The temporary discharge, they had told him, was for the express purpose of protecting him. With the latest murder, the killer had named him specifically, which made the KCPD exceedingly nervous. They had also told him that it was clear the investigations were taking a toll on him. For the sake of his mental health, it was best that he take a break. Detective Hendriks was made lead detective in his stead, and a subsidiary detective was assigned under her.
That's what they said. That's what they thought. But no, they were dead wrong. The worse thing they could have done to him was taking him off the case. It was just another nail driven in. Failure. It had been printed on that card.
I'm so sorry, Marie. I'm so, so sorry. Maybe that card was right.
No. Even if Ledford was on temporary leave, that wouldn't stop him. The KCPD couldn't see the connection—refused to, even—but he knew it was there. Had it not been for all the red and yellow tape he'd been forced to drag himself through, Ledford was sure he would've landed this killer in prison by now.
No, he quickly told himself. Don't think like that. Laws exist to hold us up above deprivation. To cast them away would be to devolve into a criminal.
It was just so hard sometimes.
But there was another lead—one that Stefano had let slip towards the end of that interrogation. Celestina Amonte. If he could get her, then he'd get Stefano as well. Two birds with one stone.
Amonte… her plate's clean. A little too clean. Only thing that's there is that self-defense murder case two years back. Ledford crossed his arms, leaning back in the creaky computer chair. Overhead, the apartment fan spun lazily.
He remembered that case. It had been simple. Several cases were like that—typically, the people who killed weren't very good at hiding the trail. Most murders weren't premeditated. The average suspect didn't wake up in the morning knowing they were going to take a life that day.
But this one… the Curtis case… maybe it was worth a second look. Ledford simply couldn't ignore it, especially not in this new light.
Finally, an excuse not to sit around miserable in this apartment for a second longer. The walls of this room were starting to take on the feeling of that of a padded cell. Leford rose, pulling his jacket off from the back of the chair. His other hand snatched up the keys from the table.
Krimson City was one of the jurisdictions that felt the need to hold onto evidence indefinitely, with only rare exceptions given to destroy those for obsolete cases. A year after the verdict was passed, the evidence for a certain case would be moved from the police department to an evidence storage facility. There were two located on the outskirts of Krimson City, next to the forensics tech lab.
Ledford parked his car in front of one of the facilities. An electronic lock sealed the front door, but a quick swipe of his badge over the scanner got him through. To be honest, this was only the second time Ledford had ever come here—usually, it was the active cases he was focused on.
A metal detecting gate stood just beyond the front door. Next to it was a bored-looking security guard in a bulletproof booth. Ledford took up a plastic bin from the stack on the floor and placed it on a short conveyer belt. He emptied his pockets into the bin, dropping into it his phone, keys, and wallet. As he was no longer technically on duty, he'd left his gun at the apartment.
Waving for the security guard's attention, Ledford lifted his shirt and inquisitively tapped his belt buckle. The guard returned with a nod. The detective heaved a sigh and unbuckled his belt, unthreading it from his jeans before plopping into the bin. He saw the guard push a button, which sent the conveyer belt moving. Ledford walked through the gate and waited for the plastic bin to catch up.
Honestly, protocol got so annoying sometimes. After retrieving everything from the bin, Ledford hurried deeper into the storage facility. Next up were a receptionist's desk and a short corridor with elevator entrances. Ledford was just walking past the desk when the girl behind it piped up.
"Oh, sorry sir! No one's allowed to go down without checking in first!"
Great. And if he checked in, there'd be a record of him coming here when he was technically supposed to be decommissioned. But maybe there was a way around—dodge the tape for once.
Turning back to the receptionist, Ledford flashed the inside of his jacket. "Detective Ledford," he introduced. "I'm just here to check up on something—won't take more than five minutes or so."
The girl stared back at him. He could tell from the look in her eyes behind her thin-framed glasses that she wasn't convinced. "Um, anyone who steps in here and wants to go down to evidence storage needs to sign in," she insisted.
Slowly, Ledford meandered over to the desk. "How long have you been working here?"
She seemed threatened by his words. "Do I need to call the guard?"
"Because I'm sure I would have remembered seeing you," Ledford quickly continued. At that, the receptionist paused. Leaning against the desk, Ledford stuck out a hand. "Jackson, by the way. And you are…?"
"Diana." He noticed that her voice had gotten a bit meek. She shook his hand.
"Diana—great to meet you. Listen, and I hate having to ask this from you, but I'm gonna need you to do me a solid. Is that alright?"
