Chapter 5 - WHAT DOMINIC DID THAT NIGHT
Detective Moreno found the retired fire investigator.
Seventy-three.
Living in Wisconsin.
He remembered the Duca fire instantly.
“Rich-family case.”
That phrase had apparently survived decades.
Alarm system failed.
Rear exit blocked by debris.
Accelerant suspected but never proved.
Then records disappeared.
Which records?
Utility panel photographs.
The investigator had kept one personal duplicate because the missing originals bothered him.
He mailed it.
The photograph showed the alarm-control housing.
Cover removed.
Wires deliberately disconnected.
On the edge of the frame:
A shoe.
White leather.
Red stripe.
Fashionable.
Distinctive.
Clara’s notebook contained an entry from that night:
Dominic wore those ridiculous white Italian shoes again. Lucia joked he looked like a tennis player going to church.
Still circumstantial.
Then came Carlo Salerno’s old driver.
Eighty-one.
Dying.
Apparently age makes secrets heavier.
He gave a sworn statement.
Carlo ordered him to take Dominic to the Duca apartment building at 8:10 p.m.
Dominic carried a tool bag inside.
Returned twenty minutes later.
Asked:
“Will the smoke be enough?”
The driver claimed he did not understand then.
Maybe.
The fire started at 9:02.
Lucia died.
Vincent survived because Clara pulled him out.
Dominic’s role became clearer.
Had he intended murder?
The evidence showed he disabled alarms.
Prosecutors would decide the exact charge possible after twenty-four years.
But morally?
Vincent had his answer.
He met Dominic privately only once after that.
Public restaurant.
Recorded with investigators’ knowledge.
Dominic smiled.
“Nino.”
Vincent stopped.
Nobody had called him that since Hannah.
Dominic noticed the reaction.
“My father mentioned it once.”
Vincent’s voice stayed level.
“Did he mention the fire?”
Dominic’s smile faded.
“Many times.”
“You were there.”
Silence.
Then:
“I was nineteen.”
Not denial.
Vincent felt something inside him go cold.
“Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That he intended to kill my mother.”
Dominic looked toward the restaurant window.
“My father said we were frightening her.”
“Did you cut the alarms?”
No answer.
“Dominic.”
Finally:
“He told me nobody would get hurt.”
The oldest excuse in history.
“I believed him.”
Vincent studied the man he had trusted for fifteen years.
“Then why lie to police?”
Dominic looked at him.
“Because she died.”
Truth.
Cowardly.
Human.
Then Dominic added:
“And because my father told me you would kill me.”
“Would I have?”
“At sixteen?”
Dominic almost laughed.
“Eventually.”
Maybe.
That was also truth.
Vincent asked:
“Why come back into my life?”
Dominic leaned back.
“My father stole from yours.”
“That's not an answer.”
“I inherited problems.”
“You inherited companies.”
“And enemies.”
Another pause.
Then:
“I thought if I stood beside you long enough, the past would become irrelevant.”
Vincent almost pitied him.
Almost.
“But you kept stealing.”
Dominic’s face changed.
There.
He knew Vincent knew the modern scheme.
Conversation over.
Dominic stood.
“You should be careful what stories a waitress tells you.”
Vincent looked up.
“She didn't tell me a story.”
Then:
“She brought receipts.”
Dominic left.
Three hours later, the lakefront transaction accelerated.
May you like
He was running out of time.
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