“He wasn’t,” Jessica yelled, her voice trailing off at the end, giving way to emotion.
“Then we go to the lodge.” Derek turned away from the window and faced the trio of women in the office. “Funny thing happens when a man and a woman have unprotected sex: They leave evidence. No mater how damn hard they may try to keep things were they put them, drips, spills and gravity always win out. We find that evidence, date it with whatever the hell lab techs use to date bodily fluid with, and if those dates match the days you said you were with Brian Hilton having unprotected sex on his couch, in his kitchen, bed and shower, then Hilton will have some questions to answer.”
“And if we don’t find… any trace of evidence?” Jessica asked, back in control of her voice and emotions.
“I have a few other ideas.”
“And they would be?” Maryanne asked.
“Hopefully unimportant. No reason to discuss possibly unimportant ideas.” Derek pulled out his phone, checked the time. “I’m going to call Detective Gonzales. Ask her to meet us up at Hilton’s lodge. I want her and not Mathers to be there with us. Maryanne, I’m sure you need to do some lawyer stuff to make Hilton allow us to check out his lodge, so we’ll leave you to take care of those tasks. The sooner, the better. Tomorrow morning if at all possible.”
“I highly doubt a judge will move on my request that quickly,” Maryanne said.
“It’s quarter after four,” Derek said. “If you start the legal wheels turning now, and if you’re as good a lawyer as I believe you are, you’ll be able to pull something off. Tell the judge we need to collect possible bodily evidence that degrades quickly in this goddam heat. Tell the judge whatever the hell you want, just get us in that lodge as quickly as you can.”
“You know something we don’t?” Maryanne asked. “You seem to have an urgency.”
“Two things: One, fluids can be cleaned up. Two, this Hilton guy, he’s pretty rich, right?”
Jessica looked at Maryanne, then Derek, back to Maryanne before deciding the question was, after all, intended for her to answer.
“Very. Why?”
“Rich people don’t have any more rights in this country than do poor people, but they can afford to have those rights defended and protected while poor people can’t. If you’re telling the truth about being with him while your husband was being killed, the fact he’s denying the whole thing means he has something to hide. Meaning he was probably involved in your husband’s murder.”
Jessica stood straight up, fast as an arrow.
“That’s not true,” she demanded. “The only reason Brian denied being with me is because of his job. His position with FJ’s group. I can’t say that I’m happy at all about him denying everything, but I’m not surprised, either. FJ is a very powerful and very wealthy man. He can make things happen, and not only good things. I told you about how Sam responded when he heard about Craig Washburn. He never said he suspected FJ, but…just the way he looked when he heard Craig’s name.”
“So, you think Brian denied everything out of fear? Not only of losing his position but possibly his life as well?” Nikkie’s eyes darted between Jessica and Derek. He had suggested their first stop after getting Jessica out on bail would be at Brian Hilton’s home. But now he seemed to have changed gears. It wasn’t any doubts she harbored about Derek’s abilities, it was more her feeling Derek was running this investigation on his own. She made a mental note to approach the subject with him as soon as they were alone.
“I can’t say for sure,” Jessica said, her voice softer, more sullen. She sounded confused, struggling with competing thoughts.
“You might be right,” Derek said, causing Jessica to relax even more. Her body softened, seem to almost collapse in on itself. “But, you may be dead wrong.”
Just as Jessica’s face began to grow still, a sudden flash of terror raced across it.
“He borrowed my gun!” she said. “He borrowed my gun.”
Chapter 11
Maryanne Jenkins demanded to be told everything. Every last detail. But she agreed with Derek and stayed behind in her office while Derek, Nikkie and Jessica went to Gulf Coast restaurant for drinks and an early dinner.
“I’ll make some calls,” Maryanne said. “See about getting a warrant to inspect Hilton’s cabin. But, y’all had better assure me you’ll tell me everything you three discuss. Jessica,” she said, ignoring Derek and Nikkie, “you come up with any other memories about your weekend with Mr. Hilton, and you call me straight away. You hear me?”
