The Goddaughter by Melodie Campbell Page A

floor. So, apparently, was Pete.
    â€œNice shoes,” he said.
    I looked down at the glittering evening sandals. “Thanks,” I said. “You know my cousin Angelo, who works in the morgue? His dad is a cobbler.”
    Pete looked puzzled.
    I tried again. “A shoemaker—you know? He does custom work for the rich.”
    Pete shook his head. “Are you related to everyone in this town?”
    â€œNot everyone.” I smiled. A man in uniform was walking over to us. “No cops in the family.”
    Rick Spenser—Spense to his friends—strode to a halt in front of me. He frowned. I wasn’t a friend, but we had gone to school together, so Spense knew all about my connections. Hence the frown.
    â€œWell, well. Gina Gallo, what a surprise. The girl with the longest confession.”
    I choked. Beside me, Pete strangled a laugh.
    â€œDon’t see you in church much these days.”
    â€œThe nuns frighten me.” I worked to make my voice sound smooth.
    Spense stared a hole through me, as if trying to figure out if I was serious or not.
    â€œYou know the vic?”
    I nodded. “He’s Tony Rizzo, a cousin-in-law by marriage, from New York.”
    At Saint Bonaventure Secondary, Spense had been tall, thin and nerdy. Now, he looked even taller, thinner and baffled. “What the hell is a cousin-in-law by marriage?”
    â€œMy cousin Marco—you remember Marco from high school with the souped-up Camaro?”
    Spense nodded. In the old days, he had loved cars.
    â€œWell, Marco moved to New York and married Tina Rizzo. Tony is her brother.”
    â€œSo he’s your cousin’s wife’s brother.” Spense shook his head. “You people are loaded with relatives.”
    I just shrugged.
    â€œWhat was he doing in Hamilton?”
    â€œNot sure,” I said carefully. “Visiting family. I think he was interested in collecting art. You’ll have to ask my uncle about that.”
    I heard Pete snort beside me. The only art this guy collected would have come from gas stations and porn shops.
    â€œAre you in the art biz now?” Spense asked.
    â€œNo, no.” I shook my head. “I’m a gemologist.”
    Spense raised an eyebrow. “Certified and everything?”
    I nodded. “Got my degree first. Geology and chemistry.”
    Spense seemed impressed. “You always were smart.” His eyes shifted to my décolletage and lingered there too long.
    Pete was looking at me, curious. I could feel his attention as surely as if his arm had been wrapped around my shoulders. His eyes flipped back to Spense, and he frowned.
    Spense shifted his gaze. “Malone, you got anything to do with this?”
    Pete leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. His solid body overflowed the leather back.
    â€œJust working my beat. And making sure you don’t harass the witnesses.”
    â€œYou got a lot of nerve, paperboy. I oughta thump you one.”
    â€œYou can try.”
    That seemed to get Spense nicely upset. “That’s it. Goddamn reporters. Down to the station, both of you.”
    Pete stood up and winked at me. This was his way of ensuring I didn’t have to face the music alone. I could learn to appreciate a man like that.
    We took Pete’s sweet little convertible rather than ride in the cop car. I tried to hold my long hair down with one hand, but it was going to look like ’80s big hair after the ride, no matter what.
    We got to the station in under five minutes. As it happened, Spense didn’t keep us long. They took us to separate poky little rooms that also had gray walls but no art. They grilled us about what we saw, what we heard, who else was there. They asked all sorts of personal stuff that probably wasn’t strictly allowed, but I saw no reason to hide. I’ll buy that Spense might need my phone number for follow-up, but was it really necessary to determine that I lived alone?
    We