“You communicated via notes?” Derek said. “Through the mail?”
“No,” Jessica replied. “Never through the mail, or email or text messages. Never through any means that might expose our relationship.”
“So you passed notes to each other?”
“Sort of. Brian lives on Snead Island, about forty minutes south of where I live. There’s a tiny library on the island. Not really a library, actually. It’s just an outside bookcase where people can borrow and donate books. Someone just puts in a book they no longer want and someone else can borrow it for no charge. Probably around twenty to thirty books circulated through that little library. Brian and I passed notes in a raggedy old Lee Child book. Paperback. Torn cover and coffee stained.”
“Title?”
“One Shot. I actually read the book when I held on to it longer than usual. I was having trouble coming up with a response to one of Brian’s notes. Book was pretty good. Not my usual genre but it was a very explosive ending. They made a movie out of that book. Tom Cruise? Have you seen it?”
“Sure,” Derek said. “Five foot seven actor playing a six-five character. Bad casting.”
“Wednesdays were our message days. I drove down to the island the week before, saw the book and took it. Always on page one hundred and fifty, we’d tuck a note written to each other. His note that day asked about going to his lodge outside of Tallahassee the following weekend. Friday to Sunday morning. I tore up the note and wrote one of my own, saying ‘Yes. Details please.’ The next Wednesday, I drove back down to the island, found the book and note. Brian told me where to park my car and what time he’d meet me.”
“Two things: Did Brian always have control of the book and, where did he tell you to meet him?”
“I don’t read those types of books. If Sam ever saw it in our house, Brian thought he might get suspicious. So it was always in his house.”
“Good enough. And the meeting place?”
“A parking garage in downtown Tampa. We had met there a few times before. Brian liked the place since, according to him, it wasn’t a place people in our circles ever used for parking and the garage didn’t have security cameras. Brian was very careful with our rendezvous.”
“Okay, so you met Brian at the garage the Friday before your husband is killed. Drove to Hilton’s lodge outside of Tallahassee right from the garage? Make any stops along the way?”
Jessica’s face blushed as she looked down at her folded hands on her lap.
“We made one stop, but not at a store or anything. We stopped and made love in the backseat of his car. We really were like two teenagers in love.”
“We’ll need directions to the lodge,” Derek said, pushing Jessica’s story forward. “What time did you arrive at the lodge?”
“Around three. No, closer to two, I think. It’s a long drive and, honestly, I wasn’t paying much attention to the time. I know I met Brian at the garage around nine and we left right away.”
“You said you had sex with Brian in his car on the drive up, so I assume you left your car in the garage?”
“Yes. Third floor. Right in the middle of the lot. The more conspicuous, the better.”
“Fine. What happened at the lodge?”
“We hardly made it inside before we were all over each other. We had sex on the couch right inside the lodge. I think we even left the door open.” Jessica smiled the type of smile that only pleasant memories can create. Derek knew that smile would be wiped off her face when he eventually asked her about finding her husband dead on their kitchen floor. But for the time being, he let that smile play across her face.
It was a good face. A little ragged from her time behind bars and away from her makeup, but, still, Derek considered Jessica’s face a good one for a woman to have. Soft cheeks, warm, brown eyes and a nose that turned up the slightest degree at the end. A cute nose, he’d say. Not snobby. Not too pointed or too flat or too anything. Just a nice nose on a nice face.
“We spent most of Friday in bed. Just laughing, talking about things, and, of course, having sex. I’d bet Brian was able to perform five times that day. Once on the couch, once on the kitchen floor,” she paused, as her face blushed red, “in the shower off the master and in the bed. And, of course like I’ve already mentioned, in the car on the way up to the lodge. Brian is a very healthy man.”
It seemed that Jessica wanted a reaction from Derek to her last comment about Brian. Like she was either bragging about him or wanted to compare Brian’s vitality against Derek’s. He wasn’t interested in either feeding into her pride or comparing notes. His wife had been dead nearly four years and Derek remained faithful to his dead wife. He paused the briefest of moments when an image of Lucy flashed into his mind. In his mind, his dead wife was wearing that look he remembered so well. The look she used to give when she wanted Derek to stop being stubborn. The look told Derek Lucy would want him to move on.
“It’s been six years, sweetheart,” he imagined her saying. “It’s time to let me go.”
He wasn’t ready yet. Close. But not today.
“Great,” Derek said. “Brian’s a healthy, horny man. What happened the rest of the weekend at the lodge?”
Jessica screwed her face up a bit, then relaxed it.
“We slept till almost eight Saturday morning. Brian went for a run on the trails around his property and I showered and made breakfast. The rest of Saturday, we just spent sitting on the front porch, went for a walk through the woods, made love, ate and drank a few bottles of wine. It was a wonderful day. Relaxing.”
“Talk about work? About Sam? FJ?”
“None of that. Not a word about anything important. We just talked about our pasts, our futures. We didn’t talk about any shared future, just about things on our bucket lists.”
“What’s left on the bucket list of multi-millionaires?” Derek said.
“Brian wants to write a book someday. A fictional book. He reads a ton. I have no idea where he finds the time, but I know he loves to read.”
