But his boots were damn good for kicking someone in the head and sending that person into an unconscious state. Damn good for that.
“Are you absolutely positive on the ID? Nikkie Armani? Are you sure?”
Maryanne, after refusing the detective’s offer to call an ambulance for her, had, with the help of those same detectives, made her way out of her bedroom and into her kitchen. She was sitting at her small, ovular dining table, drinking a tall glass of water.
“Hundred percent, Miss Jenkins. Her partner found her in your office. Armani was dead when we arrived. Not sure if he arrived before she died or not, but, he confirmed her identity.”
“Oh my God,” Maryanne said.
“What we want to know, is…”
“…Is why Nikkie Armani was in my office that time of night. Why was she there, what was she looking for and who else was there with her. Am I right?”
“Spot on.”
Maryanne dropped her head. She had enough strength in her arms to raise the glass of water to her lips. Took a short sip then placed the glass back on the table.
“I can tell you why I believe she was there, and I can tell you what she was probably looking for,” she said in a shaky voice. “But, you need to get the person who killed her before it’s too late.”
“You have anything to do with Nikkie Armani’s death, Miss Jenkins? You have to know we’re here to find that out.”
“Look at me,” Maryanne said. “You think I could have killed anyone in my condition? Look at me.”
“We see you now. Didn’t see how you were last night.”
“Last night, I was putting on a goddamn diaper because I knew I wouldn’t be able to get my ass out of bed when nature called. You’re wasting time. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I’ll tell you everything, just get someone to go arrest Nikkie’s murderer. Same damn person who killed Sam Gracers, too. I’ll guarantee that.”
The detectives gave each other a long look. One nodded his head. Sat down next to Maryanne, and said, “Okay, you answer our questions, and we’ll get a squad car rolling to wherever this person you think murdered Armani and Gracers is.”
“Good enough,” Maryanne said.
“Who should I tell them to pick up, Miss Jenkins?”
Jessica checked the time on her watch. Took a long draw of her coffee. Placed the empty mug in the sink, rinsed it out, dried her hands, then checked the time again.
“If they only give me four hours of time outside this godforsaken house, I’d better get moving.”
She grabbed her purse off the breakfast table and headed towards the garage. She paused, hand on the doorknob of the garage entry door. Thought about running back upstairs, going into her master bathroom and retrieving something from her medicine cabinet. She pulled the door open, then paused again when an idea struck her. A small smile played across her lips as the thought spawned an idea. She dropped her purse to the floor, turned and trotted through her house, up the stairs and into the en suite off her master bedroom. She retrieved a tall bottle of medicine from the cabinet, took out one pill and slid it into her front pocket. She glanced at her watch again, then hurried back to the garage.
She pulled the door open, reached her hand up to the right side of the door jam and pressed the button to open the garage door. She checked her watch one more time before starting up her car.
“Plenty of time,” she thought as she backed her car out of the garage.
Chapter 39
Julia Steinberg was never a fan of early mornings. For her, reasonable people woke at a reasonable hour and started their workdays a reasonable couple of hours after rolling out of bed. When Julia was first offered an associate’s position from a law firm in Orlando, Florida, her workday began no later than eight in the morning, every day. To her, eight was foolish. What was more foolish were the looks she had received and the whispered comments she overheard the first day with the firm. She strolled in a few clock ticks before eight, only to find the other thirteen associates, five partners and an unidentifiable number of office workers, already two cups of coffee deep into their day. Seven o’clock, it seemed, was the actual expected start time. Six if you had any hopes, or chance, of moving from associate to partner.
Julia worked with that firm for nine months before accepting a position with another Orlando-based firm. Though her career path wasn’t as optimistic with the new firm, she was hired to provide legal services to west coast based clients who conducted business in the eastern part of the United States. Seeing no need to arrive at her office before her clients had even punched in the security codes to their offices, Julia started her workdays no earlier than nine in the morning.
It was the classic nine-to-five most white-collar professionals crave.
But she went above and beyond, often staying till seven in the evening. She didn’t have anyone to go home to; no kids, no husband, no significant other, so putting in a few extra hours meant nothing to hear.
But they meant an awful lot to the firm’s partners.
Julia was offered full-partner status three years after she had joined the firm and was soon after asked to run the Tampa-based office. Her main task in the Tampa office was building relationships with local authorities, high-powered business owners and local politicians. Five years (and zero work days which began earlier than nine-thirty) later, Julia ran for and was elected to the District Attorney’s office.
Perfect. Late mornings, early evenings and a slew of aggressive assistant DA’s, all desperate to make a name for themselves.
As DA, Julia worked a total of forty-three cases over her five-year term and spent more time forming important relationships with important people than sitting behind her desk, shuffling papers and staring at the clock. She was fine knowing she was better at politicking than providing legal council and was more excited about expanding her political career than her legal career.
But when her phone rang at five-twenty that morning, and after hearing the voice of Walter Wiggins welcoming her to a very early start of a brand new and exciting day, Julia wondered how many more early morning calls she’d be receiving after she stepped away from the quiet life of a DA and into the hectic life of a US Congresswoman.
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Wiggins said, sarcasm dripping from his words. “I have a call with DeNuzzio today at nine and need to give him an update on a few matters. Your head clear enough to fill in a few blanks for me?”
