Chapter 9 - The Trial in the Penthouse Study
Sophie ran straight into Dante’s legs, wrapping her arms around his knees with all the strength a five-year-old could muster. Dante, who hadn't hugged another human being with genuine emotion in over a decade, slowly reached down and lifted her up into his arms.
She didn't care about his reputation. She didn't know about the bodies buried in the Indiana marshes, the docks under his control, or the men who bowed their heads whenever he walked into an Italian restaurant. To her, he was simply the partner who kept his promises.
"Did the bad guys lose?" Sophie asked eagerly, looking into his face.
"They lost completely," Dante said. "Every single one."
Sophie reached out her small hand and pointed to the pocket watch on the coffee table. "Look! Both hands pointed straight up to the twelve last night, just like you said! I watched it until my eyes got too heavy."
"A true detective never misses a deadline," Dante smiled.
He carried her over to the coffee table and picked up her little red notebook. He flipped through the crayon pages: the drawing of the black phone, the funny little sketch of Julianna with devil horns, and a surprisingly accurate map of the master bathroom vanity.
"We have one final piece of business, Deputy," Dante said seriously, setting her down on the large leather ottoman. "The evidence in this notebook is crucial. I need to know if you are prepared to officially close the case."
Sophie puffed out her chest, adjusting her imaginary tie. "Case closed, Chief. The witch is in jail, right?"
"Right," Dante agreed. "And she won't be coming anywhere near our house ever again."
Elena walked over, carrying a plate of freshly baked blueberry pancakes with steam curling off the syrup. "Sophie, let Mr. Dante breathe. He’s been working all night."
"Actually, Elena," Dante said, looking at the warm breakfast and then out the panoramic window overlooking the shimmering waters of Lake Michigan, "I have all the time in the world today."
May you like
He pulled up a wooden chair, took a fork from the table, and sat down beside the little girl who had undone a multimillion-dollar mob conspiracy from behind a porcelain toilet.
For the first time in thirty-five years, Dante Moretti didn't check his phone. He didn't check the perimeter cameras. He didn't look at his watch. He sat at the pine table with the housekeeper and her daughter, ate blueberry pancakes, and listened to Sophie recount her thrilling tactical investigation of the squirrels in the front yard.
