A Just Deception

by Adrienne Giordano

  “Did you threaten to kill him?” Pratt asked.

  Her uncle didn’t waste any time throwing her under that big bus. “It had been an emotional night. He attacked me and I said I’d kill him if he didn’t stay away from me. I didn’t kill him though.”

  Pratt cleared his throat. Clearly, he was new to this whole detective thing. And if he didn’t quit checking out her boobs, she’d beat the crap out of him too.

  “Uh, your uncle did mention the disagreement after you brought Kendrick home.” Pratt’s eyes finally made it to her face.

  A disagreement. She almost laughed. She should know by now her uncle would never take her side, but she’d have to play this cool. Coming off sounding like a bitter bitch would do her no good.

  Think like a lawyer.

  “Your uncle said you and someone you called Peter took Kendrick home that night,” Cherald said.

  She nodded. “Yes. Peter Jessup. I just gave you his number.”

  “He was with you last night?”

  Yow. This wasn’t good.

  “Yes. He left here around one-fifteen.”

  Cherald jotted a note on his notepad. “Do you know where he was going?”

  “Home. He’s visiting his parents in Nosrum.”

  More jotting.

  “Had you seen Kendrick since the incident last week?” Pratt asked.

  She had to tell them about yesterday afternoon. They’d probably find out anyway. They might even know it and were testing her to see if she’d lie.

  “Kendrick came here yesterday afternoon. He tried to push his way in, yelling that he needed to talk to me. But I held the door shut.”

  Enough. She needed to stop talking now. Telling them Peter knocked Kendrick out would be bad.

  Cherald held his arms wide. “And what? He just went away? Not buying it, Ms. DeRosa. Not after you just told me he tried to rape you.”

  She shook her head. Slid a glance at Pratt. Don’t look away.

  “Peter arrived and helped.”

  “Helped how?”

  “He gave him a tap on the temple and knocked him out.”

  So not good.

  “He started to come out of it a few minutes later and we put him in his car to sleep it off.”

  Cherald’s eyebrows went up. “You left him there?”

  She nodded and Pratt gave his head a hard shake. She couldn’t blame him. If she were them, she’d be locking the cuffs on.

  “We knew he would okay,” Isabelle said. “When we came home Kendrick and the car were gone. He must have driven home.”

  “Did you hear from him again last night?” Cherald asked.

  “No.”

  Cherald flipped his pad shut and stood. “Okay. I think we’ve got everything we need right now. We’re going to verify this information. Stay around today, Ms. DeRosa. We may need to speak to you again.”

  If her alibi didn’t check out with the time of death, they’d have an arrest warrant. “I’ll be here all day, gentlemen.”

  Peter dialed Izzy’s number the second the cops left the cottage. Some fucking irony. That son of a bitch Kendrick got himself whacked the same night Peter had walloped him.

  “Hey,” he said when Izzy answered the phone.

  “I can’t believe it.”

  Her voice sounded rough, like she’d been thinking too much. Coming undone wouldn’t help either one of them, but he knew she’d step up. Izzy was a warrior at heart.

  “The cops just left.” He grabbed the cards they’d given him and set them on the white dining table. “Pratt and Cherald.”

  “They were the ones who questioned me also. Please tell me someone saw you arrive home last night. I’ve been piecing this together. They must have the time of death narrowed to between twelve-thirty and one-thirty because that’s the time frame they asked me about.”

  “That’s what they told me too.”

  “I think you left here around one-fifteen,” she said. “There’s no way either one of us could have made it to Villa Point by one-thirty. Please, Peter. Tell me you went straight home.”

  Whoa. Peter sat back, shrugging off the nagging feeling tickling his neck. Was she making sure he didn’t kill Kendrick?

  “I came straight home. The security camera at the gate records everyone that enters. The time stamp will be on there. Plus, Vic and Gina are staying at the cottage with me and Vic was still up when I got home.”

