Chapter 13: Lies and Stone

The CSI lab smelled like chemicals, burnt ozone, and old coffee—sharp, cold, clinical. Stainless-steel tables reflected the fluorescent lights above, and evidence bags lay organized across two long counters like grim artifacts.

Ray Mendez stood with his hands shoved into his suit pockets, trying not to look uncomfortable in a room meant for science, not cops with hunches.

CSI Investigator Kim Dredge leaned over a monitor, scrolling through digital images of the scorched remains recovered from the Haldoran warehouse. Kim was small, precise in every movement, hair tied back so tightly it made her look perpetually focused.

Ray cleared his throat. “Alright, Kim. You said you had something.”

She didn’t look up yet. “Oh, I have several somethings. You ready?”

“Hit me.”

Kim tapped a key and pulled up a close-up image of blackened ribs and curled arms.

“Your corpse,” she said bluntly. “He was dead before the fire.”

Mendez frowned. “How can you be so sure? The guy’s basically charcoal.”

Kim pointed to the screen with a pen. “See how the arms are bent up? Hands curled like fists? That’s called a pugilistic stance. It happens when extreme heat causes muscle fibers to contract.”

“Okay… but that doesn’t prove anything on its own.”

Kim smirked—she loved it when someone gave her a setup line.

“Right. So we checked the airway. No soot. If he’d been breathing while the fire burned, we’d find soot in his lungs and trachea. But everything was clean.”

Ray leaned back. “So someone killed him first.”

“Exactly.” She clicked again. “And take a look at this.”
A different scan appeared: the skull, fractured on one side.
“Possible blunt-force trauma. No shrapnel. Someone hit him. Hard and they removed his teeth.”

Ray let out a slow breath. “Jesus. So this wasn’t sabotage or an accident. It was a cleanup job.”

Kim moved to a metal tray covered with small evidence bags. She picked up one and held it up by the corner. “Oh, and this little gift. “Inside was a white keycard—unmarked, no hotel logo, no text, just a magnetic stripe.

Mendez stared. “Pulled from the ashes?”

“Not the ashes—outside. In the Corvette. Mr. DeCarlo’s car.”

Ray took the bag, turning it between his fingers. “So it’s his key?”

Kim chuckled once. “No. It’s definitely not.” She pulled another sheet of results off a clipboard and handed it over. “Two identifiable fingerprints on the card.”

Ray’s eyes moved across the page—and stopped.

“Alicia Wilson,” he read aloud. “The missing girl.”

“And the second set,” Kim said slowly, “belongs to a guy named Martin Geary.”

Ray looked up sharply. “The fugitive from the halfway house? The one who disappeared three weeks ago?”

“Bingo.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Ray muttered, pacing a few steps. “Why would Alicia Wilson and Martin Geary both have handled a keycard in DeCarlo’s car?”

Kim shrugged. “You’re the detective. I just follow the evidence.”

Ray stared at the card like it was a live grenade.
He suddenly had more questions than answers—and every answer felt dangerous.

The Mansion on Ward Parkway

Detective Dan Whitaker drove on Ward Parkway to the Giannetti mansion staring out the window as the neighborhoods changed from old wealth to ridiculous wealth. Stone mansions lined the boulevard, lawns sculpted like art pieces, fountains taller than most of the houses he grew up in.

When he got to the location, Whitaker stepped out into a world that didn’t feel like Kansas City.
More like a private kingdom.

The Giannetti mansion was massive—white stone, with long steps, iron railings, columns, statues, rose gardens stretching toward the horizon. No detail was cheap.

A houseman led him inside, down a hall polished so clean his shoes squeaked. Whitaker was escorted through French doors and out onto the enormous patio overlooking a garden that looked like it needed its own roadmap.

At the table on the patio sat Salvatore Giannetti, tall—towering, really—broad shoulders, dark hair flecked with gray, and the posture of a man used to commanding rooms with silence alone. He gestured for Whitaker to sit.

Seated next to him was Rosalia Giannetti, his tiny wife, but you could tell she was the one in charge. Then Anthony Giannetti, tall and handsome in a calculating sort of way, seated beside his wife Brenda, a striking brunette in her thirties with bright, attentive eyes. She watched everything, taking in details even when she didn’t speak. Next, Thomas Giannetti slumped into a chair, trying too hard to look unbothered. Finally, standing behind Salvatore was their attorney, Concetta Caruso, —a beautiful woman in a tailored suit, her smile warm, her gaze predatory.

Crystal glasses of lemon water and untouched biscotti sat between them.

