Chapter 49
It takes her thirty minutes to find it.
First the basement, then the garage, then back down to the basement, where she locates the camcorder in a Nike shoebox along with a bunch of 8mm tapes. Her heart is pounding in her chest as she climbs the steps to the main floor.
Back at the kitchen table, Kennedy opens the box and extracts the video camera.
Hefts the thing in her hands before putting it down.
She examines the tapes. Eleven in all.
A few markings and dates written in ink.
Kennedy takes the camcorder into the family room. Plugs it in, powers it on, and flips open the 2.5-inch LCD color screen.
Still works.
She pours herself a glass of Merlot and sits cross-legged on the floor, loading the first tape. She hits rewind and waits patiently for the tape to come to a stop. Then Kennedy hits play.
Almost four hours later, Kennedy rises from the carpet, stretching her arms and legs as she exhales an explosive yawn. The time has flown by. It’s now close to six
PM
. She’s famished. Kennedy goes to the refrigerator, opens it, and peers inside.
Not much stares back at her.
A half-eaten pint of shrimp lo mein, some deli meat, cheese, three eggs, some low-fat yogurt.
Kennedy reaches for the Chinese food, dumps the contents into a bowl and thrusts it into the microwave.
Thanksgiving Day and Kennedy’s having leftover Chinese food.
She waits for the food to zap, standing by the bay window, deep in thought. The day is overcast gray. Dreary. There is no color. No leaves, very few evergreens on her back alley, and even those appear washed out. She thinks of Michael and Zack and her heart spikes. She misses them both. Misses them so much she can hardly breathe.
The microwave pings, signaling the food’s done.
Kennedy removes the piping-hot bowl, takes it over to the kitchen table and sits down. She embeds her fork in the noodles, readying to eat when she stops herself.
Says a prayer first.
For all the things she’s thankful for.
Her son. Her husband. Her health. Her career. For family and friendships.
Kennedy ends with an amen and forks some shrimp into her mouth. Chews slowly, reaching for her BlackBerry. Types out a short text message.
I AM THANKFUL FOR HAVING YOU IN MY LIFE.
Considers saying more. But what else is there to say? She adds:
IM SORRY. MORE THAN YOULL EVER KNOW.
Kennedy hits SND, transmitting the message to her husband approximately three hundred fifty miles away.
Back to the lo mein. She takes several more bites.
Suddenly, Kennedy is no longer hungry.
She gets up from the table, glancing in the direction of the family room and the camcorder on the floor.
Kennedy’s found what she was looking for.
It was there, amidst the eleven tapes of her son’s early childhood, a family vacation to DisneyWorld, trips to Ithaca and her parents’ home in Atlanta, and several getaways with Michael.
It had taken her most of the afternoon to go through the tapes, fast-forwarding through the material but then slowing down to watch the videos, smiling at the memories, some long forgotten.
Some she just couldn’t fast-forward through.
Zack learning how to walk, Michael changing his diapers, their son’s first bath, their first Christmas with him. Kennedy cried softly when she watched that tape, Zack ripping apart the wrapping paper to get at the Cookie Monster trike that had him blissful for at least half of that Christmas day.
She found what she was seeking late in the afternoon.
They had taken the camcorder on their trip to Miami.
Second week in November. Four years ago.
Stayed at the Tides, Ocean Drive, South Beach.
The video begins with them on their first day outside the hotel. A gorgeous day, sun high in the sky, art deco architecture in the foreground. Michael pans the camera, taking in Kennedy on the curb in a sexy miniskirt and mules. Her hair is freshly washed, and there’s a healthy glow to her face. She remembers now—they had just finished making love after checking in.
Their hotel room faced the ocean. Eight stories down were palm trees, white sand, and incredible bodies on rollerblades, clad in little-left-to-the-imagination swimwear. They walked Ocean Drive, taking in the sights and sounds of South Beach: Versace’s mansion, the Park Central Hotel, the lively restaurants and colorful sidewalk cafés. Spent time lounging by the pool, being pampered by hotel staff as they drank martinis and took poolside naps.
On their third day there, a Friday, Michael and Kennedy got dressed for dinner and walked hand in hand along Ocean Drive toward their destination. The concierge at the hotel had recommended B.E.D., an eclectic place two blocks up and two blocks over. B.E.D. was unlike any place they had been to before. No tables, no chairs. Instead, large oversized beds where meals were served on an oval rattan tray. They had ordered drinks—mojitos—and an appetizer—hot passion-fruit caipirinha. Wonderful atmosphere—low lighting, mood music, and waiters that attended to your every need.
Kennedy recalls nibbling on the appetizer and sipping on her mojito, enjoying the conversation that she and her husband were having when a trio of women came in. They must have been early because the maitre d’ put them at the bar while their bed was being made.
One woman stood out from the pack.
Tall, butterscotch complexion, long hair done up in a ponytail. Fairly conservative dress—Kennedy remembers the woman wearing a plain dress and shoes (at least for South Beach), as if she were trying to tone down her appearance. But her beauty shone through like bright rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Even though her dress did not accentuate her curves, Kennedy remembers thinking that underneath it all there was a very healthy body.
Women know.
Kennedy remembers that night. Remembers seeing her, thinking to herself,
What’s her story? Who is she? What is she like?
She forgot the woman quickly.
Their entreés arrived.
Lamb chops served with chimichurri sauce for her.
Stuffed rigatoni for him.
A wonderful dinner followed by an equally delicious dessert.
The next day Kennedy and Michael were on the sidewalk parallel to the beach, a short walk from the Tides, when they spotted her.
The woman from the previous night at B.E.D.
Alone.
Kennedy went up and spoke to her. Said she had seen her last night. Inquired about her meal.
That’s how it began.
A friendly conversation on a delightful Saturday afternoon.
Conversation that moved to an invitation to join them by the hotel pool.
She accepted.
Soon the three of them were lounging by the pool, sipping on something frozen and something sweet while the conversation flowed freely.
Kennedy calls to mind certain details.
The woman was married four years.
Had flown in from out of town (Kennedy can’t recall from where) for a conference.
Nursing? Therapy? Something health-care related.
The conference had ended Friday afternoon, but she was staying the weekend by herself, taking a much-needed minivacation.
They talked for hours, she and Kennedy and Michael.
Afternoon turned to evening.
They invited her to dinner.
She accepted, taking a cab back to her hotel to change into evening attire.
They dined that night at DeVitos, at the southern tip of South Beach.
Great food and even greater conversation.
Libations flowing like a Jamaican waterfall.
Kennedy and the woman got along splendidly. They talked about everything under the sun—their relationships, marriage, men, their careers. The conversation moved to sex, but the woman seemed to be reluctant to share her true feelings.
Kennedy didn’t push things. There was no need. She was in no rush.
That night, after they had returned to their hotel alone, Michael and Kennedy discussed the woman while getting undressed.
It was clear Kennedy wanted her.
Michael told his wife she could have her.
The next day the woman met them at the Tides for brunch. The rest of the afternoon was spent by the pool. Kennedy and the woman got facials while Michael walked the beach, recording the sights with the camcorder.
When he returned, he found his wife and the woman deep in conversation. He knew where things were heading; she knew Michael could sense the change in his wife’s demeanor.
Celestial
had arrived.
In the woman’s space, leaning in close, stroking the woman’s forearm as she laughed heartily.
Michael took out the camcorder and videotaped the two of them splashing around the pool.
Shortly thereafter, Kennedy took the woman by the hand. Water dripping from sculpted calves and sensuous thighs. Michael watched them go, the camcorder zooming on their departure.
The woman, acutely aware that she was being filmed, turned on the balls of her bare feet and, still holding Kennedy’s hand, smiled for the camera.
She uttered two words before blowing Michael a kiss.
Two words that spike Kennedy’s heart even now as she plays the videotape on the floor of her family room.
Ciao Bella.
Chapter 50
She waits until after dinnertime to call him.