  “That’s a relief. I am so sorry to have dragged you into this. I’m just stunned.”

  She wasn’t the only one. He was supposed to be on R&R and his ass landed in the middle of a murder investigation. “Have you found out anything more about what happened?”

  “I called my mother. A jogger found him in the park at six-thirty this morning. Someone beat him with a club or something.”

  “Did you talk to your uncle?”

  “No. And I won’t call either. He sent the police straight to my front door. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

  Peter let out a breath. “Izzy, this is screwed. Who could have killed him?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t think he talks to anyone around here anymore.”

  He made a mental note to ask Vic how much of a hothead Izzy’s dad was. Jeez, that’d be a mess.

  Bad enough the cops thought he might have done it. As if he’d leave the body lying there. He’d have hit Kendrick with a double pop and made sure the body wouldn’t be found. Forget this beating him to death shit. He wouldn’t waste that kind of rage on that asshole. Nope, he’d get a gun and make it quick and clean.

  “Well,” he said. “The cops will do their thing and they’ll clear us.”

  “I hope so. I feel bad enough that I involved you. What your mother must think of me…”

  Peter puckered his lips. She’s a suspect in a murder investigation and she’s worried about what my mother thinks? He couldn’t blame her. Stress did screwy things to people.

  “My mother thinks you’re great. She wasn’t happy when two detectives knocked on her door wanting a download of the security tapes, but she knows we didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  A long silence hung on the line.

  “Peter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

  Peter glanced out the door leading to the tiny patio. Yellow daylilies, his mother’s favorite, lit up the otherwise green landscape. A sick, familiar feeling settled on him. If he didn’t say something worthwhile, Izzy would drive herself insane. He understood questioning one’s moral code. Particularly when it came to taking lives.

  “And you somehow think that makes you a horrible person?”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  Too late. She’d already worked herself into the moral code dilemma.

  “My take is Kendrick was sick. Clearly he hadn’t redeemed himself in eleven years because someone hated him enough to club him to death and, based on his history, he probably deserved it. He terrorized you, and I don’t think it’s abnormal for you not to be sorry. Actually, I’d be shocked if you didn’t have a sense of relief. But hey, that’s just me.”

  More silence. He waited. Tapped his free hand on the table hoping he’d helped a little because he had no idea what else to say.

  “Peter?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Thank you for not thinking I’m crazy.”

  “Babe, you’re about the sanest person I know.”

  She scoffed. “Which is kind of scary.”

  “Anything I can do for you?” Peter asked.

  “I don’t think so. I’m going to stay close to the house today in case the police need to talk to me again. I’ll probably just sit on the beach for a while.”

  “The waves any good?”

  He heard her open a door. Probably checking.

  “No,” she said. “But I wouldn’t mind you sitting next to me on the beach.”

  “Yo,” Vic said and Peter turned to see him coming down the stairs wearing jeans and
a white pullover, suitcase in hand.

  He went back to Izzy. “Vic and Gina are getting ready to go. I’ll be over after that.”

  He clicked the off button and sat for a second. What the fuck was he doing? He should run screaming from this situation.

  A murder for Christ’s sake.

  This woman would tear him to shreds. He already couldn’t keep his mind off her and, with her hang-ups, there would be no way they could both get what they needed.

  Ten years he’d waited for a woman to have more than a physical effect on him. His ex-wife had ripped a piece of his soul away and there hadn’t been another woman since that made him want any more than a good lay. Now, with Izzy, he was thinking she’d look damn good sleeping in his shirts.

  Vic sat in one of the three other chairs. “What’s up?”

  “I’m fucked.”

  “What else is new?”

  No shit. Peter propped his elbow on the table and stuck his chin in his hand. “Izzy. You were worried about me hurting her? You blew that call. She’s going to eat me alive and—idiot that I am—I’m going to let her.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Isabelle stood behind the small gathering of people sitting by Kendrick’s gravesite. She closed her eyes. The lack of sound, no birds chirping or leaves rustling, just the occasional squeak of a chair when someone moved, forced her pulse to hammer. Even the humid, overcast day seemed appropriate. Gray. Just like her mood.

