Текст книги "Masked Innocence"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
Twenty
We decided to just leave my car at the bar, my nerves way past the level of safe driving. Brad drove us to the office, watching me closely the whole time, as if I were a piece of china with a hairline crack.
We didn’t speak on the drive. I was shaken, trying to put the pieces of what was happening together. It was as if the last twenty minutes had uprooted my world and set it back upside down. I had too much to think about, too much to process. My mind flipped back and forth between an image of Broward’s body, and the words I had overheard on Monday. The Magianos. It couldn’t be, there must be some other explanation. Not in our office, not with Broward. I clenched my eyes shut and sat back in the seat.
“You okay?” Brad’s voice, coming through my thick cloud.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, my eyes closed, the feeling of his hand on mine, gripping my palm, a soothing thumb caressing my wrist.
The car slowed and I heard a turn signal. We must be close. I wasn’t ready to face the office and all this day would entail. My stomach tightened at the thought of being questioned. I needed to figure out what to do.
* * *
BRAD ENTERED THE East Wing of the fourth floor of Clarke, De Luca & Broward. The East Wing was his domain, the area where expensive marriages came to die. Divorce Central. He was God in this wing. He noted that, despite this morning’s events, business was still being conducted. Both conference rooms were full, and two groups of clients waited in the lobby’s leather seating clusters. He walked through the elegant space and up to the three elevated secretarial desks that were the focus of the lobby. The only sign of trouble glistened from the blotchy faces and red-rimmed eyes of his secretaries, who rose at his approach. The three women, who ran the wing with iron, liver-spotted fists, were all in their late sixties, and all had been with him for over ten years. He stopped at their desks and nodded a hello.
Carol Featherston, the center and head secretary, spoke first. Never one to mince words, she skipped over pleasantries. “There is a detective waiting to speak with you.”
Brad nodded. “Give me a moment in my office, then send him in.”
“Certainly.” She swallowed hard, her wrinkled neck stretching and straining. “Brad, we were so sorry to hear about Kent. Despite your history, I know this must be a difficult time for you.” Her two clones, Diana and Beatrice, nodded in unison, both murmuring soft condolences. Brad nodded and walked around their desks, entering his large office set against the east wall of the building, a million-dollar view of downtown stretching its length. He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then walked behind his desk. Opening up a side cabinet, he set his briefcase inside, then sat in his dark leather chair. He closed his eyes briefly and collected his thoughts. There was a knock at his door, and Carol opened it, ushering in a tall, thin man, with short gray hair. The detective.
Let the games begin.
Twenty-One
The West Wing was chaos. Our front lobby was filled with employees, and I was stopped just inside the doors by one of the firm’s security guards. “Julia,” he said, recognizing me. “All employees are asked to wait here. The police are conducting interviews in the offices, and the hall with your office and Broward’s is closed for the investigators.”
I nodded and moved past him, into the waiting area. Looking around, I saw almost every employee of the wing, some huddled in small groups, some standing alone, and others pacing on cell phones. I sought out Sheila. Seeing her leaning against her desk, at the rear of the room, I walked over and touched her shoulder. She whirled at the contact, her elegant appearance marred by her tear-soaked face and shaking hands.
“Oh, Julia!” she gasped, grabbing me and hugging tightly. We separated, and she wiped under both of her eyes, straightening up and trying to remain composed. “I just don’t know what to do without Kent.”
“I am so sorry, Sheila. I know how close you were.” I didn’t know if close was the right word, but Sheila had been an admin for Broward since he began at CDB eleven years ago. His death had to be hard on her, more so than anyone else in this room. I felt as though I were falling apart, and I’d only known the man two months—she had to be destroyed. “Have the police already questioned you?” I asked, squeezing her cardigan-encased arm.
“Yes. Right when I came in. Now that you’re here, I’m sure they will want to speak to you, too.”
“Do you know anything? Know what could have caused this...?” Anything other than the largest mob family this side of Chicago? I let the question trail off, her watery eyes sharpening in response, looking more like the Sheila I knew.
“No. Absolutely not. But I didn’t have a hand in all of his cases. Not like you.”