“Yes,” Jessica answered. “Of course.”
“That little gem about him borrowing your gun is a hell of a thing to have left out of your alibi.”
“I know. I…I didn’t think anything of it at the time. It was stupid of me.”
“It may be enough to persuade the judge to get us into that lodge, right quick.”
The first thing Maryanne did after waiting a full sixty-seconds after the three had left her office, was to stand up. Her legs still felt stronger than they had yesterday, but the chilled trace running up the backs of her legs and arms hadn’t warmed, despite the outside temps hovering in the mid-nineties. She stood, felt lightheaded enough that she needed to brace herself against he desk. But she didn’t fall. She felt strong enough to walk around, and did so without any struggle. Still, that cold feeling! Icy and so confined. It felt like just one of her veins in each leg and in each arm was filled with frigid water. It wasn’t spreading, yet.
She had read about how some ALS patients felt pins and needles across their limbs, even on days when they were able to get around fine. She read about one patient—a dentist from Oregon, if she remembered correctly—complaining about feeling like his limbs were fluid, lacking form and substance. He had said there were times when he would have sworn he felt waves rippling up and down his limbs, like they were tidal rivers.
But she couldn’t recall reading anyone presenting with the feeling of ice water in her veins.
“Maybe the docs got it all wrong,” she thought. “Maybe old Iron Lou isn’t coming to take me away, after all.” But she knew. And she knew what she was doing in her thoughts: “I’m just running through the stages. What’s this one? Denial? Anger? Sure as hell isn’t acceptance. That’s a long way off for this Southern girl.”
There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation between the three for the first hour or so. Small talk, mostly. About how Jessica met Sam and what things they enjoyed doing as a couple. About the positions he held and the type of work he did prior to being “made” a member with the FJ DeNuzzio Company. They danced around talking about Brian Hilton, the affair Jessica had with him and the probability, or possibility, their secret affaire de cœur had been discovered. But eventually, the reasons for them all being together overwhelmed whatever uncomfortableness they felt sitting down for dinner and drinks.
“You and Brian Hilton, how long?”
“A little over a year. Closer to a year and a half.”
“See each other a lot during those twelve, closer to eighteen, months?”
“Not at first,” Jessica said. “Maybe once or twice over the first couple of months. More often after we started thinking we were covering our tracks pretty well. Sam never suspected anything and all seemed to be going well for Brian at work. Better than okay, actually. He and Sam never told me much of anything about their work, but I could tell things were going really well for Brian. Just the way he carried himself. He was so confident.”
“After the first few months, were you and Brian careful about your rendezvous?”
“We were as careful as we could be,” Jessica said, her voice low, her eyes glazing over with mist. “I mean, as careful as we could have been, I suppose. Guess we could have made mistakes. Why does it matter?”
“Leverage,” Derek answered. “Is there anyone in the FJ group who might better their position if Brian’s and your affair was made public?”
Jessica paused a beat, seeming to consider Derek’s que
stion. Then she softly shook her head.
“No one I can think of, but, again, I suppose it’s possible.” She took a deep breath in before continuing. “There’re eight people in the company, but I couldn’t tell you more than four names. Brian, Sam, FJ and Martin.” She let out a gruff of a laugh. “Hell, I don’t even know Martin’s last name.”
“All men?” Nikkie asked. “Any women on the team?”
“Distractions. I never heard FJ come right out and say it, but I’ve heard him say, the few times I actually was in the same room with him and listened to him speak, that a significant part of his duties to the company are to ensure all members are fiercely self-driven, loyal to the company’s objectives, dedicated to the success of all members and do not present any form of, how did he say it? ‘Distraction, temptation or an attractive pull away from the business initiatives.’ Some BS like that, anyway. So, no, there aren’t any women members. FJ has a female assistant, as do most of the other members. Support staff. No voice in the company. Only seen when a new member is made.”
