His words were tight, perfectly spaced and emphasized the way one might do so when conveying a message both suggestive of accusation and intended to reveal a specific amount of contempt. Only the word “rather” came out the wrong way. He knew it the moment the word passed his lips. “Rather” sounded more like “rathuh.”
“Your Boston is showing, dear.”
Before FJ could respond, Maria stood, walked to the sink and deposited her dirty bowl.
She knew how hard her husband had tried to remove any trace of his Boston accent. Why? She didn’t understand. Perhaps he thought it made him sound too casual. Too common. Too mundane. And, to his credit, his “Boston” only slipped out on occasion, usually when he was angry or growing towards anger. Hearing a weakened R sound—drawn out a bit longer when starting a word and truncated into more of an “eh” sound when ending a word—told her she had either succeeded in her seemingly never ending quest to remind her husband of his original roots or that she had better move on before all R’s were dropped and replaced with a temper she had seen enough times to know it was better left to sleep.
“Either way, home for dinner or not, please do me the courtesy and call?”
His leg bounced up and down in rapid succession. The soft heel of his slipper, knocking against the polished marble floor. He laced his fingers together and placed his hands behind his neck. Smiled a small grin, then shook his head.
“Assume I won’t be home,” he said. “I’m unsure of how busy I’ll be and wouldn’t want to promise a call and be unable to fulfill that promise. You do know how I feel about broken promises?”
“That I do, my dear. That I do.”
It was close to eight before FJ was dressed and ready to make the drive from his home on Anna Maria Island to the office building he owned in Tampa. He felt no obligation to arrive at a certain time. The only employee of FJD Company was his personal assistant, Karen, who worked most days from her home. Karen wouldn’t be in the office today. No one would be. In fact, he made it clear to all seven members, their personal support staff and to Karen that today was a day not to be in the office. He had work to do there and wanted no interruptions.
When his car reached I-4, FJ turned his cell phone on. He never turned it on before since his mornings were uniquely his own. The fact he had to share them with Maria was disturbing enough. But some mornings, this morning being one of them, Maria insisted on engaging him in conversation. Their talks never amounted to anything and served no purpose in his mind. Part of being married, he assumed.
As expected, a few seconds after his cell found its signal, the message-waiting indicator flashed. He pressed a few buttons and dialed his voice mail.
“FJ. Hope your morning has started off well. Just confirming our ten o’clock. Do me a favor, will you, and give me a call at the office?”
He didn’t believe in keeping any of his contact’s information on his phone. “Doing so only serves to weaken the mind,” he would say when asked about his phone habits. He dialed the number from memory, asked to be connected, and waited less than ten seconds for his call to be answered.
“Congressman Wiggins. So good of you to answer my call. Ten o’clock is confirmed and I hope you carry positive news with you today. I do want things behind us as quickly as possible.”
“As do I, FJ. We all do.”
“Good. Ten o’clock.”
Chapter 10
Derek and Nikkie left the jail, headed out to get dinner. Maryanne stayed back with Jessica.
“I know the judge personally,” she said. “I’ll call the detectives down here right away so they can take Mrs. Gracers’ alibi. Then, I’ll let the judge know we need another bail hearing.”
“What will a lower bail amount matter?” Derek asked. “If Jessica’s accounts and access to funds are locked up, doesn’t matter how low bail is set.”
“Just so happens I have an emergency stash of bonds I use in situations such as these.” Maryanne nodded her head at Jessica. “You do understand I charge interest for the use of my money, don’t you?”
“Roll it into my bill,” Jessica said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “And why the heck would getting me out on bail be so damn difficult? They can’t think I’d run away to Neebish Island and disappear into Canada or stow away on some slow boat to China. My whole life is here. I’d never run away.”
“Severity of the crime you’re accused of,” Maryanne answered sharply. “You running away is just one concern. You committing another crime is what really scares people.”
As they sat eating dinner at an area chain seafood restaurant, Derek summarized his meeting with Rachel Gonzales.
“She’s the one who will help us. Not sure how much she can, since she’s not assigned to the case. But she suspects something, or someone, is behind the murder.”
“And this Congressman Wiggins and his ties with the DA? Does she think that has something to do with Sam Gracers getting murdered?”
“She didn’t say, but she did bring his name up.”
“I tell you who I want to talk with, FJ DeNuzzio.”
“Guy like him,” Derek said as he spilled the last swallows of his glass of scotch down his throat, “don’t meet with people like us. They have people for dirty work like that.”
“He sounds the type who has people to do all sorts of dirty work for him.”
“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Derek cautioned. “Truth may be he’s a hard working, honest success story. Sounds like he’s built a hell of a company, at least. He may be as clean as they come.”
“Or as dirty,” Nikkie said back. “But,” she fluttered her hands over her head as if they were single-winged birds, “my mind is wide opened. So, what’s our next step?”
“Brian Hilton. We should wait till tomorrow. See if Jenkins can get Jessica out on bail. Showing up at his home with her in tow would make more of an impression than just you and me showing up.”
“Detectives will call him in to the station, right? Take down his story, see if Jessica’s alibi holds water?”