Like me? What cases did I work on that Sheila didn’t? I didn’t bother arguing with her. She grabbed my arm and pulled, almost dragged me, to a uniformed officer standing by the wall. “This is Julia Campbell,” she announced, pushing me in front of him. “Broward’s intern.”
The man consulted a clipboard, then nodded to us. “Detective Parks will want to speak with you. Come with me.”
I followed him down the hall, grief and confusion heavy in the air around us. He took me into the conference room, opening the door to reveal a heavyset man in a cheap suit, papers, notes and coffee scattered on our normally pristine conference table. I sat in front of the man, who said nothing to me, scribbling furiously on a form. The officer left us alone and I wondered where Brad was, and what he was doing.
* * *
THE OFFICE WAS long, impressive, a view of the city filling the ornate space with light. “Detective Wilkes.” Brad stood and shook the detective’s hand over his large leather and wood desk. “I’m Brad De Luca. Please, sit,” he said, indicating the chairs that faced his desk.
The detective sat, opened a notebook, uncapped a pen and stared at Brad, assessing him. “Good morning. I’m sure you are quite...busy, so I’ll skip the pleasantries and barge into questions. I assume you were close with Kent Broward?”
Brad tented his fingers, looking over them at the detective. He shrugged. “Define close.”
The detective sighed deeply, stretching out the action until he was certain Brad picked up on his irritation. “Knew him well. And don’t ask me to define well.”
“I have known Kent for eleven years, but I do not have more than a business relationship with him. We are not friends, we do not confide in each other, we do not see each other unless it is at a quarterly partnership meeting or in passing.” Brad paused, picking up a pen and slowly tapping it on his desk. “Does that answer your question?”
The man’s mouth tightened. “You seem irritated, Mr. De Luca. Has Broward’s death inconvenienced you?”
Brad looked somberly at Wilkes. “Grief is not a prerequisite for innocence, Mr. Wilkes.”
“Detective Wilkes.”
“Sorry,” he said shortly. “Look, I am happy to answer your questions, but whether it be insensitive or not, I am a very busy man, and I do have appointments waiting.”
“Like it or not, your partner is dead, and I need to ask you some questions.”
Brad waved his hand, indicating for the detective to go on.
“Why were you not friends with Mr. Broward?”
“For several reasons. I considered him dull. He worked constantly, and probably didn’t have any friends to speak of. Plus, as you have probably heard from other staff members, Broward didn’t like me.”
“Was the feeling mutual?”
“I didn’t really care whether he liked me. I have enough friends. I respected his work ethic. That was all I needed from a business partner.”
“Why didn’t Broward like you?”
Brad smirked. “You probably already know the answer to that question.” He sat back in his chair and resumed the slow tap of the pen on his desk.
“I’d like to hear it from you.”
* * *
I SAT NERVOUSLY in the big space, the same conference room where I had eaten cold pizza with Brad over six weeks ago. Back when we didn’t know each other, and all I had heard were rumors and warnings. The table was where he had talked me into a trip to Vegas, a trip that had begun the erosion of my sexual boundaries and opened up the possibility of a relationship. The same conference room where Broward had opened up to me, sharing his true hatred of Brad and all that he encompassed. The weight of the memories lay like irons on my shoulders, conflicting emotions driving me wild. It seemed surreal, for me to sit here, questioned by police, an overheard phone call I couldn’t get out of my head. I never should have eavesdropped, never should have blatantly dismissed Broward’s heartfelt warnings, and never should have deceived the good man who now lay dead. Guilt from every angle hit me, but even as I sat there, bemoaning my traitorous actions, I wanted Brad, needed him here, his strength, his arms around me. I was officially a horrible person. I can’t believe he’s dead.
“Ms. Campbell?” Detective Parks in the cheap suit, sitting across from me, had asked a question.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”
He raised his eyebrows, but looked back down at his notepad. “I said, how long have you been employed at Clarke, De Luca & Broward?”
I wondered if the firm name would change. “I’m not technically employed. I’m just a temporary intern. I’ve been here a little over two months. But I will be employed—part-time, starting next week.”
“And you have been an intern assigned to Kent Broward for that entire time?”
“Yes.”
“How close were you to him?”
I frowned at the question. It seemed a little odd. “I worked with him every day for ten to twelve hours. We discussed business, little else.”
“So, a strictly business relationship.”
“Yes.”
“Sheila Ponder says you are intimately familiar with his current caseload.”
“I would agree with that. All of his current cases I am familiar with.”
“I will need a list from you of which cases or clients might have endangered his life.”
I laughed, a small, awkward sound. “You’re kidding, right? Didn’t Sheila tell you about our cases? We have the most lame, unexciting files on the planet. No one is killing anyone over anything Broward was working on. We deal with corporate documents, real estate transactions, civil litigations.” I shook my head emphatically. “Whatever happened to Broward couldn’t have had anything to do with a client.” At least, not a CDB client.
“Hmmm.” He wrote something down. Hmmm? What does that mean?
“At least no clients that I am aware of.” I rushed out the words, anxious to speak before my conscience took a convenient vacation.
He set down his pen. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just, ah, if there were other clients, ones I wasn’t aware of, maybe they had something to do with it.” I was sounding like a complete idiot, a fact I was sure he was picking up on.
He flipped back a page, looking at the notes he had scribbled down. “You just said that you were familiar with all of his cases and clients. So, in theory, there shouldn’t be any clients that you aren’t aware of.”
Shit. This was it, time to put up or shut up. I took a deep breath and told him about the conversation I had overheard two days before. He sat quietly, his pen placed beside his notebook, and listened. When I was done, he tilted his head and looked at me.
“I’m not understanding where you are going with this, Ms. Campbell.”
Was the guy daft? “Broward pretty much stated that he was providing some type of services to the Magianos. Then he’s killed one night later!” My voice had left the calm and rational level and was now in full-blown hysterical female mode.
“And you think the Magianos are...” He lifted his chin and met my teary eyes head-on.
Was this a damn current events quiz? “The Al Capone of this generation? The most powerful crime syndicate in the Southern U.S.?” I leaned forward, smacking my hand on the table, eliciting a frown from the detective.
“First of all, Ms. Campbell, we don’t know that the ‘Magianos’ that Mr. Broward mentioned is the same family that you are referring to.”
I tried to remind myself this was an officer of the law and not someone I could flick off at will. “He’s dead. He didn’t stumble over a gun and get shot licking stamps! How can you not think that the Magianos had something to do with this!”
“Ms. Campbell, lower your voice. You haven’t even explored the possibility that you misheard Mr. Broward. He was on the phone. You were outside his office, with the door closed. You could easily have misunderstood what he said.” His voice was firm, his gaze direct, and I looked at him helplessly, my hysteria close to returning.
I opened and closed my mouth, trying to put intelligent words into action. I didn’t get a chance; he returned pen to paper and went to his next question.
“Are you aware of any upset clients, or anyone who disliked Mr. Broward?
“Other than the possible Magianos?” I asked sarcastically.
“Yes. Answer the question.”
“No. No one that I can think of. Broward is...” I paused briefly, closing my eyes. “Was a likable guy. I’m sure you will find that out by speaking to all of the staff.”
He nodded. Then he set down his notebook and looked at me.
“Ms. Campbell, where were you last night, between 8:30 and 10:30 p.m.?
“Last night?” I was suddenly tense.
“Yes. Are you aware of what you did last night?”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes. Broward dismissed everyone early. I went home, changed and met my friends for drinks at nine. We stayed at the bar until about eleven.”
“I will need to speak with your friends and verify this.”
I sat back and folded my arms. “Are you verifying all of the staff’s alibis?”
Parks paused and looked at me appraisingly. “Alibi is probably too strong a word, at this point. But to answer your question, no. Not all of the staff.”
* * *
THE AIR HAD gotten hot in Brad’s office. He sighed. “Broward doesn’t, or didn’t, like me for a few reasons. The main one, and what I assume you are hinting at, is that I once slept with his wife.”
The man cocked an eyebrow at him, but didn’t move otherwise. “You seem awfully cavalier about that—sleeping with another man’s wife.”
Brad shrugged. “I sleep with a lot of women. I regret that specific experience, because he was my business partner, and because it complicated an already strained relationship.”
“Strained how?”
“He was...irritated by me. By my large income and what he considered to be lack of work ethic.”
“Did you dislike him?”
“You already asked that. No.”
“Hmmm.” The detective wrote something down.
“Where were you last night, Mr. De Luca?”
“At home.”
“When did you arrive home?”
“After work. I am unsure of the exact time.”
“Take a guess.” The irritated voice of the man had turned harder.
“I would guess six or seven.”
“And you stayed in your home all evening?”
“Until about eleven.”
“Where did you go at eleven?”
“Do I need to re-create my entire evening for you? I was told the time of death was before 10:00 p.m.”
“By who?”
“Hugo Clarke. Am I done here?”
“Just answer the question, Mr. De Luca. Where did you go at eleven?”
“To pick up a female friend, and no, I will not reveal her name.” He stared at the detective, a tic beginning in his cheek.
“Are you aware of any of Mr. Broward’s current projects?”
“That’s it.” Brad leaned back in his chair. “I’m not going to answer any more questions without a lawyer present.”
Wilkes snorted, then laughed softly, shaking his head. “I thought you were a lawyer.”
Brad said nothing, just stared at him over the desk.
“Fine.” The detective snapped the notebook shut and stood, scraping his chair backward. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Brad, a stern look on his face. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised.
Brad smiled and lifted his chin in response, but did not stand. Wilkes turned and stalked out of the office, and Brad watched him leave through the heavy glass. He frowned, then opened his center drawer and pulled out a cell phone that he kept in the back, behind paper clips and Post-its. He dialed a number and waited, listening to the ring in his ear.
Twenty-Two
With Broward dead, we milled like ants through the lobby, everyone unsure of their duties. CSI staff, police and detectives were everywhere, and it was whispered that Broward’s body still lay in his office. Finally, the police moved us all to the East Wing, Brad’s domain, to get us out of the way. We filled his lobby, the ornate room now a sea of black suits and boring neutrals. I felt a hand tug mine, and turned to see Todd Appleton, six feet of blond and blue-eyed concern. He tugged on my hand, pulling me into a hard hug, his arms wrapping around me and hugging me tightly to his chest, white shirt and black suit smooshing comfortably against my face. A sudden sob welled in my throat, an unexpected breakdown of the walls I had fought all morning to control. He shushed me, bodies and voices crowding us from all sides. “I’m so sorry, Julia. So sorry.”
I pushed gently on his chest, stepping back and wiping at my eyes, sniffing back snot and tears. “Thanks, Todd. I’m still trying to work it all out.”
He raised his voice to be heard over the crowd. “There were cops everywhere when I arrived, but we haven’t heard any updates over here—they’ve all been in your wing till now.” He looked a little too enthusiastic about the drama, the earlier concern replaced by excited curiosity. The wing doors opened and a new group entered, causing the room to go from crowded to packed. There was pure bedlam for about two minutes, and then Brad appeared at the head of the room, calling out and bringing the room to silence.
“Everybody, go home. Sheila and Beverly, you both stay and use Conference Room D to reach out to clients and reschedule appointments. Everyone else, please leave. We will email you tonight regarding tomorrow’s schedule.” He sought out and met my eyes but gave nothing away, turning and heading back to his office. There was silence; then the din of the room resumed, and we moved as one giant mass to the double doors that led to the elevator lobby. I met Todd’s eyes, moving away with the crowd as he stayed in place. I gave him a crumbling smile and waved, turning and looking to the exit. As nice as Todd’s embrace had been, I needed a stronger set of arms, the steadiness and security of Brad.
I avoided eye contact and conversations as I moved with the crowd. I wanted nothing more than to be at home and alone with my thoughts. What would happen with our wing? Who killed Broward? Was I a suspect? Was the Magiano family involved? Was I in danger? Most of my thoughts and questions were selfish, and I scolded myself as I moved with the crowd. Beside the elevator was one of the firm’s chauffeurs, and he tapped my shoulder lightly.
“Ms. Campbell. My name is—”
“Jeff. I remember. You took me to lunch one day.” Me and Brad, but I wasn’t about to say that in the crowded lobby.
“Yes. I’ve been asked to take you to your car. Or to your home, whichever you prefer.” He ducked his head toward the elevator, and I nodded, moving forward when the doors opened. My car. I had forgotten about it. It was, no doubt, still two blocks down from the bar, in a metered spot, the windshield littered with tickets.
We avoided the crowd and walked through the lobby. I looked at my watch as I stepped into the morning light. Only nine. The shortest workday on the planet. The town car was idling in one of the reserved spots in front of the building, and we moved toward it. I wondered what time they would email us. Brad would undoubtedly keep me in the loop.
“Ms. Campbell?” Jeff held open the car door, a questioning look in his eyes.
I murmured an apology as I stepped into the car, hugging my purse to my chest. I waited until he got in and started the car, then spoke. “I’d like to be taken to my car, please.”
His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “Okay. Where is it?”
I gave him the location and we moved, pulling up to the car before I had a chance to collect my thoughts. He was out of the car and opening my door, his pale hands gathering the two orange envelopes off my windshield as I stepped out. I winced, holding my hand out for them, but he shook his head, stuffing them in his pocket. “Mr. D said for me to bring any citations to him.”
I opened my mouth to object, thought better of it and smiled at Jeff. “Thank you for the ride. Please pass on my thanks to Mr. De Luca.”
He grinned in response and tipped his hat, walking jauntily back to the driver’s side. It was as if Jeff was completely unaware that anyone had died. I frowned, getting into my car, the familiar smell bringing a sense of normalcy back into my life. I started the car and headed for home.
* * *
THE HOUSE WAS quiet when I unlocked the front door, my roommates still asleep. Their social life didn’t accommodate waking before noon, a norm that I was grateful for this particular day. I took out my contacts and changed into sweats and a baggie tee from three boyfriends back, a giant soft number that advertised a fundraiser and would one day soon completely disintegrate in my hands. I crawled into bed, flipping on my TV and scrolling through the stations. I finally stopped on VH1, piling on blankets and adding pillows until I was completely surrounded, in perfect pity-party settings. Then I added a box of tissues and let myself go.
My depressed wallow didn’t last too long. Two hours later, my house, in full glory, awoke. I was typically not home when this happened, more by design than default—my lesson learned last semester when I had to endure the morning ritual twice a week because of poor course scheduling on my part. Zach and Alex waking was similar to some type of aboriginal male bonding. One would start blasting music—Insane Clown Posse-style, make-you-want-to-pull-your-hair-out screeching, until it woke the other roommate, who would respond in kind by blaring his own form of musical madness—hard rock. My room was, unluckily enough, right in between the two centers of musical expression.
Three layers of pillows did nothing to soften the effect. I stared up at the ceiling, the frame above my head rhythmically vibrating against the wall. I could scream, yell and pound on doors until they shut the hell up and went about their day, but that typically only started a fight. It was easier to just ignore it for the fifteen minutes it lasted, and then deal with the boys once they had caffeine in their systems.
I sat up, looking around, until I spotted my laptop. Crawling over, I grabbed it off the floor and plugged in some headphones. Putting on a Top 40 playlist to join in the noise, I checked my Facebook account, campus email and then my personal email. All three sites were in sore need of attention, and two hours passed before I logged out of the last account. I shut my laptop and rolled my neck, needing a break. I got up, stretching, my legs asleep and my back aching. Hitting the kitchen, I stole one of Zach’s TV dinners, halfway read the directions and popped it in the microwave. While it cooked I flipped through the mail, which had been left on the counter. Junk, bills and more junk. Yippee. The microwave beeped, shrill and annoying, and I grabbed the hot plastic dish and pulled it out.
Alex appeared, his dreadlocked head captured under a wool beanie. “What up, chica?” he said, wrapping his arms around me and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Too much to get into right now,” I mumbled, ripping the plastic wrap off the lasagna dish and tossing it into the trash.
