changes as he pores all his attention into Burt’s every word, only nodding or speaking when necessary.
“Paul comprised satellite data, which didn’t reveal anything other than what the NYPD had already discovered, amongst other botched attempts. He then resorted to the Doorbell Apps.” Burt admits that Victor’s computer wizards had tapped into dozens of private videos. “In a general scenario, Doorbell Apps, the smart-security system most everyone has nowadays, generally keeps information for up to ninety days before scrubbing it.”
“But Caruso would’ve had access to that.” Uncle Red’s fist plants against his knees.”
“Perhaps the chap wasn’t aware of what he was looking for.” Burt tries to soften the blow.
“But this Paul looked into the matter and a whole fucking year later. You said ninety days?”
“Yes, sir. Ninety days is standard. Albeit, the day Gina died, another major crime occurred. Therefore, many footage streams were readily available, which were at the NYPD’s disposal.”
“Oh God, this makes my stomach churn,” I groan. “You’re telling me that Detective Caruso had access to videos that might have linked Eugene to the crime?”
“Yes, since the police collected the data prior to it being erased, he had complete access to it. Had he viewed the footage, he would’ve seen Eugene enter the building. The time he arrived, and when he left. As well as your arrival and leave times, Dr. Everhart.” Burt clears his throat. “However, apparently, the two different departments do not work well together. The detectives who had the data downloaded were working the jewelry robbery.”
Although I take it that Burt has given an elaborate spiel just to assist us with understanding, I growl, “But Detective Caruso could’ve asked around or something!”
“While that is true, Luxury. Our detective was stagnant in his thinking.”
“He always thought I was the guy.” Uncle Red runs the back of his hand over a scowl.
“Dr. Everhart, you’d called attention to yourself that afternoon at the door,” Burt sighs, “thus painting yourself as the primary target for Detective Caruso.”
“Tsk,” Uncle Red snarls. “I was emotional. Desperately banging on the door. My actions discounted any other options for Caruso. I had the motive. I scraped the skin from my knuckles, trying to get inside to just, just ask Gina if she’d changed her mind.” Grief washes into his tone, and a tidal wave of acrimony floods through it. “But I told that asshole, Caruso, everything. Even mentioned Eugene wandering around! Now, I’ve paid for the wrong murder.”
While the incendiary revelation settles around us like ashes, my father figure’s head tilts, tossing an accusatory glower at my friend. “I-I never got my murder, Burt.”
Uncle Red slams a hand onto the end table, causing his empty cola can to clatter to the floor. “I want Eugene dead by tonight. I paid for a murder. Finish the fucking job . . . please.”
While one man’s emotional capacity has imploded, the other sits forward. “Dr. Everhart, will Mr. Orson’s death console you?”
Not a moment goes by when the distraught lover exclaims, “Screw the psychology behind this, Burt. My heart was snatched from my chest. I’ll take satisfaction and pay for my sins later!”