“Sure,” Derek said. “They’ll do that first thing. May even be driving out to have a chat with him right now. But he won’t admit to anything. Better for us if he doesn’t?”
“Why the hell is that?”
“Think about it from two angles. First, if he says he was with her the whole weekend, then we have a guilty client and he’s complicit in the crime.”
“Come again?” Nikkie asked.
“Evidence is too powerful. Her gun, her prints on the casings, no forced entry and her two-day delay in giving up her alibi. If he says they were together, those two days were to give him time to cover up anything needing to be covered. If she’s guilty, our case is done and we go home on our own dimes. Didn’t you think it was strange Jessica was able to have access to pay our fees upfront, and probably pay Jenkins a retainer but the only thing we heard about her funds was that they were locked down till her husband’s murder was solved?”
“Hadn’t thought about that, but people accused of a crime have to be given access to any locked funds in order to pay for legal representation. Right?”
“Not always. Not in Florida without a court mandating a release of funds. Jenkins took the case without getting a dime in advanced payment. I guarantee it. If Brian Hilton confirms Jessica’s alibi, she’s guilty, he was involved and he paid us our initial fee. No doubt about it.”
Nikkie ordered another beer for herself and another double scotch, “low shelf, cheapest stuff you got, two cubes of ice,” for Derek from the waitress.
“That’s one angle. What’s the second?”
“If he denies the whole thing. Says he was never with Jessica and wasn’t having any type of an affair with her, then, she’s innocent and we go to work. Till then, we don’t have much to do.”
“What’s your gut telling you?”
Derek smiled at the waitress as she placed the drinks on the table.
“My gut is telling me it wants
more scotch inside of it.”
“That’s a great sign,” Nikkie said. “What’s your non-alcoholic gut telling you about what Brian Hilton will say?”
Derek brought the glass to his lips, took a shallow draw, and then placed the glass back on the tablecloth’s dampened ring.
“My gut says he’ll deny everything. If that happens, you and I won’t have time to go looking at alligators or manatees. Jessica is innocent but I don't know yet if we’ll be able to help her.”
“And what, may I ask, will determine if we can help her or not?”
“I’ll let you know.”
August 20
It was close to four in the afternoon before Jessica Gracers walked through the back doors of the Pinellas County Jail. Out of jail and into an entirely different expression of prison.
Since Brian Hilton had denied every last word of Jessica’s alibi and his involvement with her story when questioned by Detectives Mathers and Gonzales, Maryanne Jenkins was able to position her plea for bail on the grounds of her client’s “urgent need to assist in the physical collection of material evidence to support her alibi.”
Jessica had been given conditional bail, meaning four things.
Maryanne Jenkins posted a bailer’s bond in the amount of $100,000 which would be forfeited should Jessica Gracers not respond, with a maximum allowance of three hours, to the court’s or the sheriff’s department’s request for a meeting. Should Jessica need to travel or to “otherwise be engaged in legal activities which would potentially compromise her ability to respond in person within the three hour time frame,” she needed to first obtain permission from the court. In addition to the bond amount being forfeited, Jessica would also be remanded back to the custody of the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Department, where she would remain until “her appearance in court or additional and substantial justifications were presented to the court, which demanded or excused remand.” Jessica was disallowed to “visit in person with, attempt unwarranted or unrequested contact via electronic or pedestrian means, or otherwise engage in any manner, with Brian Hilton, his direct associates or place of employment.”
“It isn’t the best bail agreement I’ve seen, but you’re out.” Maryanne Jenkins sat behind her desk in her office. Jessica and Nikkie sat across the desk, Derek stood leaning against the wall off to the left. She was feeling strong today though the learned “telltale” sign of a coolness streaking up the backside of her legs and underside of her arms was suggesting the evening might turn out to be entirely different. Her spine and midsection felt strangely and comfortably numb. She could feel when she pressed her fingers against her skin, but the touch seemed muted. Quiet and without any radiating echoes.
“So, now what do we do?” Jessica asked, her voice and eyes clearly displaying urgency. And fear. “Do we speak with Brian?”
“There isn’t any ‘we’ involved in anything we do involving Brian Hilton,” Maryanne snapped. “You go back to your home, sit your ass down and wait till I tell you to move it. Understand?”
“I can’t just sit and do nothing. Especially in that house. My husband was murdered in that house and despite my affair, I did care for him. I’ll never go back inside there again.”
“Is there a funeral?” Derek asked. “Any arrangements been made?”
Jessica’s face fell slack.
“Oh my God. I…I don’t even know.” Tears welled up in her eyes, collecting in shimmering pools before giving way to gravity. “What a terrible person I am.”
“That may be accurate,” Derek said, “but I don’t think so. Hard to think about details when something like this happens.”
“Then why did you ask?” Maryanne said. “You trying to break her down, or something? Trying to make her feel worse than she already does?”
“Because if there aren’t any arrangements, they need to be made. If there are, we need to find out who made them and make damn sure Jessica attends.”
“He has a brother,” Jessica said. “In Houston.” Her voice was staggered. Weak and damp sounding. As if it was slowly being surrounded by a flood. “That’s where Sam was born and raised. He’s the only one who would make arrangements, I’d think. Him or me.”
“And you haven’t. So, it’s either your brother-in-law or no one, right?”
“I’d think. I can’t believe I don’t…”
Derek cut Jessica off. He figured she wasn’t going to add anything of importance to the conversation. Figured she just keep piling on to her own guilt. He’d gotten what he wanted; what he’d hoped for from the conversation.
Guilt was a good thing, Derek believed. Good when the guilt is over something different from whatever crime someone was accused of. If Jessica wasn’t feeling guilty about not having even thought about putting her husband to rest, he would have second guessed feeling she was innocent.
“Write down your brother-in-law’s contact information and give it to Nikkie before we leave here tonight. She’ll find out if anything has been set up. We’ll let you know tomorrow.”
Beyond the tapping sound of Maryanne’s pen as it hit against the solid wood of her desk, the room was silent for a long minute. A few damp, staggered sniffles from Jessica added their sound to the broken, syncopated rhythm of the tapping pen. Derek kept leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, waiting. Nikkie, having worked with Derek for a year, and having seen how he operates with clients, waited in solidarity with what she assumed to be Derek’s intentions. Nikkie had a few hundred questions racing through her mind, so quelling her desire to ask them wasn’t easy.
Derek would say he couldn’t hold a candle to Nikkie’s investigative skills, but she knew otherwise. She was good, of that she was confident, but Derek had a talent she could only observe and recognize. His skills couldn’t be taught. Someone either had them or they didn’t. End of story. For Derek, his skills—largely unidentifiable and wholly unable to be described—were not the result of his upbringing, his six years in the Army or from the few years he spent as a cop in Columbus. His abilities were forged into his being from the intense fire of emotions. He had seen his wife killed. He had held her body, lifeless, void of any hope of recovery. He had sunk to a level of hopelessness and depression very few manage to crawl back from. He had stuck a gun into his mouth, pulled the trigger and, but for a flash of memory of his wife’s face filling his peripheral vision, causing him to, slightly, just enough, thank God, turn his head, sending the .9mm bullet ripping a path through his cheek and not his skull.
His failed attempt at suicide had changed him, even someone like Nikkie who hadn’t known him before his attempt could recognize the change. She knew he still loved and grieved for his wife and for the life he shared with her. But the tragedy of her death and the spiral of depression and despair he suffered through after she was murdered left scars on Derek. The three-inch scar on his left cheek may have been the only visible scar, but there were others. Deeper. Hidden. But these scars were what she could see. And the scars she could see told her as much about the man Derek was as they did about the person he had become.
As she sat in the silent office, wondering how much longer Maryanne would be able to tap out a rhythm and how much longer Jessica could hold back the flood of emotional pain which was surely demanding release, Nikkie let her mind wander to the feelings she held for Derek.
She had taken the first step, a few months ago, while they were working a case in Upstate New York. She told him of the growing and expanding feelings she held for him. It was Nikkie that had reached out to him as they sat alone in his hotel room, inviting him to allow her to show how strongly attracted she was for him. And while her affections were far from unrequited, he wasn’t ready. He still felt married. Still attached, despite knowing his wife had been lying still and cold for six years.
He apologized when he refused her advances, which told Nikkie everything she had yet learned about him. His scars were deep and might never fully heal, but she had never met a man, never met anyone,
for whom she was more willing to patiently await the healing process, no matter how long that process took.
“So, what’s next?” Jessica had scribbled down her late husband’s brother’s information, as best as she could recall, and was leaning towards Nikkie, arm extended and the slip of paper held deliberately in her outstretched hand. “I mean, I’m happy to be out of that horrible, horrible place, but unless we do something about Brian denying everything, I have a feeling I’ll end up back there again.”
“And if that happens,” Maryanne, who had finally stopped tapping the pen against the desk, said, “you should plan on being in there a hell of a lot longer.”
“Well that’s a pleasant thought.”
Derek pushed off from the wall, arms still crossed against his chest. He walked to the front window, pulled apart a slat of the drawn blinds, and spoke without turning around.
“You said you and Mr. Hilton were alone in his lodge around Tallahassee for two nights, right?”
“Yes,” Jessica answered.
“Had sex in a few different areas?”
Jessica’s face burned with blushing embarrassment.
“Yes. On the couch, the kitchen floor. The bed, obviously. And the shower.”
“Busy weekend.”
“I’m not proud of being unfaithful, Mr. Cole. Not proud in the least.”
“Unprotected?” Derek asked, ignoring Jessica’s comments.
“What?”
“The sex: was it unprotected?”
“I hardly think that is important.” Jessica was boiling with embarrassment. Derek could almost feel the heat in the office pouring off her face.
“Did Mr. Hilton use a condom? Yes or no? Very simple question. You were there, right? You were with him in the lodge. Alone. Just the two of you. No other visitors. Had sex at least five times, based on your rundown of places you said you two had sex. You should know if she was using a rubber or not.”
Deathly Reminders: a Derek Cole Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 6) Page 7