Page 71 of The Housemaid Is Watching

“Then I’m guessing you’re in some kind of trouble,” he says. But he doesn’t sound angry about it. More like amused.

“We have a bit of a situation,” I admit. I drop my voice, even though the only person in the room is Enzo. “We moved out to Long Island, like I told you last time we talked.”

“Right! You’re a Long Islander now! Are you listening to a lot of Billy Joel? Going to diners every night?”

“My neighbor was just found murdered, Benny.”

That stops him in his tracks. “Jesus, Millie. I’m really sorry to hear that. What’s going on?”

I tell him the whole story about finding Jonathan dead yesterday in his house. I tell him about Detective Willard and being asked to come down to the station this morning. I start to tell him about the blood on Enzo’s hands, but then my husband gives me a look and I shut my mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Ramirez, but… well, he’s a cop.

When I finish telling him what happened, Ramirez lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s a wild story. But they don’t got any real reason to suspect you or Enzo, do they?”

“No…”

“So go down to the station and talk to them,” he says. “If anything starts to sound funny, you stop and don’t say another word. Then you get a good lawyer.”

A good lawyer. I wonder what that would cost. “Benny, I don’t know if we can afford a lawyer right now.”

“Yeah, but they gotta provide you with one. They can’t question you if you say you want a lawyer.”

It will be some public defender who might have no idea what they’re doing. The last time I had a public defender, I ended up in prison for ten years. But it’s better than nothing. I guess.

“Meanwhile,” he says, “I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.”

“You still work for the NYPD?” I ask him. “You were talking about retiring.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well, I’m still here. If I had a wife, she would be furious.”

I give Enzo a thumbs-up. He nods and heads in the direction of the bathroom. The shower starts up, and it’s only then that I blurt out, “Benny, Enzo had blood all over his hands when he came home last night.”

There’s a long silence on the other line. “Blood on his hands?”

“He says he cut himself.”

“Maybe he did.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know…”

“Millie,” he says, “one thing I know about Enzo Accardi is that he is a good guy. I don’t think he would kill anyone. But if he did, it would be for a damn good reason.”

That is not untrue.

“Don’t overreact to this,” he advises me. “Your neighbor just got murdered. Of course they’re going to want to question you. The sooner they find the person who did this, the sooner it will be over.” He pauses. “But don’t tell them about the blood on his hands.”

If I had a dime for every time I lied to the police, I wouldn’t have to worry about mortgage payments.

FORTY-SIX

I had been considering keeping the kids home from school today, but if Enzo and I are both going to the police station, there’s no way to do that. I’m not bringing my children to a police station. My wish is that neither of them ever have to set foot in a police station for their entire lives. (Except possibly for a school trip. That would be okay, I suppose.)

Even Nico manages to get ready for school without much protest or fuss. They are both uncharacteristically silent while they choke down a few bites of cereal, which seems appropriate given the gravity of what happened. I haven’t been walking them to the bus stop in the morning, but I do it today, just to make sure everything goes smoothly.

Unfortunately, Janice and Spencer are waiting at the bus stop when we arrive. Janice is wearing her usual nightgown and slippers, and it takes all my self-restraint not to wrap my fingers around her skinny little neck. This woman basically told the police she thought my husband killed a man. That’s not exactly neighborly.

We don’t say one word to each other while we wait for the bus to arrive. And that’s fine with me.

“Mommy,” Nico says. It pulls on my heartstrings because he hasn’t called me that in years. “Do I have to go to school today?”