Page 32 of Game Master
Reaching across the table, Callan took Roseline’s hand and squeezed it meaningfully. Her eyes lifted to meet his, and in them, he saw the same potent mix of emotions churning within him—determination to conquer this evil, anxiety over lives at stake, but also new joy at the love blossoming between them amid the chaos. No matter the darkness looming ahead, they had this light between them now. This loyalty and care ran deeper than any physical bond.
Roseline entwined her fingers with his and gave a resolute nod. Glancing at his watch, Callan exhaled reluctantly. It was time to head out if they wanted to make an appointment with Gina and continue pursuing their leads. As he stood and began gathering the case files into a stack, Roseline rose as well and began clearing away the rest of the breakfast dishes.
“Why don’t you give Gina a call on our way over and let her know we’re coming by? I think a female voice may let her drop her guard a little,” Callan suggested. Roseline nodded in agreement as she dried off her hands.
Leaving her in the kitchen, Callan returned to the bedroom. He sank down on the edge of the bed and slid his shoes on before realizing he didn’t have a change of clothes here. He’d have to stop by his apartment to pick up a fresh suit if they were meeting with Mrs. Garofalo.
“Roseline, I just realized I don’t have any clean clothes here,” he called out. “We’ll need to swing by my place first so I can change.”
“No problem!” she responded from the other room. “Just give me a few minutes to finish getting ready.”
Callan smiled, imagining her moving around the apartment, preparing for their day. Out of habit, he checked his shoulder holster and gun. The thought of Roseline anywhere near the dangers of his job caused a pang of worry. But he respected her as an equal partner, even if his instincts screamed to shield her.
Roseline appeared in the doorway, ready to go. Her professional outfit and resolute expression reminded Callan of the formidable woman she was. Together, they would bring justice—he in the streets, her behind computer screens. Their teamwork was unstoppable.
Donning his wrinkled clothes from last night, Callan took Roseline’s hand. After a quick stop for fresh clothes at his apartment, they would be ready to put their brains back into the case.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Roseline smoothed her blouse and ran a hand over her braided blond hair as she followed Callan up the front steps of the lavish Garden District home belonging to Gina Garofalo, wife of the late Vincent Garofalo. She hoped this second interview with Mrs. Garofalo would provide the breakthrough they needed.
Too many leads had already hit dead ends in the frustrating search for the elusive Game Master. But now, walking up to the imposing double oak doors and ringing the polished brass doorbell, Roseline felt a swell of optimism. If Vincent had been hiding anything about his dealings with their cyber foe before his murder, surely his wife, still unaware of his death, could provide new clues. Anything to move them closer to the truth.
Since the department had no body, they hadn’t shared anything about the video with her, but Roseline couldn’t think of Mrs. Garofalo as a widow.
The heavy front door swung open, and Gina Garofalo greeted them with a plastic smile that didn’t reach her hooded eyes. “Detectives,” she said politely, her voice rough around the edges despite the cultured pronunciation. “Please, come in.”
As Roseline stepped across the threshold into the foyer, her eyes were drawn upward to take in the ostentatious crystal chandelier hanging from the decorative plaster medallion in the center of the ceiling. It glittered brilliantly, sending prisms of light dancing across the room.
The chandelier was merely the first sign of immense wealth on display. Her gaze traveled down to note the glossy Italian marble floors underfoot and the antique furnishings spaced gracefully throughout the foyer, accented by vibrant oil paintings and fresh-cut flowers in ornate vases.
It was a jarring contrast to the worn floors and cramped utilitarian cubicles of the police station Roseline spent her days in. She thought cynically of how a life of crime had paved the way for Vincent Garofalo to provide such luxury for his family. Some of the artwork alone likely cost more than her modest yearly salary.
Mrs. Garofalo ushered them quietly down a hall lined with more paintings and into an elegant sitting room furnished with plush velvet chaise lounges, a grand piano, and an intricately carved marble fireplace mantel.
“Please have a seat while I fetch some refreshments,” their hostess murmured before gliding from the room in a muted cloud of expensive perfume.
Roseline settled onto an embroidered settee while Callan took the matching armchair nearby. Her brain buzzed, contemplating the questions she wanted to strategically ask the widow while her eyes continued roving over the luxurious surroundings.
Part of her job was reading people and spaces for clues, and this lavish home spoke volumes about Vincent Garofalo’s criminal success. As well as the immense loss now facing his wife, despite her composure over his disappearance. Roseline wondered if that loss went beyond just financial.
Mrs. Garofalo returned bearing a polished silver tea set etched with ornate floral motifs. The aroma of Earl Grey permeated the room as she gracefully poured steaming tea into Wedgwood cups edged in gold. A tiered tray of artisanal cookies and French macaroons accompanied the tea.
Thanking their hostess, Roseline wrapped her hands around the hot cup, feeling the delicate edges of the porcelain beneath her callused fingers. To build rapport, she gave Mrs. Garofalo a small smile.
“This china set is exquisite. Wedgwood, if I’m not mistaken? My friend’s grandmother had a similar set when I was a child, though not nearly as extensive.”
Mrs. Garofalo’s tense expression softened in response. “Yes, it’s Wedgwood Fairyland Lusterware. Vincent… my husband… acquired it at auction years ago.”
Roseline noticed the hesitation on the word “husband” and the faint trembling in the widow’s manicured fingers as she raised her own teacup. She exchanged a subtle sideways glance with Callan. His eyes met hers briefly, reflecting the same thought. They needed to proceed gently but strategically with their questioning.
Taking a sip of the fragrant tea to buy herself a moment, Roseline considered how to phrase her next inquiry. When she spoke, her voice was kind but probing. “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with us again, Mrs. Garofalo. I know how difficult all this has been. We just have a few follow-up questions that may help shed light on your husband’s disappearance.”
The widow tensed almost imperceptibly, lines etching deeper around her eyes and mouth. But she maintained her poise.
“Of course. Anything I can do to help.” Her words sounded well-rehearsed, as if she was used to putting on a facade despite her inner turmoil. Roseline could relate, hiding her own pain from the world. But right now, this woman’s mask was obstructing the truth.
Leaning forward, Roseline softened her voice further. “When we spoke before, you said your husband hadn’t seemed himself in the final weeks before he went missing. Could you tell me more about that?”