"You don't want to sign in?"
"It's not that I don't want to. It's just that I really need to pop in and out of storage real quick. I'm following a really important lead. Think you could let me through?"
"Um…" Diana's eyes flashed towards the direction of the guard. "I… well, I guess? You said you're a detective, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then… I guess it's okay."
"Diana, you're amazing." The girl blushed slightly. "This will just be our little secret—between you and me, okay? Hey, thanks again!" Quickly, he walked down to the elevator corridor and pressed the button. Pushing his hands into his pockets, he thought to himself, I still got it.
The elevator chimed. Ledford stepped in. He scanned his badge again on the pad below the buttons, and then pressed the SB-5 floor button. Exhaling loudly, Ledford stepped back and leaned on the bannister. His eyes followed the moving lights as it told him which floors he was passing through.
He arrived at the fifth sub-basement level when the chime sounded again. The doors slid open, revealing isle after isle of shelves, racks, and refrigerated storages. Ledford glanced up at the signs that labeled each isle. He still remembered the Curtis case's codification—405LC. Slowly, he walked down the isles until he found it. It was a small cubby where Curtis's personal possessions that had been confiscated for the case were kept. Ledford pulled out the cubby and set it on a nearby table. Sifting through the items, Ledford's hands stilled on one in particular—an audio recorder.
He remembered this. It was a common thing that journalists and reporters held onto. They were things to be used to capture spur-of-the-moment thoughts and tidbits to be revisited later. And it did a good job of making those people look like nutcases talking to themselves.
During the Curtis case he'd listened through the voice files on this thing, and had felt quite disturbed while doing so. It seemed Curtis had some sort of fascination with La Contessa—pouring over every bit of research and rumor he could get his hands on of her. And it seemed the obsession culminated into a final meeting with her, where he had tried to take things too far. At least that was the story argued by the defense attorney in court, and Newell had used Curtis's unhealthy fixation as one of his main weapons.
But… maybe that explanation was far too obvious. The curated conclusion. Had Curtis been an obsessive fan who had lost control when meeting La Contessa, or was there something more to the investigative journalist's behavior?
Ledford glanced around. There was, of course, no one around. He reached into the cubby and took out a pair of headphones. After plugging them into the audio recorder, Ledford switched the device on.
The latest recordings were dated from August 2005—when Curtis had died. Ledford scrolled to a recording that had been made a week before his death. Then, through the headphones, the detective listened to the words of a dead man.
"La Contessa," Curtis began, "The kind of woman that is the root of bad decisions, but have a man gladly make them. Celestina Amonte is fascinating—just too damn fascinating. Why she isn't the subject of investigation by others is beyond me. Behind all that foundation, that mascara, and those ruby red lips, there's something. There is something.
"Celestina Amonte—let's see. Not a hundred percent Italian like she lets everyone believe with her stage name and her darling little accent. Her pop's French, and a man as filthy rich as he is did what you'd expect—went to Italy to find an eye candy wife about twenty years his junior. And he certainly found one. I'll tell you what—at least we know where our Krimson City sweetheart got her looks.
"I'm not finding much through my research, which is odd. For someone so in love with the spotlight, you'd think Celestina would be eager to put her life out on show. You know—a La Contessa origins story. But she's tight-lipped about anything related to her past. Why?"
Ledford found the next recording in chronological order. This one was much shorter.
"I've found references in articles from Milan referring to 'the Amonte girls.' Monsieur Rich has also been quoted at one point saying 'my girls.' I don't remember Celestina ever mentioning a sister."
The last recording on the list was made on the night of Curtis's death. The investigative journalist had left the recorder running during his meeting with Celestina. Judging by the way their voices had been muffled, Ledford assumed Curtis stowed the recorder away in his pocket.
In this audio clip, the background was polluted by the noises of other distant conversations, footsteps, chairs scraping, and glasses clinking. But Ledford could still make out every word spoken.
It began innocently enough. Curtis interviewed Celestina like any journalist would—asking the dry questions about her inspirations and her passions. But then when Curtis started edging towards personal questions, Celestina began to grow more and more vague. And then, though Ledford was only listening to the ghost of their meeting, he could practically feel the atmospheric change when Curtis laid down that question.
"Ms. Amonte," he said. "Why don't you tell me more about Alessandra?"
There was a heavy pause. And then Celestina finally spoke back up. "What did you say you were again? A reporter?"
"Investigative journalist."