Whitaker cleared his throat. “I appreciate you seeing me. I am Detective Dan Whitaker and I am investigating the burning of the Haldoran warehouse in the west bottoms…”

Salvatore showing pure boredom, “Detective, we know who you are and why you are here. So get on with it.”

Whitaker cleared his throat again and blurted out, “Your nephew, Joseph DeCarlo, owned the Corvette found outside the Haldoran warehouse. We’d like to know why his car was there.”

Salvatore did not blink. “I do not appreciate your tone or the suggestion that my family has anything to do with that fire.”

Whitaker shook his head quickly. “No suggestion. Just a question. We want to understand why his car was there.”

Concetta leaned forward, her voice like silk. “What my client means is—you are welcome to ask any question, Detective. He simply objects to the implication.”

Salvatore exhaled, shoulders sinking half an inch. “Joseph was unpredictable. He enjoyed parties, celebrities, attention. If Frank Haldoran threw a party, Joseph would be there, even if we would not.”

Thomas snorted. “He hated real work. Wanted fame. Not a paycheck.” He then continued “He thought running around with idiots and models made him somebody.” A sharp look from Salvatore shut him up instantly.

“He was family. He was loved. But he was not a businessman.” Rosalia spoke softly. “Joseph is the son of my older brother. His father was in a terrible accident. His mother… suffers greatly. We took him into our home, raised him with our sons.”

Whitaker wrote silently, listening more to what wasn’t being said. “Do you believe Joseph was involved in something… dangerous?”

Salvatore paused long enough for the silence to grow uncomfortable. “Joseph enjoyed glamour. He often forgot glamour comes with predators.” Paused and choked “Have you found him? Was he in the fire?

“We found a body,” Whitaker said. “But the remains were badly burned. No identification yet. It may not be Joseph.”

Rosalia spoke under her breath praying in Italian and she made the cross and then asked, ““If it is not him, Detective… then where is he? If he were alive, he would call.”

Anthony shrugged. “He’s vanished before mother. European trips. Clubs. No phone calls.”

Rosalia shook her head. “But he would never abandon his car. He loved that car.” Silence filled the air as they all had their inner thoughts about the situation.

Whitaker hesitated, then asked: “One more thing. Do you know a man named Jaxson Lee?”

Salvatore blinked.
Anthony scoffed.
Thomas smirked.

“The friend, pops,” Anthony reminded his father.

Salvatore spoke carefully. “Joseph… felt sorry for the boy. Helped him financially. Nothing else.”

“It was just weird.” Thomas added, “I mean everyone thought it was odd that he was hanging with that type of people. Joseph was no fa…” He cut himself before finishing the slur, but the meaning hung in the air.

Whitaker kept his face neutral. “We interviewed Jaxson. Witnesses place someone resembling him at the warehouse. But others place him at a party at the Taj Mahal at the same time. We’re still sorting details.” Whitaker watched them all.

Stone statues.
No cracks.

“Thank you for your time,” he said, standing. “We’ll notify you as soon as we know anything.”

Rosalia placed a hand over her heart. “Detective, bring him home. Dead or alive, we must know.”

Whitaker nodded and left—unconvinced, uneasy, and more suspicious than when he’d arrived.

---

After the Detective Left

The air changed the second the patio doors closed. Rosalia stood and silently collected the untouched lemon waters.

Salvatore’s jaw shifted—slow, grinding. Then the explosion. He whipped his napkin at Thomas, voice low and venomous. “You speak only when I tell you to speak! You do not offer information freely. You do not show weakness.” Thomas went pale, mouth snapping shut.

Salvatore turned to Anthony. “Find out why Joseph’s car was in the West Bottoms. Today. I don’t care who you have to pay.”

Anthony nodded, face tight.

Next, he looked to Concetta. “Check every airport. Every charter. Every bus line. If Joseph left this country, I want proof.”

Concetta straightened her jacket. “It will be done.”

Salvatore turned to Thomas again. “You will arrange a meeting with this Jaxson Lee.”

Rosalia stepped forward, hand on her husband’s. “We will meet him.”

Salvatore softened immediately at her touch. “Yes. We will.”

Finally, his attention shifted to Brenda, the quietest at the table.

“I want every rumor from the Taj Mahal party. Every whisper. Every name. If anyone saw Joseph leave early, you will find them.”

Brenda nodded once. “I’ll start tonight.”

One by one, they filed out of the patio. Leaving only Salvatore and Rosalia. They sat side by side, fingers entwined, heads bowed. Their voices are barely above a whisper. Not praying for Joseph. Praying for the storm that was coming.

© 2025 James William Jackson III. All rights reserved. “Jaxson Lee” and all related content are original fictional works created by James William Jackson III. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental.