room, Miss Conti. A big nothing. No fingerprints, I mean. This perpetrator is experienced. The furniture and doorknobs were wiped clean. All we got were Stanley’s and Sophia’s, and prints that are probably yours. But there will be DNA. Like I tell victims all the time, it’s tough to keep DNA from dropping all over the place when sex is involved. Skin cells shed, especially if there’s sweat. The medical examiner’s team took your sheets and towels to the lab. I have hopes for the tabletop.”
“Tabletop?” She was taken aback by his enthusiasm.
“You said you had bruises up your back. The minute I saw that round table in your room, I said to the criminologist, ‘That’s where it happened.’ The perpetrator laid you across the table and stripped off your clothes—they were inside out on the floor. He stood up, keeping on his clothes and using a condom. That would prevent his DNA from transferring to your clothes. Your head would have hung over the edge of the table. Does your neck hurt like it was stretched backwards?”
Grazia felt faint. Black spots floated in front of her eyes. She closed them and concentrated on breathing. That helped when she was in a tense negotiating session. It wasn’t helping now.
Cargill flipped over a page in his notebook. “Do you remember more? The drug should be wearing off some.”
Stanley cleared his throat. “Miss Conti looks done in, Russell. Can’t this wait?”
“She needs to talk while it’s fresh in her mind—you know that, Stanley.” Cargill turned back to Grazia. “Last night about nine o’clock, you went down to the lobby, and Manuel recommended the Brazilian Bar. Right?”
“Nine-thirty,” corrected Grazia, struggling to clear her head. “When I came out of the hospital today, I met an old woman walking her little dog. She saw me last night at nine-thirty.”
Cargill leaned forward. “Where?”
“By Menno House. I asked directions to the Brazilian Bar.”
“So you did go to the Brazilian Bar! And there’s a witness!” He grinned at Stanley. “You have this woman’s name?”
“Mrs. Springer. The dog is Jacky. Menno House can find her.”
“I know Mrs. Springer and Jacky,” commented Stanley.
Grazia thought for a moment. “She was in my nightmare,” she said slowly, understanding dawning. “Just as I was waking up this morning, I dreamed an old lady was yelling ‘Jacky! Bite!’ I saw a flash of gold.”
“That sounds like a memory, not a nightmare,” pronounced Cargill. “Any other new memories?”
Visions were opening. Maybe it was the comfort of the hot chocolate or the feeling of safety being in this office with two authority figures trying to help her. “I know why I went to the Brazilian Bar,” she explained slowly. “Yesterday, I ran into a friend at Lord & Taylor. Seeing the shopping bags reminded me. I had gone there on Saturday for the sale. We agreed to meet at the Brazilian Bar at nine-thirty.”
“Name? Address?”
“Laura Oviedo. She’s a lawyer in Milan. Italy.”
Cargill grimaced. “Another foreigner.” He turned back to Grazia. “This Miss Oviedo is in New York why?”
“I don’t know. Or I don’t remember.”
“Where is she staying?”
Grazia shook her head.
“Phone number?”
“I don’t know.”
Cargill sighed. “Check your cell phone. You professional people exchange personal information like breathing.”
Grazia tried to clear her mind. Fog had descended again. She dug out her two smartphones, business and personal, from her handbag and searched for the name. “Laura Oviedo!” she read aloud from her personal phone contacts, surprised. The memories tumbled in. “Ah. Last night I walked into the Brazilian Bar and saw her talking to some men.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Did she introduce you?”
“She tried but the music was too loud to hear their names. I was watching their lips.” She brightened. “We must have been speaking Italian because I can’t read lips in
“Tabletop?” She was taken aback by his enthusiasm.
“You said you had bruises up your back. The minute I saw that round table in your room, I said to the criminologist, ‘That’s where it happened.’ The perpetrator laid you across the table and stripped off your clothes—they were inside out on the floor. He stood up, keeping on his clothes and using a condom. That would prevent his DNA from transferring to your clothes. Your head would have hung over the edge of the table. Does your neck hurt like it was stretched backwards?”
Grazia felt faint. Black spots floated in front of her eyes. She closed them and concentrated on breathing. That helped when she was in a tense negotiating session. It wasn’t helping now.
Cargill flipped over a page in his notebook. “Do you remember more? The drug should be wearing off some.”
Stanley cleared his throat. “Miss Conti looks done in, Russell. Can’t this wait?”
“She needs to talk while it’s fresh in her mind—you know that, Stanley.” Cargill turned back to Grazia. “Last night about nine o’clock, you went down to the lobby, and Manuel recommended the Brazilian Bar. Right?”
“Nine-thirty,” corrected Grazia, struggling to clear her head. “When I came out of the hospital today, I met an old woman walking her little dog. She saw me last night at nine-thirty.”
Cargill leaned forward. “Where?”
“By Menno House. I asked directions to the Brazilian Bar.”
“So you did go to the Brazilian Bar! And there’s a witness!” He grinned at Stanley. “You have this woman’s name?”
“Mrs. Springer. The dog is Jacky. Menno House can find her.”
“I know Mrs. Springer and Jacky,” commented Stanley.
Grazia thought for a moment. “She was in my nightmare,” she said slowly, understanding dawning. “Just as I was waking up this morning, I dreamed an old lady was yelling ‘Jacky! Bite!’ I saw a flash of gold.”
“That sounds like a memory, not a nightmare,” pronounced Cargill. “Any other new memories?”
Visions were opening. Maybe it was the comfort of the hot chocolate or the feeling of safety being in this office with two authority figures trying to help her. “I know why I went to the Brazilian Bar,” she explained slowly. “Yesterday, I ran into a friend at Lord & Taylor. Seeing the shopping bags reminded me. I had gone there on Saturday for the sale. We agreed to meet at the Brazilian Bar at nine-thirty.”
“Name? Address?”
“Laura Oviedo. She’s a lawyer in Milan. Italy.”
Cargill grimaced. “Another foreigner.” He turned back to Grazia. “This Miss Oviedo is in New York why?”
“I don’t know. Or I don’t remember.”
“Where is she staying?”
Grazia shook her head.
“Phone number?”
“I don’t know.”
Cargill sighed. “Check your cell phone. You professional people exchange personal information like breathing.”
Grazia tried to clear her mind. Fog had descended again. She dug out her two smartphones, business and personal, from her handbag and searched for the name. “Laura Oviedo!” she read aloud from her personal phone contacts, surprised. The memories tumbled in. “Ah. Last night I walked into the Brazilian Bar and saw her talking to some men.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Did she introduce you?”
“She tried but the music was too loud to hear their names. I was watching their lips.” She brightened. “We must have been speaking Italian because I can’t read lips in
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