"Ah." Her voice had become very, very soft. Ledford strained to catch every word through the muffled audio. "Now that's a name I've not heard in a long time. Why are you bringing this up?"
"Because of this article." Ledford could hear the ruffling of paper. Celestina said nothing, so Curtis continued, "It was big news in Milan when it happened. I apologize if this is bringing up some bad memories—I know it must have been hard for you and your family. But there's something missing in this article, and I get the feeling you know what it is."
Celestina gave a delicate, wistful sigh. "After it happened, Papa locked himself in his study for days. He was ever the family man, you know—we were his most precious things. Guilt weighed heavily on my entire family." She hesitated for a beat, and then added, "They should have loved her."
"What else? You're still not telling me."
"You certainly are a prying one, aren't you?" Celestina's voice had suddenly changed entirely to something Ledford hardly expected from her. It sounded of something… dark. Maybe even dangerous. "You're right—this is a difficult topic, and I don't like talking about it."
"Ms. Amonte," Curtis's voice, too, had dipped down a little lower. "You should know I don't leave a single stone unturned. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get what I want. If you don't tell me what really happened to Alessandra that night, I'll have this article posted. Then let's see how well you can keep this on the down-low."
"Well," Celestina replied airily, her voice growing eerily cold. "I see we have at least one thing in common. Fine, you leave me no choice. But… might I ask we take this somewhere a little more private? Out back, perhaps?"
"In the alley? You're not afraid I might do something?"
"I'm not afraid." There was ruffling as Curtis stood from his chair. "Oh," Celestina piped up again. "Leo, darling, be a dear and turn that off—that thing in your pocket. What I say in the alley are for your ears only."
The recording ended there. Ledford knew what happened in the minutes after. Or, at the very least, what he and the officers had found after responding to the 911 call. He pulled the headphones off and looked back into the box.
Along with the audio recorder, they had found another thing on Curtis's body that night. His other pocket had held a newspaper clipping, but it'd become saturated in blood by the time it had gone into police custody. Ledford reached into the cubby and pulled up the clipping. It was stored safely in a protective sleeve. Through the transparent plastic, Ledford scrutinized the maroon-stained paper. But any detail of the newspaper article that Curtis had showed Celestina was lost behind the old blood. All that remained was the top part of the newspaper where the publication name and date were.
On second thought…
Ledford pulled a small notepad from his pocket and took the pen out from the spiral binding. He flipped to a free page and copied down those two remaining pieces of information. Closing the notebook, he knew he had found all he could here. It was time to take the next few steps in pursuing this lead.
Just as the detective was placing the newspaper clipping back into the cubby, something written on the back caught his eye. Startled, Ledford flipped the article over. There was a handwritten message on the back of the paper, just bordering the bloodstain so that some of the words managed to stay visible. Ledford read what he could, his brow furrowing.
He could only assume Curtis had written this at some point before his death. But it was far too cryptic to be understood, even given the context of his case.
This was something to be mulled over later. Time to take the next step.
That saying—there's no place like home… well, it was quite true. The little escape had been fun, but home was where the heart was. Oh no, not Milan—that accursed place.
With a flick of its switch, the blow dryer immediately quieted its roar. Celestina set it down, closing her eyes to her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she rolled her head to stretch her neck. She looked down at the curling iron propped up on the counter and hovered a hand over it to gauge its heat. It still needed more time. Curses. This brand always boasted its fast heating time, but it was never fast enough.
Celestina closed her eyes again, letting a soft sigh escape her lips. Knocking at the door quickly made her open them again. Crossing her arms over her chest, she replied, "What is it?" She watched the door open in the reflection.
"Sometimes I get the feeling you live in here."
Celestina gave him a coy smile through the reflection. "Won't you be a little more patient with me, darling? I'm almost done."
"Hmm," Stefano replied. "Almost. Something tells me we've two variations on what that word means." He fell silent, not moving from where he leaned on the doorway. Celestina risked a peek and saw him staring. She couldn't read that look in his eye.
Her heart thumped in her chest. She didn't like being seen like this, and he wasn't taking his gaze off of her. Celestina lowered her eyes and quickly stuck a hand out over the curling iron. Feeling a satisfactory amount of heat radiating from it, she quickly took it off its stand.