  She hated this.

  The priest finished his final prayer and invited mourners to the casket, but Isabelle remained motionless. She couldn’t step near that casket. She showed up. That was enough.

  In the three days since Kendrick’s death, she’d agonized over whether she’d be a hypocrite if she attended. But would the police think it odd if she didn’t go? No good answer.

  Digging deep, she decided to make an appearance. After all, she had loved Kendrick once and, in an odd way, seemed to be mourning the person she had cared for. Not that the funeral gave her any closure, but at least she made the effort.

  The twenty or so mourners, mostly friends of her uncle and a few family members, tossed their roses onto the casket and filed toward their cars. Isabelle twisted and spotted Peter parked down the road in the vintage Mustang—another car from his collection—that she’d instantly wanted to drive. The man liked his cars.

  More than that though, he was a darn good man because he’d offered to drive her to the funeral so she didn’t have to go alone.

  She turned back to the casket and waited. Her mother sat next to Uncle Bart and Aunt Carol and would probably wait to toss her flower with theirs. Once again, her mother had sided with Uncle Bart. It seemed so petty at this point, and Isabelle found herself wishing her sister were here. Jenny would support her. But her sister was spending the summer with her boyfriend in San Diego. Lucky girl. Lucky smart girl because she knew to stay away from the family lunacy. At least one of the DeRosa girls was emotionally healthy. For whatever reason, Kendrick had never put his filthy hands on Jenny, and Isabelle remained thankful for it.

  “Hello, Isabelle.” Her mother leaned forward to kiss her and the collar of her crisp white shirt brushed Isabelle’s chin. Her mother’s scent—something floral—seemed in contrast with the stark navy suit she wore.

  “Hi, Mom.” I wish you would have stood with me.

  Her mother narrowed her eyes slightly and ran a hand over Isabelle’s cheek. She sucked in a breath, felt it shatter inside.

  “Are you all right?”

  No. I’m not all right. I want us to be better than we are. I love you and want to trust you.

  Isabelle shook off the thought. She and her mother had a stable relationship. They weren’t close, but they occasionally went shopping or to dinner and it worked. She didn’t want to disrupt that.

  “I’m okay,” Isabelle said because that’s what she always said. And what her mother wanted to hear.

  Her uncle stepped up, regal in his three thousand dollar suit and graying hair. “Isabelle,” he said, while his wife ignored her.

  Hating these people would be easy. They were so smug. “Hello, Uncle Bart. Aunt Carol. I’m sorry about Kendrick.”

  With that, Carol turned away and Uncle Bart followed without another word.

  Lovely exchange.

  “I have to go,” her mother said. “I came with Bart.”

  Of course you did.

  “Are you all right?” her mother asked again.

  “I’m okay.”

  She watched her mother walk away and then turned back to the casket. It seemed odd that she and Kendrick were the only ones left.

  “Ms. DeRosa?” someone said, and Isabelle shifted as two men approached.

  Two men she’d never seen before. In suits. But wait…The tall one. He seemed familiar.

  Cops.

  Had to be.

  A long breath escaped and her heart thumped faster.

  The police had not contacted her since the day after the murder. Could be good, could be bad. Maybe they had cleared her. Or, maybe they were building a case.

  Prickly pins badgered her arms. She couldn’t think about it now. She threw her shoulders back, called up her neutral lawyer face. She could do this. Peter sat just down the road. He’d help her if need be.

  “I’m Isabelle DeRosa.”

  The taller man flipped open his ID and three big letters jumped out at her.

  FBI.

  What could this be about?

  “Special Agent Wade Sampson,” the taller man said. “May we speak with you a moment?”