“And your list? What’s on it?”
Jessica let out a long, exaggerated sigh. Her shoulders slumped a bit and her posture, which had been much too straight for someone sitting in an uncomfortable chair inside an uncomfortable room inside a very uncomfortable and slightly foul smelling jail, collapsed a bit. Her slouching made her look instantly older to Derek. Bent the way people of advanced age often get.
“I always wanted to do something big and have no one know about it. Weird, but something like a tremendous random act of kindness which then makes people wonder who was behind it for years.”
“Sunday. Tell me about Sunday.”
“We woke up around eight again, fooled around, ate breakfast. Brian went for a run while I showered. A little more fooling around, then we drove back to Tampa. Got to the garage around four. Then, we went our separate ways.”
“You drive straight home from the garage?”
“Not directly.” Derek could sense a building tension in Jessica’s body. Her face pulled back the slightest amount and she wrapped her arms around her torso. She knew Derek would soon ask about finding her husband dead. She was preparing herself to tell that part of the story. “I drove around town a little. Brian thought it would be a good idea if we pulled out of the garage ten minutes apart, went separate ways and drove around to make sure no one was following either one of us. I drove by Derek Jeter’s home on the bay, not sure which direction Brian took.”
“What time did you get home?” Derek asked, his voice taking on a sterner tone. Pressing. Urgent.
“Around five. I pulled my car into my driveway around five.”
Jessica’s voice was softer, quieter. Cut with nerves. Each word was short and proceeded with a bit of an extended pause.
“You have a garage at your house?”
“We do. But I had plans to meet some friends for dinner around six. I left the car in the driveway since I knew I’d be leaving soon.”
“Walked in
the front door?”
“Yes.”
“Notice anything about the door? Opened? Closed. Have an alarm system?”
“Yes, we have an alarm. And there was nothing unusual about the front door. Nothing I noticed, anyway.”
“You walked inside. Say anything?”
“I called out to Sam. I told him I was home.”
“But he didn’t respond.”
“He couldn’t have.”
“I saw his legs first.” Jessica’s voice was damp sounding but steady. The type of voice which could go either way. Either erupts into a sob-filled, unintelligible voice or a voice that finds control. It wasn’t the type of voice that stayed as it was. It was going one-way or the other. That was for damn sure. “He was lying in the doorway between the den and the kitchen. All I could see were his legs but I knew something was very wrong. As soon as I walked a few feet into the den, I heard my dad’s voice telling me to prepare. A million thoughts raced through my mind. One of those thoughts was Sam had gone out the night before, got drunk and passed out.”
“Your husband have a drinking problem?” Derek asked, his voice controlled. Dry as a desert.
“He had been drinking more lately. Last few months, I’d say. I asked him if something was bothering him but he wouldn’t say if anything was.”
“So, you kept walking closer to him?”
“Yes. I saw his hips and his stomach. His shirt was pulled up, like he had either fallen while taking his shirt off or…or his shirt was pulled up when he fell. Then I saw the pool of blood beside him. That’s when I knew he hadn’t passed out.”
“What did you do next?”
“My father’s voice came again. He was telling me Sam had been murdered and that the killer may still be in the house. I pulled my gun out of my purse and walked further till I could see all of Sam’s body. His eyes were half open. I saw a small, black hole right in the middle of his forehead. He was dead.” Her voice found purchase on solid ground. “I backed away, holding the gun up in front of me. I was afraid the killer was still in the house and heard me when I called Sam’s name when I first walked in the door. I backed my way to the front door as silently as I could. I remember stopping when my back hit the door. I just stood there, looking at Sam. I called his name again, hoping I’d see him move his legs. That maybe, I didn’t see what I saw. That he was okay. Not dead.”
“He didn’t move, did he?”
“No.” Jessica dropped her head. Fell silent. A few moments later, she wiped her eyes with a tissue Maryanne handed her. “He wasn’t going to move ever again.”
Derek was still standing, hands braced against the back of the chair in front of him. He spun the chair around, sat down. Gave a long, hard look at Jessica. He waited several minutes before she lifted her head and matched his gaze.
“Then what?”
“I ran outside, screaming for help. A neighbor must have seen me or heard me screaming. I don’t remember how everything happened. I just remember sitting in the passenger’s seat of his car, shaking and crying hysterically. My neighbor called the police.”
“And that’s how they found you? Sitting in the car, crying and shaking?”
“Yes.”
“Where was your gun?”
“In my hand, still. I remember the policeman taking it away.”
“Did the cop have gloves on? The one who took your gun away, was he wearing gloves?”
“I don’t remember. I do remember seeing him hold it with two fingers then drop it into a plastic bag, though. Does that matter? Him not wearing gloves?”
Ignoring Jessica’s question, Derek continued.
“How long were you outside screaming?”
“I don’t know. A minute or two.”
“Gun was in your hand the whole time you were outside screaming?”
“It must have been. It was in my hand when I was in my neighbors car.”
“Never dropped the gun or let anyone else hold it? That is until the cop took it away.”
“No. No one.”