Places the call around eight.
Glances at her nails as she listens to the ringing on the other end of the phone.
Starts when a female voice answers.
“I’m trying to reach Joe,” Kennedy says, somewhat cautiously.
It’s now dark outside. Kennedy has the blinds drawn and the lights on. Still she feels a certain chill from being alone.
“Joe can’t come to the phone,” the voice says. “It is Thanksgiving, you know.”
Kennedy stares in amazement at the phone.
“Excuse me,” she begins, the attempt at controlling her rising anger gone, “this isn’t a social call. I’m calling about a
case.
”
“Your case, Kennedy. Isn’t that right?”
“Whom am I speaking to?” she asks.
“This is Tara, his fiancée,” Tara responds acidly.
“Look, Tara, tell Joe I found the information that we were searching for earlier. Do you think you can do that?”
Tara begins a rapid-fire response, but Kennedy, smirk painted on her face, has already hung up.
Joe returns her call about an hour later.
“Gee, thanks for ruining my holiday,” he says without preamble.
“Excuse me? You asked me to call you if I found anything,” Kennedy exclaims, huffing into her BlackBerry.
“Did you have to get into it with Tara, of all people?” Joe asks.
Kennedy laughs.
“That heifer answers your phone, takes an attitude with me, and you’re all up in my face? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Don’t call Tara a heifer. She’s my fiancée.”
“Joe, I called because of the case, nothing more.”
Joe is silent, controlling the storm that is brewing inside him.
Kennedy doesn’t wait for a response. She pushes on.
“I found what we were looking for. I found the tape.”
“Okay.” Joe waits for more.
“The woman who says
Ciao Bella
in the voice mails is the woman Michael and I met in Miami four years ago. It’s definitely her. Now that I’ve seen her on videotape, I’m positive it’s her.”
That information has Joe’s attention.
“That’s great. What’s her name?” he asks.
Kennedy frowns. “That’s the thing, Joe. I don’t know her name. I mean, I can’t remember, and it’s nowhere on the video.”
“Okay. Give me what you have. Everything. Don’t leave out any details. We’re closing in. This is good work.”
For the next ten minutes, Kennedy recounts for Joe everything on the tape and what she recalls from memory. Joe does not interrupt, just lets her talk, taking copious notes. When she’s done, Joe stares at what he’s written, nodding his head.
“Okay. Would your husband remember this woman’s name?”
Kennedy considers the question.
“Not sure. He’s not speaking to me right now, so . . .”
Joe, wisely, leaves that one alone.
“Fine. Can you go to the tape and see if there is a date? I want to know exactly when you were down there in Miami.”
“I can look. Give me a moment.”
“We know she was in Miami at some sort of health conference. Shouldn’t be too difficult to backtrack and find out which one. You also said you remember her saying something about her flight. Do you recall where she was from?”
Kennedy thinks.
“I’m almost positive she said she was from Florida. Not sure which city, but I do think she mentioned something about a short flight. So she could be from Orlando or Jacksonville. Those don’t ring a bell, but my gut feeling tells me she’s from Florida.”
Kennedy fast-forwards to the first day of the Miami vacation. There’s the date: November 16, 2005. She lets Joe know.
“Great,” he replies. “This is good. Let me try and find out which conferences were being held in Miami during the middle of November, 2005. Hopefully, we can get a list of attendees and go from there. If you see her name, perhaps it will jump-start your memory.”
“Hope so.”
“You didn’t keep in contact with her, did you?”
“We exchanged several e-mails, but that was when we were on Verizon. Those emails are no longer accessible. She was married and concerned about her husband finding out.”
“This could be our guy.”
“It’s a long shot,” Kennedy says.
“Actually, it’s not. What’s happened to you is a crime of passion. This is coming from someone who’s been burnt. It’s got to be related to someone you’ve been intimate with. I’d bet my pension we’re closing in.”
“I hope you’re right, Joe. I really do.”
“Trust me. This son of a bitch is in my sights. I can feel it.”