"Hold on," she suddenly heard Stefano say. Motion in the reflection told her he was moving from the threshold. Lowering the curling iron, Celestina looked over her shoulder. He came over, cocking his head a few degrees to the side as if observing something peculiar. A gloved hand came up, nearly brushing her cheek, and carried with it a lock of her chestnut hair in its sweep. That hand flipped over, and he gently pinched the lock with his thumb as it slid between the leather. All the while, Stefano's eyes never left Celestina's. "I've hardly seen you before you curl your hair. You almost look like… an entirely different woman."
Celestina gave him an uneasy smile. "That's just silly," she retorted. "It's just hair." As soon as the end of the lock dropped from between his hand, she turned back to the curling iron. She began parting her hair into workable sections.
"You know, amore mio," Stefano continued, "I've just realized something tonight. I don't know why it didn't come to me sooner." As Celestina wrapped the first lock around the curling iron, she watched Stefano cross his arms in the reflection. "Amonte… Amonte… I told myself I've heard that name before. It's been rolling around in the back of my head like a marble. And then…" Stefano reached into his blazer. From it, he pulled a small glossy rectangle—a photograph. But all Celestina could see in the reflection was its white back. Stefano's eyes lowered to the image. "Nicholas Amonte," he said softly. "That's Papa's name, isn't it? The one on his last leg of life in the hospital?"
The clamp on the curling iron opened, and the newly spiraled lock of hair swung freely from the metal rod. "Yes?" Her voice curled up in a question.
Pinching the photo between his fingers like a playing card, Stefano flipped it around for Celestina to see. The woman's gaze fell on the picture of a couple posed romantically in front of a Veronese sunset. "Small world," Stefano mused.
"When did you take that?"
"When I was a budding young photographer," Stefano answered, turning the picture back around to admire a relict of the past. "Your papa is a lover of small talk, I discovered. Would always take a moment to chat with me whenever I was around. Spoke about his youth, and then about mine. 'I have a daughter around your age,' he told me. 'We sent her off to London to study at the Royal Academy.' I didn't think much of it then. Six years later…" Stefano's eye came up. "Well, fate is a funny thing. Wouldn't you say so, amore mio?"
"I suppose," Celestina replied lightly. "Did he ever say anything else to you?"
"About…?"
Another lock fell from the curling iron—a fresh new curl. "Me."
"Aside from that brief anecdote? No."
"I see."
Even with the traces of the past hidden under dried blood, there were still ways to dig them out. Click on the search bar. Type the publication name. The date. Press enter. There it was.
It was the August 10th, 1998 edition of the Corriere Della Sera daily paper that Ledford found, saved on an Internet archive as a PDF. He found the exact article that Curtis had held onto. The entire thing was in Italian. After pausing for a moment to deliberate, Ledford opened a new tab and typed the article's headlines into Google Translate. The English translation was a bit shoddy, but clear enough to tell Ledford what he needed to know.
The detective frowned as his eyes took in the text. He leaned back in his chair, trying to digest this new piece of the puzzle. Death in Milan—a body found at the bottom of the bridge. Now isn't that interesting?
Slowly, Ledford translated the rest of the article, trying his best to salvage meaning behind the broken English. Apparently, it had been deemed to be the suicide of an emotionally distraught girl. Poor thing. In respect for the grieving family, the girl's name was never released.
Ledford exhaled heavily through his nose, lacing his fingers together above the desktop and leaning them over his mouth. His mind returned to the strange, handwritten message that'd been found on the back of the newspaper clipping. He still had no idea how to piece that with everything he'd learned so far.
His phone suddenly rang. Ledford's eyes flew to it. They softened at the sight of the name in the caller ID, and Ledford reached over to answer the call. "Hey," he said, closing the laptop lid shut. The article disappeared out of sight.
Ledford rose from his chair. Pacing slowly around the room, he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. His eyebrows rose. "Really? That's great." He paused again to listen. "Yeah, you can come home any time you want. I'll be here." Ledford couldn't prevent the hint of a smile from touching his face as he replied, "Right, you too. Talk to ya later, Bunny."
After what he'd heard over the phone—the voice that always put him at ease—Ledford could barely remember what he had been doing earlier. He glanced back to the desk. There sat the laptop and the notebook opened to that one page.
He thought for a moment. Maybe the lieutenant was right—he did need a break. This little side project did nothing but stress him out even more, and he'd need a clear head for once he was assigned back onto the murder investigations.
For once, Ledford figured, it was time to set all this aside. There was no harm in that.
Addendum: "You know, son, I have a daughter around your age."
"Yessir, and in six years' time, you won't be the only one she calls 'Daddy'."
And that is the story of how Stefano died.