What the Nanny Saw Ch. 09

Chapter 9: Everything was consensual

In the event, it had taken Carlo a day to get Mirriam Bonsignore extradited to their custody. Which meant that Romano had had a full day to clear paperwork off his desk and avoid Catterina's attentions. He had two contrasting flavors in his mouth all day - disgusted regret about the Pink Kitty and the candied orange and coffee cream of that cannolo. So after a lunch at Enzo's and a walk along the jetty, he'd returned home via the cafe at the Warf with a portion for himself.

He kept Madame Bonsignore waiting till after lunch the next day. And, taking no chances, it was Carlo who joined him for the interview - he, at least, was unlikely to get handsy under the table.

"I should inform you, Madame Bonsignore," Romano started.

"Mirriam," she interjected.

"I should inform you, Mirriam, that I've spoken to Giulia, I've interviewed Aya, I know the story, or a good portion of it. So if we could skip the denials and get straight to the facts, I'd appreciate it."

"I should also let you know that, while I'm only interested in your husband's murder, to get you here we had to lay all possible, known charges in front of the Prosecutor, so I cannot say there will be no further interest in your activities. And therefore, the more you cooperate now, the more I can tell the prosecutor about how... helpful... you've been."

He stopped there, to let her absorb all this and to get a better look at her. He'd noticed she was tall and seemed well put together for a woman in police custody almost 18 hours now. But on closer inspection he noticed some signs of distressed conditions - a poor manicure. And her hair needed a treatment, a faded red showing through at the ends from a long past dye job.

The woman across from them didn't look scared. She wasn't going to be frightened into saying something stupid. And 'stupid' probably meant something true.

"I'll make this easy for you then, Inspector," said Madame Bonsingore. "My husband ran a series of parties. Sometimes, as happens at parties, things got wild. As far as I know, nothing illegal occurred. But if it did, it was my husband who organized the parties and my husband upon whom any consequences should fall."

"Easily said, Signora'," responded Romano, "But your husband is conveniently dead."

"Convenient for you perhaps," she retorted, "For me, it's a pain in the ass."

"Excuse me if I say, you don't seem devastated, Signora."

"Mirriam" she interjected.

"Well then," said Romano, "You don't appear devastated Mirriam. Did you love your husband?"

"Inspector, I was divorcing my husband, my advocate will be along soon enough and I asked him to bring the papers. As to why. My husband asked a lot of me. He expected a lot of me. But when I gave him what he wanted he could become insanely jealous. And when he became jealous, he became violent. At some point, it became too much," she said.

Romano could see her play quite clearly now. Claim innocence, blame the husband, and then, whatever came to light, it was the husband who forced her to participate.

"And then," she continued, "I learned he had perverted the one cause I am truly invested in - supporting and caring for our immigrant population. Did you know," she leaned forward with a whisper, "that he was taking advantage of our poor Tunisian guests, to whom I'd opened our home and who I was supporting in finding a foothold here in Italy?"

Romano took a breath, while she assessed the effect this had on him. Did she have him in check with her first move on the board? "Mirriam, we have had the opportunity to interview your nanny. And she tells us that she saw a Tunisian girl being taken advantage of."

The lady nodded as if to say, "sad but true"

Romano continued, "but it was you, as much as your husband who was doing the taking. Or so our witness says."

She continued to nod and said, "You see, Inspector, I was forced to do all sorts of things to please that man. Disgusting things. And not just with nannies, but with friends and strangers and party guests. I was a hostage to that man."

Romano had to hand it to her, a plausible defense and one sure to play to a jury's sympathy, if it came to that.

"You must have hated him." It was more of a statement than a question.

"I pitied him, Inspector," came the clearly prepared answer.

"Did you kill him?"

"Inspector, you know, I assume, that I was at a very public, very well-photographed wedding on the evening of my husband's murder. In Palermo. That. That would be a neat trick," she answered.

He was in check for sure now, but perhaps not mated.

"I've spoken to Aya," said the inspector, hoping the suggestion would elicit some usable details. But the lady, who clearly had ice in the veins, simply raised an eyebrow and said. "You mentioned her, who is that?"

"Aya. The Tunisian. She says you recruited and prostituted her. You paid her to service guests and to make video pornography, in which you also participated."

At that Signore' Bonsignore threw her head back and laughed. A full, and genuine-feeling laugh. "I have no idea who that is, but it's a good story. I can't wait to hear the end."

"The end has you stringing the girl up and whipping her on tape, a tape we have Signora'," said Romano.

"It was usually me getting whipped. For my 'transgressions.' For doing exactly what Augustu wanted. I don't remember whipping anyone... oh, wait, maybe one time he made me. Aya? Did you say that was her name? It was one of the girls he forced me into sex with. The bastard. If I did do anything like that, I'm sure I was as gentle as I could get away with."

She had him pretty well mated, that was clear. But then, she'd had a week to organize her story.

"Mirriam, you said some friends participated in your parties?"

"Augustu's parties, yes."

"Can I have some names please," asked Romano with a sigh.

And even here, she outmaneuvered him. "My advocate will have a list when he arrives. Those that I can remember. Augustu had me on medication much of the time, and my memory's impaired."

Romano was too frustrated to cope with his mountain of paper. A complete failure of an interview and so little to show for it, Carlo's train ticket to Palermo was hardly justified. Except that Carlo had taken the opportunity to confirm the lady's alibi, which seemed, thus far, to hold up.

"Let Carlo know I've gone home, if he needs me," said Romano to Catterina on his way out.

At home, Romano found a plate of cold pasta with tomatoes, basil and black passuluna olives, left for him by the blessed Adelina, which he ate on the deck, overlooking the sea. Tomatoes were a new world fruit, and, strictly speaking, had no place in a pasta sauce. But as a garnish in a cold pasta dish, they were acceptable, just, he thought.

Romano considered calling Lydia. But the day had been frustrating enough. So he jumped a bit when his phone rang. "She even knows when I'm thinking about her," thought Romano.

But it wasn't Lydia calling. It was Ingrid. The great thing about Ingrid was, he could tell her about his cases without the judgment that sometimes came from Lydia. It was as if Lydia held him personally responsible for the poor decision making of the whole of Sicily.

He told Ingrid about how fruitless the day's interview with Madame Bonsignore had been.

"It can't be all that bad, Giaccomo," replied Ingrid, "if she confirmed the sex parties AND gave you names."

"The names won't get us anywhere, she made sure the ones she 'remembers' are either away from Sicily at the moment or too prominent to approach without detailed cause," complained Romano.

"No one interesting at all?" asked the ever-inquisitive Ingrid.

"Not really," huffed Romano, "certainly no one I can tell you about."

"You sound so down, Giaccomo. You need a distraction. I could come over?" offered Ingrid.

"Why would you want to do that?"

As Ingrid began to tell him exactly why she would want to come over, and what she would do when she got there, Romano leaned back, closed his eyes, and drank the imagery in.

"Hmm," said Ingrid, "I know how stressed you get during a case. I would stand behind you and put my hands on your shoulders. Those, mmm, swimmer's shoulders you have. And I'd rub them and squeeze them. Massage away all the tension. And when you leaned back, I'd lean over your face and kiss your forehead. Maybe kiss your lips, if I could reach."

"And then I'd put my hands on your face and work all those pressure points. At the junction of your nose, rubbing into the ridge over your eyes and at the hinge of your jaw. And your temples. I'd rub your temples firmly in little round circles. I'd rub your forehead. Till all the tension left your face."

"And then I'd run my hands through your hair." She gave a little laugh. "You have no idea how appealing a full head of hair can be, Giaccomo. I'd scratch your scalp. Along the front ridge line of your hair. Along the sides over your ears. In the back, rubbing your skull. And then running my finger nails lightly through the hair at top of your head. Till the back of your head felt all fuzzy and you were completely relaxed."

"That's when I'd come around to the front, Giaccomo. That's when I'd start running my hands lightly down your chest. When I'd help you out of your shirt and out of your pants. You could touch me then too, if you wanted. I know how much you enjoy my breasts. You could put your hands up my shirt. Or take it off if you wanted. You could kiss them and lick them if you wanted. Or you could just hold them, while I took your cock in my hands; while I rubbed and stroked and caressed your beautiful cock."

"I'd want you. Inside me. But I'm patient. I wouldn't just jump on you. I would kneel down in front of you. The way I know you like it. So you could see my eyes as I took your cock in my mouth. As I licked it and kissed and sucked on it. I'd make sure it was wet. Sloppy wet for you, Giaccomo. And noisy, all the slurping sucking sounds I know you love."

"And when it was hard enough. And wet enough. That's when I would climb in your lap and slip your cock inside me. I would make sure to do all the work, Giaccomo. I would rock back and forth. And up and down. I'd get you as deep inside me as I could. As deep as you could go. I can take all of you. You know I can. And I would. And I would squeeze down on your cock as I rode you. Squeezing and fucking till you came in a gushing fountain inside me. Making me a woman. Making me your woman."

Romano may have heard the last, or he may have dreamt it, as he drifted blissfully off to the soft crash of the late afternoon waves and to Ingrid's provocative voice.