  Sampson wore a black suit with a white shirt and patterned red tie. His dark hair was combed straight back from his face and, with his angular cheekbones and square jaw, she imagined he used those assets to his advantage. She’d have to keep that in mind.

  The shorter man held out his hand and Isabelle shook it. “Kirk Watson.”

  Watson looked older. Maybe around fifty. His salt-and-pepper hair and long face didn’t have the impact Sampson’s did. And then it hit her. Special Agent Wade Sampson had been the man sitting in the car parked at the beach entrance last week.

  The FBI was watching her.

  “What’s this about?” A bird chirped from overhead and Isabelle glanced up.

  Sampson took the go ahead. “You’re the cousin of Kendrick Edmonds, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  The lawyer in her would offer nothing other than what they asked for.

  “We understand, prior to his death, you were invited to stay at his home in Ohio?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I refused.”

  “We are aware of that also,” Watson said.

  What the hell was this about? She swallowed once to pop her ears and clear the sudden echo of every microscopic sound.

  “Ms. DeRosa, we have an opportunity we’d like to speak with you about,” Sampson said.

  This should be good. Kendrick and the FBI?

  “What opportunity?”

  “We’d like your assistance with a case involving Kendrick Edmonds.”

  Assistance. That could mean a lot of things. She swung another glance at Watson, but Sampson seemed to be in charge. “Are you involved with the murder investigation?”

  “No, ma’am,” Sampson said. “The local P.D. is handling that.”

  A noise came from beside them and Isabelle turned to see several caretakers coming their way. She so did not want to witness Kendrick’s body being lowered into the ground. Time to get to the point. “If you’re not investigating Kendrick’s murder, what do you want from me?”

  Sampson’s cocoa brown eyes sparked with amusement. Some men appreciated an aggressive woman.

  “We believe there is illegal activity in Mr. Edmonds’s compound.”

  When Isabelle realized her jaw had dropped open, she snapped it shut. Kendrick doing something illegal didn’t shock her, but Kendrick doing something illegal on a federal level, surprised the hell out of her. He just never seemed that motivat
ed. She shot another look at the casket. The caretakers stood beyond the row of headstones trying to be discreet, but she knew they were waiting for them to leave before getting on with their work.

  She turned back to the FBI agents. “Let’s move to the road.”

  When she reached the street, maybe twenty feet from where Peter was parked, she stopped, saw him staring and held up her index finger. He waved in response and, content he’d stay where he was, Isabelle turned back to the agents. “Gentlemen, before last week, I hadn’t spoken to Kendrick in years. Even then it was only to say hello at family functions.”

  “We are aware of your history with him,” Sampson said.

  The words slapped at her. A history with him. That’s what they wanted to call it? “You know he sexually abused me?”

  Sampson kept his face neutral. No smile, no frown. Nothing.

  “Yes. We also know he came here last week and you had an altercation.”

  Isabelle scoffed. “I kicked his ass. And I’d do it again. Kendrick may have been my cousin, but he was a sick child that grew into a sick man. He belonged in a jail cell.”

  “Which is why we are here,” Watson piped up.

  She tilted her head toward the overcast sky and blew out a breath before returning her gaze to the men in front of her. “What do you need from me?”

  “As I stated,” Sampson said. “We believe there is illegal activity inside that compound. You were invited there, we suspect, to help them with any legal issues that might arise from their activities. We would like you to see if you can manipulate that into an extended stay in the compound.”

  “You want me to be an informant?”

  “We like to call them sources,” Sampson said.

  “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about that kind of work. Find someone else.”

  “Ms. DeRosa,” Watson said. “We will provide you with as much security as we can from the outside.”

  “What good will that do if they catch me poking around?”

  Sampson held up a hand. “We believe the children within the compound might be in some danger.”

  Children. A hammering began behind her eyes. “There are children involved?”

  “Yes. Mostly girls.”

  Dammit. “Wow. You guys are good. You come here, to this man’s funeral, knowing he sexually abused me, and you throw that out there. What a tactic.”