"A man with nothing to lose can get real careless in a hospital room," he says. "Real careless with a woman who's got a history of using. Wouldn't be the first time a junkie relapsed on her own supply, would it? We all know junkies love to relapse."
"Don't you dare."
"I'm not saying I would." His voice goes soft again, worse than the shouting would've been. "I'm saying accidents happen to people with no protection. And your mother, God love her, doesn't have much."
I press my free hand flat against the counter to keep myself upright.
"What do you want," I say. Flat. Done pretending there's a version of this call where I get to keep my dignity. "What do you actually want from me."
"Same thing I've wanted for weeks now. Something real on Nico D'Ambrosio. A name, a ledger, a body, I don't care. Something solid enough that I can finally walk into my captain's office with more than excuses, after two years on this family."
"I don't have anything."
"You've been in his house. His bed, probably, from that look on your face at Terminal 7." A wet chuckle. "You're telling me you've got nothing."
"I'm telling you I'm not giving you anything right now."
He's quiet for a second, and it's worse than the threats, because it means he's thinking.
"Tell you what," he says, almost bored now, like the whole conversation has cost him more than he wanted to spend. "There might be something worth looking at back home. Gravesend. Your father kept things I never got my hands on. Bianca never gave up the combination, God knows why, loyal to the end for a dead man. You want to feel useful, go look. Bring your bodyguard along if it makes you feel better. I'm not gonna stop you."
"Why would you tell me that."
"Because I want this over with, same as you." A yawn, or something meant to sound like one. "Go dig around your daddy's old safe. See what you find. Bring me something real, and your mother gets to keep both eyes open in that bed."
He hangs up again.
I stand in my kitchen holding a phone with three photographs on it that I will never be able to unsee, and I think, distantly, that I have never wanted to put my hands around someone's throat this badly in my life.
Anastasio doesn't aska single question until we're already on the BQE.
"So," he says, eyes on the road, "Gravesend. On a Tuesday. With me. Not exactly the tour I had planned for us."
"I need to get into my old house."
"Yeah, you said. Looking for something on Frank." He glances over. "You gonna tell me what?"
"Not yet."
"Right." He drums his fingers on the wheel. "You know I'm supposed to keep you safe, not drive you into your childhood home to dig through a dead guy's stuff on a hunch."
"It's not a hunch."
"Okay, so tell me what it is."
I don't answer, and he lets it sit for a mile, which is its own kind of pressure.
"Nico doesn't know you're doing this," he says. Not a question.
"No."
"Lydia."
"I know."
"You know I report back to him. That's the job."
"Do what you need to."