belt more tightly around her waist as she ushered them inside.
The living room was furnished minimally, but was fairly tidy if one ignored the colorful handful of G-strings that hung from the doorknob on the door that presumably led to the bedroom.
“You’re here about my Dunstie.” She motioned them to the sofa and then sank down into a chair facing them and grabbed a tissue from the box on the end table next to her.
“I just can’t believe he’s gone.” She blinked her big blue eyes. “I mean, he is really gone, right? What I saw on television was real, not some silly joke he played on me or a crazy reality show.”
Okay, not the brightest bulb in the room, Lara thought with an inward sigh. On a good day Lara didn’t possess a lot of patience, and she had a feeling Sheila Currothers was quickly going to get on her last nerve.
“Yes, what you saw on television was very real. Sean is dead,” Nick replied, his deep voice without emotion.
Sheila balled up the tissue in her hand. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. He was so good to me. Oh, I know he didn’t do everything right. He wasn’t a perfect man. I know about him selling drugs and some other things...but at heart he wasn’t a bad man. In the last month or so he’d cleaned up his act. He wasn’t using or selling drugs anymore. And at least he never hit or beat me.”
“Tell us about Tina,” Lara said, cutting to the chase.
“Tina?” Sheila feigned innocence but couldn’t quite play it off. Lara saw the tells, the tightening of her slender fingers around the tissue, the tension that pulled her overly plumped lips tighter and one...two...three quick blinks of her eyes, eyes that now had a sharp, hard gleam. Maybe she wasn’t as stupid as she wanted them to believe.
“Yeah, you know, the nine-year-old little girl Dunst kidnapped and then murdered.” Nick leaned forward, his dark eyes radiating a dangerous glint. “Did you know he was into abusing and killing little girls?”
“That’s not true. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sheila crossed her arms over her ample chest with her chin lifted in a show of belligerent defensiveness. “I don’t know anything about a kid.”
“I think you do,” Lara countered. “Sheila, I was up on that ledge with Dunst this morning for hours. I was the last person he spoke to before his death, and he told me all about Tina.” Of course, Dunst hadn’t mentioned anything about his girlfriend, but Sheila couldn’t know that.
“And right now you’re looking at potential kidnapping and murder charges,” Nick said.
Sheila uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. “You can’t pin any of that on me. I had nothing to do with it. I don’t know why he took her. She was just there at his house one day, and he told me he had to keep her for a while.”
“Tell us about the stamp,” Nick said.
Sheila frowned. “Stamp? I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about. What kind of a stamp?”
Lara drew in a deep breath, her emotions shooting back and forth between anger and a small sense of compassion for the woman who now found herself at the center of a horrendous crime. “He was found with an ink box and a stamper on his body,” she replied.
Sheila shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that. I never saw an ink box or stamper.”
“Sheila, it’s in your own best interest to work with us and tell us everything you know,” Nick said.
She looked from Nick to Lara, as if weighing her options. The feigned innocence was gone, replaced by a weary resignation as she held Lara’s gaze. “You’ll tell the cops that I cooperated?”
Lara nodded, and Sheila released a deep sigh. “He finally told me that he was supposed to sell her, but in the end he just couldn’t do it. He said she’d be abused and broken, and so he killed her instead. He said that if he did as he was told it would be a fate worse than death for her. He killed her to save her.” Once again her eyes moved between them, as if seeking understanding and possible absolution.
Nick looked at Sheila as if she were speaking a foreign language, but it was a language Lara knew very well, and it sent cold chills racing up her spine.
Was the Moretti syndicate back in business? Why would they contact such a low-level criminal as Sean Dunst to carry out such orders? And if they were back in business, then how close were they to Lara?
It was nearly eleven o’clock when Nick and Lara finally headed back to 26 Federal Plaza. Two NYPD detectives working the Tina Cole murder case had been summoned to take Sheila into custody, and Nick and Lara had spent a couple of hours out on the streets around Dunst’s house, asking questions and reconfirming impressions they had already received.
Dunst was known in the neighborhood as a blowhard, a wannabe. He was a loser whose only claim to fame was that he’d supposedly once had ties to the Moretti crime syndicate. But according to Cass and people they talked to on the streets, there was absolutely no evidence to support that Sean had ever been anything but a petty criminal and dope dealer.
“I’d like to know who orchestrated Tina’s kidnapping and set up her potential sale. Aside from the fact that somebody killed him, I don’t believe Dunst had the brains to pull something like that off on his own,” Lara said as they crossed back over the Brooklyn Bridge.
“He obviously didn’t have the stomach for it, either,” Nick replied. “Guilt apparently drove him to that ledge this morning.”
“And a highly skilled sniper made sure he wouldn’t give us any real information once he got off that ledge,” Lara replied in frustration. “If I’d known about the stamp while I was up on the ledge with him, I would have definitely asked him a lot more questions.”
Although fear simmered deep inside her, she refused to give into it until they had more concrete information. She’d learned to live with fear the entire year she’d worked deep undercover. In many ways the feeling, coupled with a hard edge of anger, had become a familiar, almost comforting emotion.
“Who kills a kid to save her?” Nick asked incredulously. “And what kind of a woman thinks something like that is okay?” His deep voice was rife with judgment.
Lara had once had a black-and-white sense of judgment, too. But, during her year undercover she’d met too many people who were not necessarily evil, but rather lost souls whose backgrounds had never given them a chance to do much of anything other than make bad choices. She’d learned how easy it was to fall off the straight and narrow.
“Maybe a woman who is already living a fate worse than death,” she replied thoughtfully. “We know Sheila is a stripper. I would guess that she probably also prostitutes on the side. Who knows what her childhood might have been like? It’s obvious she lost her self-respect and any sense of worth she might have had a long time ago.”
“Are you defending her actions?”
“Not at all.” She felt his eyes on her, but she remained staring straight ahead. Still, she felt the need to say something more. “I just saw a lot of bad things when I was undercover. I can’t begin to explain the depravity, the utter soullessness of some human beings.”
“That’s why I love what I do, getting the evil off the streets and into prisons. Isn’t that why you do it? Or is it because of your father? I heard somewhere that he was a highly decorated New York detective?”
“He was.” The last thing she wanted to talk about, the very last person she wanted to think about was her father, who had passed away several months ago, four years after he’d been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s disease.
“Then I guess crime fighting runs in the family,” Nick replied.
“That’s