“I still think ‘made’ is a strange choice of a word to use, don’t you think?” Nikkie asked as Derek worked at his scotch in contemplative sips. “It’s a mafia term.”
“I thought the same thing, actually. I remember asking Sam what the hell kind of company he was joining. He just laughed at me. Said being ‘made’ had nothing to do with the mafia or organized crime or anything illegal at all. He said being ‘made’ had everything to do with becoming an entirely different businessman.” Sounded like some cult-crap, if you ask me. But, it makes sense, being called ‘made.’”
“How so?”
“Some people say they’ve made it big when they reach a certain point in their careers. For the FJ Company, just being part of the company is reaching that point. They become ‘made’.”
“And the one who makes you, also owns you,” Derek said. “Like the mob.”
Jessica considered Derek for several long seconds, appraising him, perhaps challenging him with her sturdy, confident glare.
“FJ absolutely had control over the other seven, no doubt about it. Again, I only heard him speak three times during new partner receptions, but I could tell he ran a very tight ship. Each time he spoke about the importance of ‘moral character,’ about ‘the unforgivable act of a weakened commitment to integrity.’ Remember that old commercial? The one about the brokerage house, EF Hutton?”
“Can’t say that I do,” Nikkie said.
“Maybe a bit before your time,” Jessica said. “Anyway, in the commercial, a bunch of men in stuffy shirts would be sitting around, gabbing about whatever stuffy shirts talk about, but as soon as the EF Hutton character said a word, the entire place went dead silent. The tag line was, ‘When EF Hutton talks, people listen.’ Same thing with FJ. When he cleared his throat, everyone would shut up, in case he was about to say something.”
“Does sound a bit like a cult,” Nikkie added. “Either that or this FJ guy has the biggest ego in the world.”
“And the power and authority to back it up,” Derek said. “If we wanted to speak with FJ, how would we…”
“Forget it,” Jessica said, waving her hand dismissively. “FJ is almost a recluse. Doesn’t see people. Lives in a beautiful home on Anna Maria Island. Right on the Gulf. Must be worth at least ten million. He has an office in Tampa, but it’s not the type of office you can walk into, ask to see the boss, then wait in the reception area till the boss can see you.”
“But he does see people?” Derek questioned. “He has an office. Must go there from time to time. No sense having an office unless you need a place to meet with others.”
“Recluse was too strong a word. Maybe, too nice a word. The thing is, FJ wouldn’t see someone like you, Derek. Nothing personal.”
“A person like me? Meaning an investigator?”
“Meaning not wealthy. Meaning having little to no influence over the way things get done in the business and political worlds. I’m sorry if that offends you. It’s just FJ is very selective about who he spends his time with.”
“Takes a lot more than being told I’m not rich or influential to offend me.”
“I’m glad I didn’t offend you. Really, I am.”
“Will FJ see you? If you scheduled an appointment? Go through the right channels? You’re wealthy. Influential.”
“And also a suspect in the murder of one of his ‘made’ employees.” Jessica shook her head then took a long draw from her martini. “He wouldn’t see me even if all this hadn’t happened. I’m only wealthy and influential because I was married to Sam. Now,” she let out a quick laugh, “I’m about as influential as the character who plays Ronald McDonald is to the Academy Awards.”
“You lost a lot when Sam died,” Nikkie said, her voice soft, dripping with true compassion. “More than just your husband.”
Jessica held her soft brown eyes on Nikkie’s dark brown eyes. A small amount of liquid was building up in Jessica’s eyes. Small but growing. It was really the first time Nikkie looked closely at Jessica. Though the lighting in the restaurant wasn’t brilliant, it was brighter than what was in the visitor’s area of the jail and much softer than the harsh lighting in Maryanne’s office.
