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Authors: Janet McGiffin
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English.”
“Manuel says a lot of Italians go there,” Stanley offered.
Cargill made a sour face. “More foreigners.”
“What’s the problem?” Grazia asked.
“Foreign nationals tend to call their consulates and shout police harassment when we ask questions about their activities in bars. Or they get on planes when we start looking for them. Did you get their business cards, Miss Conti? Check your big purse again.”
To Grazia’s surprise, a rummage yielded four business cards. Detective Cargill drew a thin paper envelope from his worn wallet and held it open. “I’ll call these numbers. Maybe they’ll remember who you left with. If one sounds like a possible perpetrator, I’ll get a DNA sample. The medical examiner can run a DNA identity. We could get lucky. There might be a match with what came off you or was found in your room.”
“What idiot would give a woman his card and then rape her?” Stanley commented.
Detective Cargill watched Grazia write the four names in her journal and drop them into his small bag. “What were you drinking?” he continued.
“One glass of white wine,” Grazia started to say automatically, when another picture dropped into her head. “No! Champagne. The bartender popped a cork. I heard it.”
Detective Cargill tossed a triumphant look at Stanley, then leaned toward Grazia. “Describe him.”
“Red hair cut very short. Red hair on the back of his hands.”
Stanley and Cargill looked at each other. “Did you hear anyone say his name?” asked Stanley.
“Yes. One of the Italians I was with called him Nick.”
“Why champagne?” Detective Cargill asked.
“What difference does it make?” Grazia said. The dizziness was back. Her head throbbed.
“People don’t drink champagne for no reason, Miss Conti. Knowing why you were drinking it could lead us to who bought it for you.”
“I don’t know why. I don’t even like champagne.” She rubbed her forehead.
Cargill made a note. “OK, we know Laura Oviedo is Italian, and we’ll assume your drinking companions were Italian since you remember reading lips in Italian. Do you have any other new phone numbers in your phones that you put in there from last night?”
Grazia lifted her hands helplessly. “I have hundreds of contacts. It would take hours to find new ones.”
Cargill’s voice remained patient. “Check your recent calls—dialed, received, missed. You give some guy your phone number, he calls you; you don’t answer, but now you’re connected.”
“I don’t give my phone number to men I meet in bars.”
“We have to find a trail, Miss Conti, and you’re standing at the trail head.”
Grazia opened both phones. “No missed calls, no dialed calls that evening. One received call from my mother and one from my boss in Naples yesterday.”
“Emails?” Cargill continued.
She tapped. “One. Oh.” She went silent.
“What time did that come in?” Cargill pressed.
“Nine-forty. It isn’t related.”
Cargill rattled his pen on the desk. “Miss Conti, you say a dark hole opened in your life last night. We need to see into it. If you don’t light a match, how can we do that?”
Grazia felt muddled again. Her brain would clear, then fuzziness would descend again. “The email was from a job recruiter in Naples. He scheduled an interview for me on Monday afternoon. The job is perfect, and I think I will get it. Ah . . . that’s why the champagne. We were celebrating.”
“You don’t know anyone in New York yet someone buys you champagne to celebrate. Who?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did you take any photos with your phone?”
“Of course!” Grazia broke into her first smile. “I always take photos. Why didn’t I think of this?” She tapped on her phone, then tapped again feverishly. She lifted her gaze to Cargill, stunned. “Where are they? There aren’t any here from last night. I have one of Laura from Lord & Taylor, but after that, nothing.”
“This guy knows
“Manuel says a lot of Italians go there,” Stanley offered.
Cargill made a sour face. “More foreigners.”
“What’s the problem?” Grazia asked.
“Foreign nationals tend to call their consulates and shout police harassment when we ask questions about their activities in bars. Or they get on planes when we start looking for them. Did you get their business cards, Miss Conti? Check your big purse again.”
To Grazia’s surprise, a rummage yielded four business cards. Detective Cargill drew a thin paper envelope from his worn wallet and held it open. “I’ll call these numbers. Maybe they’ll remember who you left with. If one sounds like a possible perpetrator, I’ll get a DNA sample. The medical examiner can run a DNA identity. We could get lucky. There might be a match with what came off you or was found in your room.”
“What idiot would give a woman his card and then rape her?” Stanley commented.
Detective Cargill watched Grazia write the four names in her journal and drop them into his small bag. “What were you drinking?” he continued.
“One glass of white wine,” Grazia started to say automatically, when another picture dropped into her head. “No! Champagne. The bartender popped a cork. I heard it.”
Detective Cargill tossed a triumphant look at Stanley, then leaned toward Grazia. “Describe him.”
“Red hair cut very short. Red hair on the back of his hands.”
Stanley and Cargill looked at each other. “Did you hear anyone say his name?” asked Stanley.
“Yes. One of the Italians I was with called him Nick.”
“Why champagne?” Detective Cargill asked.
“What difference does it make?” Grazia said. The dizziness was back. Her head throbbed.
“People don’t drink champagne for no reason, Miss Conti. Knowing why you were drinking it could lead us to who bought it for you.”
“I don’t know why. I don’t even like champagne.” She rubbed her forehead.
Cargill made a note. “OK, we know Laura Oviedo is Italian, and we’ll assume your drinking companions were Italian since you remember reading lips in Italian. Do you have any other new phone numbers in your phones that you put in there from last night?”
Grazia lifted her hands helplessly. “I have hundreds of contacts. It would take hours to find new ones.”
Cargill’s voice remained patient. “Check your recent calls—dialed, received, missed. You give some guy your phone number, he calls you; you don’t answer, but now you’re connected.”
“I don’t give my phone number to men I meet in bars.”
“We have to find a trail, Miss Conti, and you’re standing at the trail head.”
Grazia opened both phones. “No missed calls, no dialed calls that evening. One received call from my mother and one from my boss in Naples yesterday.”
“Emails?” Cargill continued.
She tapped. “One. Oh.” She went silent.
“What time did that come in?” Cargill pressed.
“Nine-forty. It isn’t related.”
Cargill rattled his pen on the desk. “Miss Conti, you say a dark hole opened in your life last night. We need to see into it. If you don’t light a match, how can we do that?”
Grazia felt muddled again. Her brain would clear, then fuzziness would descend again. “The email was from a job recruiter in Naples. He scheduled an interview for me on Monday afternoon. The job is perfect, and I think I will get it. Ah . . . that’s why the champagne. We were celebrating.”
“You don’t know anyone in New York yet someone buys you champagne to celebrate. Who?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did you take any photos with your phone?”
“Of course!” Grazia broke into her first smile. “I always take photos. Why didn’t I think of this?” She tapped on her phone, then tapped again feverishly. She lifted her gaze to Cargill, stunned. “Where are they? There aren’t any here from last night. I have one of Laura from Lord & Taylor, but after that, nothing.”
“This guy knows
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