“Did you have any of Sam’s blood on you? Did you feel for his pulse? Check his body?”
“No.” Jessica’s voice was failing her now. The dampness was increasing and the purchase her voice once had loosened its grip. “I never even checked if he was still alive.”
The tears burst forth.
Chapter 9
His day had started like every other: Up at 5:15, fifteen minutes of meditation followed by a room temperature cup of unflavored, fat-free yogurt. After ten minutes for digestion, he was stepping along the same four-and-a-half mile-walking path he took every day. Rain or shine. Four and a half miles. Out the back of his home, to the hard-packed sand framing the ocean, left around the point which marked where the Gulf began and the bay gave way.
He allowed no more than sixty-three minutes to complete the walk. Then, he entered his fitness room on the second floor of his home. He had the entire house designed and built to his specific instructions. The fitness room was no exception.
“It needs to be a fully interior room. No windows. I do not want it wired in any particular fashion. Just electric outlets to power a treadmill. I want seven lights, recessed into the ceiling. No other lighting. There will be iron weights in the room, approximately a full ton. So the flooring needs to be reinforced. The walls are to be coated with whatever substance you feel will best prevent staining. The walls must also not absorb odors. Lastly, I do not want air conditioning in the room but, instead, I require an air circulation system, complete with dehumidification capabilities.”
The architect had asked, “Why no windows?”
To which he received the answer, “Distractions of the mind cause weakness in the body. Design and build it as I have spelled out, or I will find someone who is capable of following simple, clear directions.”
After lifting dumbbells and barbells for thirty minutes, he toweled himself dry. Stretching was next. Nineteen specific stretches, each position held for sixty-seconds before he slowly released the stretch and flowed into the next stretch.
He journaled the details of his workout, including his pulse rate upon waking, after finishing his walk and again once the final stretch was released. Precise times were recorded. The leather bound journal was then closed and placed atop the treadmill. It would be opened again the next morning, as it had been every morning that found FJ DeNuzzio waking up in his Anna Maria Island home.
As she did occasionally, his wife, Maria, had his breakfast prepared for him by seven. He had showered, dressed in clothing appropriate for the meetings he had scheduled for the day, and came downstairs for breakfast, greeting his wife with a kiss on her cheek and a quick pat on her backside.
“Busy day, today?” she asked.
“Good busy and bad busy, I’m afraid. Won’t expect to be home for dinner.”
“More work to be done with that awful Samuel Gracers murder? What a tragedy. And to think, his wife is accused of killing him.”
“I’m afraid so,” he answered. “Need to find his replacement before too much time slips between the future and Sam’s death.”
“I’m sure he’d want it that way,” Maria said in a voice fully lacking any emotion.
“And you? What’s your day look like?”
“Slow day, for the most part,” she said. “I need to pay a visit to a few people in Tampa. I hate driving all the way up there. I hate driving over that damned bridge.”
“I know you do. You mention it all the time.”
Maria looked sideways at her husband of thirty-three years.
“And yet, I still make the drive whenever it’s needed to be made, don’t I?”
“Benefits always outweigh your imagined risks.”
“As far as I know.”
FJ stood five foot six inches, weighed one hundred forty-two pounds and maintained a body fat percentage of no more than seven percent. What he lacked in height, he made up for in fitness and in his commitment to leading a disciplined, controll
ed and successful life. Born and raised outside of Andover, Massachusetts, FJ was the only child of second-generation Italian immigrants. His father, who had worked for the US Post Office for close to forty years, had died six years ago. His mother, now aged ninety-three, was still active; though a series of small strokes had limited her ability to maintain the lifestyle she had grown accustomed to.
FJ loved his father but it was his mother who had inspired him. She was the driving force in his youth. His mother was the one who demanded that he never settle for what others felt was “good enough.”
“Freddy,” she would say most nights when, after completing his homework and chores, she tucked him into bed, “good enough is for the rest of the world. Good enough is for those who are happy with leading lives of adequacy. But that’s not for you, Freddy. Not for my Freddy. You know why I treat you the way I do?”
“Because you love me?”
“Because you deserve more than what your father can provide. Because the greatest things in this world should lay themselves at your feet. The greatest people should recognize your abilities. I burn you with my love so that the strappings of the weak will never maintain a hold on you. And my boy says, ‘Thank you, Mother.’”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“If you have a busy day, shall I expect you to eat dinner elsewhere, or should I plan on two for dinner?”
FJ removed his black-rimmed glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose for several seconds. It was a habit he had developed since first being fitted for glasses when he was nine. While he had forced himself to overcome most every other one of his habits that served no obvious or useful purpose, this one was so innocuous and often afforded him a moment or two of reflection before responding, he consciously chose to keep the habit as a part of his life.
He rifled his open fingers through his crew cut short gray hair, pausing at his head’s crown before reversion direction. With his glasses back in place, he titled his head a bit to his right.
“If you want to say something to me, I suggest you do so. Playing some passive-aggressive, neglected wife character is not only foolish considering the lifestyle you lead, but rather unattractive.”
Deathly Reminders: a Derek Cole Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 6) Page 6