Julia pushed herself upright, swung her legs off the bed, rubbed her eyes vigorously before responding.
“Absolutely. Of course. Anything you and Mr. DeNuzzio need. I hope you both know that by now.”
Truth was, she couldn’t care less what FJ DeNuzzio and Congressman Wiggins wanted. All she cared about was Wiggins’ endorsement and DeNuzzio to come through on his promise to fund her campaign and to uncover, or create, enough dirt about her opponent as the public could swallow.
“That’s our girl,” Wiggins said. “First things first, we need to understand your logic behind letting Jessica Gracers out on bail again. You understand the timeline of things, don’t ya?”
“Too much exposure keeping her locked up,” Julia answered, cautiously. When it came to legal matters, she knew she was on unfamiliar ground. This in spite of her law degree from FSU and her years of experience. “Thought we had her ambulance-chaser of a lawyer under control, but she filed a damn compelling writ in support of getting her client released. Couldn’t ignore it.”
“You could have delayed it, though. Should have ignored it for another day or two. Timeline, Miss Steinberg. Remember the timeline?”
Julia shook the remaining cobwebs from her mind.
“I…I know. I can retract the bail. Pretty sure I can have one of the DA assistants…”
“Too late for that, Julia. Talk about exposure! No, this call is not intended to provide instructions, but rather to remind you of your obligations to Mr. DeNuzzio. To me as well, come to think about it.”
�
�What would you have me do?” Julia asked, more fearful of the answer she might receive than in whatever task she might be asked to complete.
“There was a murder last night, or so I’ve learned. That pesky private investigator Jessica Gracers hired. His assistant. I believe you met with her in your office earlier this week. Nikkie Armani. Name ring a bell?”
“Yes. I didn’t say hardly five words to her.”
“And no one is suggesting you did. However, she is dead. Murdered in Maryanne Jenkins’ horrible little office. Jenkins, you may recall, does possess a certain amount of information. Information, should it be leaked, which would severely damage reputations, along with any hope you are certainly holding for a position on Capitol Hill.”
“Did Jenkins kill Armani?”
“You did,” Wiggins said, his voice frigid. “At least, that’s what will be floated around the area in the form of rumors should Jenkins be allowed to speak.” Wiggins paused several beats. He wanted Julia to fully absorb the severity of the situation. “Authorities have already been dispatched to Jenkins’ home and have certainly begun questioning her. Those questions must cease immediately, but me making a call to whoever is in charge of the police department would not serve our purpose.”
“You need me to make sure Jenkins isn’t questioned about the murder in her office? You need me to make sure she doesn’t start spilling her secrets?”
“I’m sure you can see the ramifications of her doing so. Imagine, an ill, past-her-prime attorney, seeing what she must consider to be a horrible injustice having been committed, might be willing to share with interested ears. That cannot be allowed to happen. Make the call, interrupt any investigation, immediately.”
“I’ll make the call right away.”
Wiggins laughed a bit, and said, “Do take a moment or two and pray Jenkins hasn’t said a word. Pray fiercely Miss Steinberg.”
Chapter 40
Derek spotted him right away. Small framed man, mid to late fifties. Short, grey hair, dark-rimmed glasses. Walked swiftly and without any demonstrated effort. Slight smile revealing either contentment or the birth of a plan.
FJ was walking towards the point of the beach where the bay ended and the Atlantic began. He was wearing a brilliantly white shirt, pressed shorts, white and grey sneakers. No socks. Had an expensive looking watch on his right wrist.
As FJ drew closer, Derek, who was sitting just in front of the tall dune grass, walked directly towards him. Derek noticed the moment FJ recognized his approach. Saw him lift his head an almost imperceptible inch. Watched FJ’s eyes glance quickly to the dune grass.
“He’s not in any position to help you, FJ. Won’t be for a while.”
FJ kept walking. Didn’t increase his pace, nor slow down. Even when Derek pulled his hand out from his pocket enough to show his gun’s grip, FJ walked on. Either FJ had another hired thug keeping watch or truly was a man who lived without fear.
“You think you can get away with whatever you want, don’t you?”
“Apparently,” FJ said, his voice higher than Derek expected and as gravely as Detective Gonzales suggested it would be, “since I have no interest in being anywhere near you, yet, here you are, then it’s apparent I can’t get away with anything I want. Do you plan on using that gun in your hand or just trying to intimidate me?”
“That all depends,” Derek said as he now kept pace with FJ DeNuzzio.
“Depends on what?”
“On how this conversation turns out. On whether you’re an asshole or not.”
FJ sounded a laugh that lived less than one second.
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be an asshole.” FJ pointed a thumb towards the dune grass. “I pay that man a lot of money to keep people like you away from me. A lot of money. The research I did on him suggested he was one of the best. How did you get the drop on him?”
“Walked right up to him. Kicked him right between the eyes. Tied him up with his bootlaces. Took less than ten seconds.”
“Impressive,” FJ said. “If you don’t kill me, we should talk about you working for me. I could use someone like you.”
“How much of Sam Gracers’ money are you expecting to steal?”
“Steal?” FJ said. “Last thing I stole was a bag of licorice when I was eight years old. My father caught me. Made me return the licorice; pay the shopkeeper twice what the bag would have cost me had I paid for it. Had to volunteer to sweep the store’s floors everyday for three weeks after dinner. