Diamonds, Pies & Dead Guys

by Jennifer Fischetto

  "Hey," I say just as the first-floor door opens, directly across from Kevin's car, and he peeks his head out.

  "Hi," Julian says in that low, sexy tone of his. It sets goose bumps along my arms.

  Kevin looks around and probably doesn't see me because he's about to stick his head back into his room, so I lean my arm out the window and wave.

  He notices me and squints.

  I hold up my index finger to tell him to wait a second.

  "How about you and I grab dinner?" Julian asks. "Any place you'd like."

  Oh boy, my choice.

  Julian and I have different tastes in restaurants. I like casual dining with ethnic cuisine because I love a ton of flavor. It doesn't matter if it's at a sit-down place or if it's from a food truck. Julian, on the other hand, is all fine dining with white linens, salad, dinner, and dessert forks, and bottles of wine that cost the same as my monthly income. I don't mind these places, especially since he pays, but they're not as comfortable to me. Mostly because they require a level of attire that I find exhausting. Dress-up was fun as a kid. As an adult, I'm very much a T-shirt, leggings, and flats kinda woman.

  "Um…" My mind is racing with what to do. I could just tell Julian to hold on, toss the keys to Kevin, and meet my gorgeous private investigator-slash-fixer for a late supper. That's the sensible and delicious thing to do.

  I open my car door and step onto the pavement.

  Kevin stands taller in his doorway. He's dressed in dark shorts and a tank top, and there's a ten o'clock shadow on his face. I guess grooming goes out the window when your wife dies and you're not living at home.

  "Gianna?" Julian asks.

  "Yeah, I'm here. Yes, I'd love to have dinner with you. I'm out now. I need about fifteen minutes to get home and then another thirty to change. Is that good?"

  "Perfect. I'll pick you up. See you soon," he says and hangs up.

  He's right. This is perfect. I can tell him why his words bothered me earlier, we can clear the air, the keys will be back to their owner, and life can go on.

  I shut my car door and walk over to Kevin.

  A slight frown spreads across his forehead. "What are you doing here?"

  I hold up his keys, dangling off a Mets key chain. The fact that he's trusted me with these keys speaks volumes to where our relationship is at, but I have all of that on mute. I don't want to know what it means or think about it too much.

  His frown erases, and he nods. But instead of holding out his hand to take them so that I can go join Julian, he steps back into his room, leaving the door open.

  When I stop at the threshold, he's standing by the dresser, opening a bottle of water. Good thing it's not booze.

  "Want one?" he asks and points to a mini-fridge.

  Since when do motels come with small appliances?

  "No, thanks. I can't stay. I have plans. I figured you'd need these." I toss them at the full-sized bed across from him. My aim is perfect, and they land dead center on the turquoise bedspread. I inwardly smile. I was never athletic, so any minor victory in that department makes me proud.

  "Thanks," he says but doesn't seem to care. He doesn't appear to be drunk—there are no alcohol bottles or empty glasses on the dresser or two nightstands, and he's not wobbling. All good signs, but there's a vibe about him. He seems slow, sullen, depressed. That's understandable considering the circumstances.

  Turn around and leave, Gianna.

  But my feet don't pivot, and I feel a sigh trying to escape my chest. Before I can stop my mouth, it opens, and I ask, "Do you need anything?"

  As soon as they're out in the wild, I regret them. I don't want him to think I care. We don't have that kind of friendship. We don't have any ship.

  He turns and faces me, still holding the bottle of water. "Since when do you care?"

  See.

  "You're right. Bye." I turn to leave, and he's suddenly at my side. He grabs my arm, and I flinch. Hard. Thoughts of the last time he did that spring to mind, and a strong sense of fear and anger flashes through me. Before I have time to try to pull away though, he immediately lets me go.

  He holds up his hand and says, "Sorry."

  There's a look of pain in his eyes, and I have a feeling it's about me and what just happened and not about everything else in his life.

  "Uh, if you have a few minutes, can we chat?" he asks.

  To say I'm stunned is putting it mildly. Kevin wants to talk to me? What weird wormhole did I step through?

  "Just a few. I need to be somewhere." It's rare that I see Kevin so mellow. He can snap back to being a jerk to me at any moment, and to be frank, I'm curious about what he wants to say.

  He turns back and walks over to the bed. He sits on the edge and holds his hand out to the single armchair in the corner beside the windows that look out to the parking lot.

  I take several steps inside, but instead of sitting, I lean against the wall beside the door, which I keep open.

  He stares for a moment but says nothing. I have a feeling he understands that I'm not comfortable with him alone in an enclosed, private space.

  "Do you know why my neighbor mentioned you?" he asks.

  I stiffen. "I went to see her today."

  Kevin becomes wide-eyed. "Yeah? And?"

  I have no intention of telling him how Brenda has sensibilities. It's not his business. And I'm certainly not telling him about seeing ghosts. But I want to see his reaction to all Brenda overheard.

  "She heard you and Hilary arguing the night she died."

  His expression changes from wide-eyed interested to frowning and then possibly to shame when he looks away. "We did that a lot."

  "Why? Aren't you newlyweds? Shouldn't there have been a lot more loving and less fighting?"

  "It's complicated," he says while still not looking at me.

  I don't fill him in on what Brenda specifically heard, and thankfully he doesn't ask. Maybe he knows my name was mentioned during their argument. It doesn't matter. It's really not any of my business. If I hadn't spoken to Brenda and if I couldn't speak to Hilary, I wouldn't know any of this.

  "I didn't kill Hilary. I swear to you. Yes, we fought. That had become our norm, but I walked out of our apartment and haven't returned since."

  I gaze around the room again. The closet door is shut, so I can't see if he has clothes hanging in there, but the only personal items are a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a deodorant on the dresser.

  He hasn't shaved, and his tank top looks a little stiff, suggesting it's new. Even if he has a spare apartment key, it appears that he never went back to his place to get any of his belongings.

  "You believe me, right?" he asks.

  I almost stumble from the sheer weight of his question. Why does he care if I do or don't?

  I don't voice this though. Instead, I tell the truth and nod. "Yeah, I do. I'm not sure why though."

  This seems to appease him because he lets out a sigh and looks slightly relaxed. As much as one can with a murder and police suspicion hanging over him.

  "The cops must not think you did it either, right? I mean, you're not in jail or fired."

  He scoffs and shrugs. "The spouse is always the lead suspect. They'll keep looking for evidence until they find the real killer or the case goes cold."

  That doesn't sound like a great way to go on, with that lingering over your head.

  "What else did my neighbor say?" he asks.

  I frown. "Sanchez hasn't filled you in?"

  Kevin stands up but stays by the bed. "About what?"

  For a second, I wonder if I should tell him more. Now that I think about it, Sanchez would be obligated to not tell him about any other suspects or what else they've found. You'd hope your partner ignored messy things like professionalism and honor, but Sanchez and Kevin aren't like Enzo and I sharing information. Not that my brother has been in a sharing mood lately.

  "Gianna, please. I know you owe me nothing, and actually, I owe you, but if you have any information, plea
se tell me." His tone is almost begging, and something tugs at my heart.

  Stupid emotions.

  "Brenda heard someone else visit after you left that night."

  A small smile tugs at the corner of Kevin's mouth. He must be thinking that this news means his freedom.

  "Did she recognize this person?" he asks.

  I shake my head.

  I expect him to look upset, but his hopeful expression doesn't change. Maybe it needs time to sink in.

  "Then why do you look like you're not telling everything?" he asks.

  Wow, he's good. Yeah, sure, I often wear my emotions on my face, but that's still a great conclusion.

  When I don't immediately respond, he says, "Gianna, please."

  Do I really want to tell him that his wife was having an affair? No! He may likely "shoot the messenger." Besides, I'm only privy to the truth because of Hilary, and he doesn't know she and I have talked. This is solely about Brenda.

  "She didn't recognize him, but she saw him," I say.

  "And?"

  "He had dark hair and a camera." My stomach is in knots waiting for him to make the connection.

  He'll probably yell again. Maybe even throw something.

  I inch toward the door, fearing I'll need to make an escape.

  Instead of raising his voice though, he turns, snatches up the keys I'd tossed, and slips his feet into his flip-flops by the nightstand. It all happens so fast that I'm not ready for him to also grab his motel key and then stand directly in front of me.

  "I need to go now. Thank you for coming."

  Wait. What?

  He grabs the door and waves a hand outside for me to leave.

  I step into the night, and it hits me that he's about to do something really stupid, and it's going to be partly my fault.

  He shuts and locks his motel door and stomps to his car. He's in the driver's seat in a flash, and I take off and run toward him. He's clicking in his seat belt when I yank on the door handle and jump into the passenger seat.

  "Get out," he barks.

  "No way am I going to sit back while you confront my friend. I've seen your ugly, angry side, and let's just say it's beast-like."

  He gives me a side glare and guns the engine.

  * * *

  Kevin doesn't say a word while he defies every speed limit and ignores each stop sign. Luckily, once we cross Park Place, it's all side streets and no more traffic lights. The houses go by in a blur, and only two cars honk as we shoot past them.

  I choose to remain quiet as well, but only because fear of crashing has made my voice disappear. I white knuckle the door with one hand and the edge of my seat with the other.

  Kevin's profile is intense—hard lines and a deep frown. His hands grip the steering wheel with what looks like enough force to crack it.

  We make the five-minute drive in less than two, and when he jerks the car to a stop, I'm not sure if my organs are still in my body.

  The entire car sways as he jumps out and then slams the door so hard that I'm surprised the window doesn't shatter. He keeps it up and this Camaro won't look shiny and new much longer.

  I fumble with my seat belt, and by the time I get it off and I'm standing on the patch of dry grass in front of Michael's one-story, small, ranch-style home, Kevin is already pounding on the hunter green door.

  There are two sets of neighbors outside. One is a man in his thirties, walking his golden retriever. He nods at me as he passes and then stares at Kevin. The other appears to be an older couple sitting on chairs by their open front door at the house to my right. There are several streetlamps, and their interior light is on, but they're in shadows, so it's hard to make out details.

  "What's going on?" Michael shouts when he swings open his door. He stares hard at Kevin and then looks over his shoulder and squints at me. "Gianna? What are you two doing here? Or with one another?"

  I haven't shared my hate of Kevin with Michael as of recent. I think I scoffed when Kevin was mentioned in the months since Michael has been back in town. He knew about my hatred of him while we were in high school. I don't expect him to remember that though—unless Hilary had been filling him in on her version of events too.

  The idea sickens me. I'm the last person she should have been talking about. I don't care that she thinks Kevin feels a certain way toward me. My business is still mine.

  "Is it true?" Kevin shouts.

  The couple next door lean on the edge of their chairs and strain their necks to see over the bushes separating the two properties.

  "What are you talking about?" Michael asks with pure disgust in his tone.

  I'm stuck in my spot. Part of me wants to get in the middle and try to defuse this before it blows, but my feet won't move. I almost feel like I'm watching a suspense movie 'cause my stomach is in knots. Too bad this plot is awful.

  "You were at my apartment with my wife the night she died," Kevin shouts.

  Neighbor woman quickly looks at her husband and then back to Kevin.

  I bet they're entertained.

  "It's none of your business. Like you care. Get out of my face." Michael starts to shut the door, but Kevin sticks his foot in the way.

  Michael's face reddens, and he clenches his entire body. "Do I need to call the cops?"

  "I am the police."

  "Are you sure about that?" Michael says just low enough for me to hear.

  I decide a few steps closer is in order, and before I make the third, Michael is outside, and both men are walking to the center of the front yard, almost circling one another. I stop moving.

  "Were you sleeping with my wife?" Kevin asks with a growl.

  Michael glances at me but doesn't keep his gaze off Kevin for long. "And why exactly is Gianna here? I know the two of you aren't friends, nor is she interested in the way you lust after her."

  "There's no lusting," I yell. It simply hasn't existed in the glares and sneers Kevin has given me in the last decade. Okay, so he's mellowed out in the past few months, but that still leaves years of bitterness between us.

  "He hid it from you, Gianna, with all of his schoolyard bullying. All the hostility because you didn't like him back. I'm surprised he didn't try snapping your bra strap or saying you have cooties."

  I'm immediately reminded of that saying that if a boy is mean to you it's because he likes you, but that's an awful message to tell kids, and it's worse when it involves a thirty-two-year-old man.

  "He didn't hide it from his wife though," Michael says.

  I groan and hope he's wrong. I don't want the pressure of knowing Hilary is right or that Kevin truly looks at me that way. It's gross and feels perverted.

  "You still haven't answered the question," Kevin shouts, ignoring any reference to me. Thank goodness. "Were you sleeping with my wife?"

  I expect Michael to say no even if it's a lie. You don't admit adultery, right? Especially not to the spouse who looks ready to pound you. And it's not like the truth is needed now. I'm not telling Kevin what Hilary said, so he doesn't really have to know.

  "Yes, I was. And?"

  Oh no, Michael, no.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Kevin's face reddens. He wraps his hand into a fist and swings. The punch lands on Michael's cheek, knocking his head to the side. That's all it takes, and arms are swinging.

  A jab to the side, a punch to the gut, the face, a couple of headlocks.

  The couple next door is on the phone, and I'm just standing there like an idiot. I'm not getting in the middle, but I should try something.

  "Guys, this is juvenile. Stop!" I yell.

  They don't listen or don't hear me.

  It feels like only seconds later when a patrol car pulls onto the street and stops behind Kevin's Camaro. And wouldn't you know it, it's Enzo and his partner Kirby.

  They've only been working together for a few months, but from what I can tell, Kirby doesn't annoy my brother. He's younger and less experienced, but they seem to be a decent fit.

  En
zo does a double take when he sees me. "Gi, what are you doing here?"

  He doesn't wait for me to answer and tell him how stupid I was and how this is kinda my fault. Instead, he helps Kirby separate the men.

  The couple next door goes inside their house, either disgusted with the spectacle or relieved the police have arrived. Maybe both.

  "What happened?" Kirby asks Michael while holding him back.

  Enzo is standing before Kevin, facing him but not touching him. I can't help but wonder if Enzo's process is simply different from his partner's or if he doesn't want to rough handle a senior officer.

  "He started it," Michael shouts and points to Kevin. "I want to press charges."

  This causes Enzo to turn and face the other men.

  Kevin laughs. "What kind of child are you that we can't handle our differences like men?"

  Enzo glances back at Kevin, who no longer seems to want to pounce on Michael, and steps closer to the other two. "When we pulled up, you were both fighting. Are you sure you want to press charges? Because he can too."

  Michael scoffs, and I have to admit this whole cheating, fighting, and pressing charges is not a good look on him. He's not totally blameless. What did I see in him when we were growing up?

  Michael puffs out his chest as if he's proud. Of what, I don't know. "Yes, I'm sure."

  Kirby rolls his eyes, and Enzo takes a deep breath. I have a feeling they're thinking about the extra paperwork they'll have to do.

  "Okay, then all of you are going to the station," Enzo says. He then looks back to Kevin. "You'll meet us there, or should I load you in the back seat too?"

  I think Enzo is disgusted with this whole thing 'cause he never speaks to Kevin that way.

  Kevin half chuckles and heads to his car. "I know the way."

  Kirby is directing Michael to the patrol car.

  "Why do I have to ride with you? I can drive myself too," Michael says as they pass by me.

  Enzo stands before me. "Pick a car, Gi. In with Michael or Kevin. I assume he's how you got here."

  "Yeah, she's with me. I'll take her," Kevin says before climbing behind the wheel.

  Enzo raises a brow at me, and I know he's looking for answers to more than which car I'm riding in.