“I would stay around and wade into that land mine, but I have class in twenty, so you’ll have to lament your woes to me some other time,” he said, grabbing a granola bar and snagging his backpack off the floor.
“Thanks, roomie,” I called out sarcastically.
He waved, pounding on Zach’s door on his way out. “Zach!” he yelled, then spun, giving me a quick grin and jogged out, slamming the door behind him.
Zach appeared thirty seconds later, pulling a baseball cap on his head. “What’s up?” he said, eyeing my lasagna as he walked past me into the kitchen. I leaned against the counter and stuck a fork in the dish, waiting, my mouth full of Stouffer’s pasta.
He opened the freezer, glanced inside, then looked at the box, sitting on the counter. He raised his eyebrows at me, then his hands. “From the look on your face, I’m not even going to go there. Take as many as you want. I’m not hurting for the three dollars right now.”
I grinned despite myself. “Thanks, Zach. Alex just left—he’s the one who called for you.”
He nodded, opening a cabinet and pulling out a bag of Doritos. Undoing the tie, he grabbed a handful of chips and hoisted himself up onto the counter. Tilting his head at me, he studied my pajamas. “Is your internship already over? I thought you had one more week.”
I opened the trash, chunking the remaining lasagna into it. “They let us go home early. My boss was found dead this morning in the office.” I moved past him to the sink, washing my fork, my peripheral vision catching his shocked expression. Even in my fragile state, I could appreciate the shock value of my statement.
“No shit,” he breathed.
“Yes shit. All sorts of crazy shit. Hence me, in my pj’s, eating your lasagna. Which, by the way, sucked. You should buy a different brand.”
“It’s better when you cook it in the oven,” he said through a mouthful of chips. Crunching loudly, he stared at me as if I had something poignant to say. I stared back, our eye contact stretched out until he finished chewing. “Sorry.”
“About the lasagna, or about Broward?”
“Broward is, or, sorry, was, your boss?”
God, I really needed to have better lines of communication with these two. “Yes.”
“Then I’m sorry about him. Are you gonna start crying or something?” He looked terrified, as if my tears might cause him physical harm.
I fought a smile. “No. Not right now, at least. Though you do seem so adept at comforting.”
There was a soft cough behind me, and I turned to see a tall redhead, clad in pink panties and a white tank top. “I can’t find my pants,” she whispered, as if there were someone else in the house who might hear her. “I think they’re in your car...?” She looked to Zach for help.
I turned back to him, fighting a grin.
“Oh—right. Let me go get those for you.” He hopped off the counter, tossing the Doritos bag down and bending down to give me a hug. “Find out her name,” he whispered in my ear, then bounded out the front door, leaving me and the girl alone. She looked out of place and blushed, covering up as best she could with her hands.
I stepped forward, smiling brightly, and held out my hand. “I’m Julia—Zach’s roommate.”
“Jen,” she offered shyly, shaking my hand. “I met Zach last night, at a party.”
“Can I get you anything to eat?” I offered, gesturing toward the kitchen. “There’s some really shitty lasagna if that rings your bell.”
“No—I’ve got to run, but thank you,” she said, smiling politely.
Zach saved us then, stepping back inside with a pair of white jeans in his hand. Skinny jeans, from the look of them. I had newfound respect for her flexibility if she was able to get out of those in his coupe. I squeezed past them, headed for the hall. “Zach, I’ll give you and Jen some privacy. I’ve got to get some stuff done on the computer.”
I closed my door to his grateful look, fighting the urge not to flick him and his slutty ways off.
Ten minutes later, I was snuggled under a heavy down blanket with an eye mask on. I had set the alarm for two hours, closed the blinds in my room and turned my television to the History Channel. I closed my eyes and tried not to think of Broward’s intelligent face, or the grace in which he had handled the clumsiness of my first day. I remembered Brad’s eyes, finding mine in the crowded lobby, his face calm and in control while Broward’s body lay in a body bag somewhere. Broward. My mentor, my slave driver. A tyrant that I now, suddenly, missed.