Jessica was in her early forties. Thin with what were certainly medically enhanced breasts. The lack of any discernible lines across her forehead or around her eyes, suggested Botox and in frequent use. Recent use, as well. Despite Nikkie’s feelings about plastic surgery, she considered Jessica to be quite beautiful. Her brown hair reached a bit lower than her shoulders and found a way to shine even in the less than brilliant lighting of the restaurant. It was clear Jessica spent time in a gym: Her arms were toned, midsection flat and her chin still held the shape of that of a twenty year old.
There was something about her face, the soft cheekbones, the pouty lips and the near perfectly shaped nose, which really set Jessica Gracers out from the crowd. If lined up among super models, she might not be the woman who draws the eyes and attentions of onlookers. But among virtually any other crowd, Jessica would demand an awful lot of attention.
“I haven’t even begun to think about what I’ve lost,” Jessica said. “I mean, right now, I hate myself because I’m more worried about what might happen to me than I am about poor Sam. I’m more angry and confused at Brian than sad about losing my husband.” She paused, looked at Derek, then back at Nikkie. “I know what you must think of me. Poor, rich white girl couldn’t be happy with her adoring, rich husband. Runs out and has an affair. Shallow, pretentious, conceited woman, always getting her way and doing whatever feels right in the moment.”
Derek’s face remained stoic. If he agreed or disagreed with what Jessica had said, his face wasn’t showing it.
“But that’s not who I am. Who I am, really. Yes, I cheated on Sam, and I can give you a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t have and a thousand more about why I should feel terrible about what I’ve done. But I loved Brian. I still love Brian. My marriage to Sam was loveless. It wasn’t always that way. But over the last five or six years, especially since he joined FJ’s company, he and I were more strangers than partners.”
Nikkie grinned a little, and then leaned back against her chair. Jessica’s face clenched a bit, Derek could see the ripples of her jaw muscles beneath her flawless, smooth skin.
“I didn’t tell you that Sam and I had grown apart to justify my affair,” Jessica said in a tight, controlled voice. “I know how it must sound and I know how you must feel about me.”
“Actually,” Derek said, “you have no idea. And it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is whether or not we believe you’re innocent or guilty. I couldn’t care less if you slept with kangaroos. All I care about is your innocence or guilt. That and your ability to pay our fees. That’s all.”
“Well?” Jessica responded without missing a beat. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” Derek said.
“Think I’m guilty? Do you think I made up t
he whole story about being with Brian in his lodge up north? Do you think I shot and killed my husband? Do you think I’m guilty, Mr. Cole. Yes or no?”
“I think you’re guilty of a lot of things. Bad judgment. Questionable character. A healthy dose of being a spoiled, rich, white lady. But you didn’t kill your husband. Not with your own hands, at least.”
“Are you suggesting I played a role in Sam’s murder?”
Derek could tell Jessica was offended. More than offended. She was pissed right off. Insulted, infuriated, and a few other harsh adjectives that wouldn’t pop up into his mind as he sat across the oval table from Jessica Gracers.
“You may have not pulled the trigger and you probably had nothing to do with the planning or execution of his murder. But you killed your husband, Mrs. Gracers. That’s for damn sure.”
Chapter 12
Derek was quiet as he drove back to the hotel. Nikkie was sitting next to him, legs crossed, arms crossed and a cross look on her face to complete the ensemble. She assumed he would explain his comment about Jessica killing her husband.
She was wrong.
She assumed Derek would talk about his feelings, thoughts and ideas about the case.
She was wrong.
She also assumed he would apologize for keeping her largely in the dark about how he was running the case. She knew it was his name in bold type on the business cards, that Derek Cole and Associates was, after all, his agency and he should be able to run things as he saw fit. But she was never one to take a backseat. She was good, damn good in fact, at private investigating and felt she was more than deserving of being included into each and every step of any investigation.
She sat, crossed up and down, for most of the fifteen-minute drive from the restaurant to their hotel. When the lighted sign for their hotel was in view, she ended her vigil waiting for Derek to start talking.
Deathly Reminders: a Derek Cole Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 6) Page 8