If I even remember what normal could be in my life.
Ben shakes his head and any excitement I worked up over the last forty seconds expires. “As a cop I hate to admit this, but I don’t know, Amanda. I can’t do witness protection because you can’t testify to anything in court. But the criminals aren’t aware of how little you saw. In fact, the criminals know more than us at this point.”
He looks at me out of the side of his eye I and I tense, gulping quickly. “What does that mean?”
“That they understand why Richie was shot and who shot him. Whether they think you saw something is a mystery.”
“But it was dark. They didn’t see me.” I’ve told Ben what the two men said in argument, but without context it doesn’t help much.
“We need Richie to wake up and make his statement.”
“Will he wake up soon?” I imagine once he does Ben will contact me as soon as possible. Since I haven’t heard from him I’m considering it worst — or best — case. It depends on how you look at what he tells them.
“I haven’t stopped by in the last few days, but apparently he’s off the ventilator. That’s a good sign, but from what I hear its touch and go. They’re not sure when he’ll wake up. If ever. There’s a cop stationed outside the door to update me anytime there’s a change, but I need more information.” He pulls to the side of the road and stops the car, not turning the engine off. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can remember?”
“I’m sure,” I lie. It happens so quickly I don’t even consider it. If my body had given me the chance, I might’ve told on the truth. As it is, he’s already out of the car before I get a handle on my nerves. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
The butterflies of doom start up in my stomach again. They aren’t a light flutter like when I’m around someone I like, but more often they puke all over my intestinal tract. It’s a horrible visual, and it’s wreaking havoc on my insides.
Ben opens the door, allowing me time to get out, and then walks up to a tiny yellow bungalow in a neighborhood not too far out of San Francisco proper, but definitely not a neighborhood I’ve ever visited. There are chain-link fences and barking dogs dotting the front yards. A few pieces of trash sway back and forth down the road each time the breeze hits them.
“Follow my lead,” Ben says as he knocks three times on an old wooden front door.
An older woman with long hair bordering between blonde and white opens the door. She wears a velvet jumpsuit, but not the kind you find on people who are retired in Florida. She’s more of what you’d expect on a housewife with too much money on her hands and no fashion sense. Her ears and neck are covered in gold and if not for the small lines creasing her forehead and around her neck, I’d probably put her at my age.
“Detective Adams. How good to see you again.”
Ben smiles. “Mrs. Rostelli, I have a couple of quick questions for you today. This is my associate Amanda.” He gestures in my direction and I smile, nodding my head twice. Hopefully that’s to his lead.
“You best stay outside. No offense, but I don’t want to look cozy with the police.”
Ben lifts an eyebrow putting this entire exchange into the curious category. “Do you want to find out who shot your son?”
She scoffs. “Of course I do. I want those bastards brought down, but I live here. What will I care about catching shooters if I’m dead?”
Wow this woman isn’t going to win mother of the year.
“I stopped by to see if you’ve heard or remembered anything new.” Ben pulls out a pad of paper from his pocket with a pen.
“No,” she says shaking her head. “I told you everything. It was organized crime.”
Organized crime?
“And I’ve explained, Mrs. Rostelli, that unfortunately I can’t say Richie’s mom says it was organized crime in a court of law.”
“Three months ago, Richie refused to pay protection fees to the Boca family. They beat him up and set our building on fire.”
Ben ruffles through a few pages of his notebook. “The fire in the back of the electronic store was deemed to be electrical in nature. Faulty wiring.”
She huffed. “Yeah, of course. What? You want them to spell out Boca in flames for everyone to see? I swear, you cops.”
Ben shakes his head and grits his teeth. If the street were quieter, I could probably hear his molars rubbing together.
“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Rostelli. I’m going to give your information over to the organized crime unit. I’ll make sure they send someone along to get your statement.”
“That’s the first smart thing a cop in San Francisco has done for us,” she says, her eyes bright with sarcasm. “If you want, I’ll finger one of the Bocas? There’s no quicker way to end up dead.”
Ben shakes his head. “You’re willing to say its mob related, but not which member of the mob?”
