“If you came to us and petitioned for a meeting for help, you would first see two greeters. They would serve you tea or coffee, whatever your preference, and they would make small talk with you. Just have a light conversation.”
She knew immediately why. By conversing about the weather, a job, just everyday things, whoever was listening would be able to ascertain a rhythm to a voice. The way a person breathed. Their heartbeat. That would help indicate if they suddenly told a lie.
“When they were ready, the greeter would ask you why you have come to see them. At that point whoever has petitioned for help would lay out their problem. It can be anything from as trivial as a lost purse to what you are dealing with. If you were the petitioner, you would tell them about your first meeting with Haydon Phillips and everything that happened after that. You would tell them about your suspicions—that he is a serial killer, but you have no real proof. You would supply whatever you do have—names, dates, cities. And then you would tell them about how he terrorizes you and how he lives in other people’s attics and spies on innocent families.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Where was he going with this? She found herself very tense and couldn’t quite relax no matter how much she told herself to. Maybe it was because for the first time in her relationship with him, she knew he was tense. He didn’t take his eyes off her as he talked, but every now and then he sipped at the Scotch.
She had been around Little Italy for a while, and even at times had entered the Ferraro territory, but the only thing she’d heard was that there was little crime there and it was dangerous to cross a Ferraro. Everything else she’d heard on the news or read in tabloids or magazines.
“At the end of the interview, without telling you whether or not they will accept the job, the greeters rise, indicating the meeting is over and they will contact you. Little is said because there is always danger of someone attempting to record the interview, or perhaps an undercover cop will try to slip through. We’re very careful. Cell phones aren’t allowed in the interview room, although the room looks like a very cozy sitting room.”
She was intrigued in spite of everything. “What happens next?”
“If the greeters determine that the petitioner is telling the truth as he or she knows it, and they believe there is a valid case, the petition with all details is turned over to two teams of investigators. One will investigate the actual crime or crimes. When necessary they call on another team that can handle anything on the Internet. The second team of investigators does a complete workup on the petitioner. Until both teams and the greeters are satisfied, no one touches the case.”
Private investigators? They supplemented the police detectives? She couldn’t imagine the sophisticated Ferraro family getting down and dirty in the trenches. She frowned, trying not to jump ahead with her imagination.
“Investigators are also members of our family. They can hear lies as well. That is a requirement in our family if you want to be a greeter or investigator, but they can also persuade people to talk to them with their voices. Those they speak to about any crime find they want to tell the investigators as much as possible. Both teams take their time and investigate thoroughly. No one wants to make a mistake. Sometimes, things are let go because one person isn’t absolutely certain and all parties, both teams and the greeters, have to agree the crime or crimes were committed and someone has been wronged.”
“You have the ability to persuade others to do what you want, don’t you?” His voice. That beautiful, compelling voice. Black velvet. Magical. He soothed an entire room. He could calm anyone down.
“I have an ability. It’s a little different than the investigators’, but yes, if you want to call it persuasion, I guess you could use that description. I think of it as energy and I keep mine low and hopefully soothing in a bad situation, one that is escalating. I want to defuse it.”
Grace stood up and wandered over to the open doorway to stand in the midst of the breeze so that it cooled her suddenly heated skin. He had persuaded her to wear the leather corset. To marry him. To give herself into his keeping. She had wanted to wear the daring lingerie for him, something she never would have considered on her own.
Vittorio came up behind her, his body tight against her back, his arms coming around her. She reached up and took the nearly empty glass of Scotch out of his hand and drained the contents, nearly choking when the burn slid smoothly down her throat to settle in her belly. He buried his face against her neck, his teeth scraping gently, his lips sliding over the pulse there while his hands cupped the soft weight of her breasts.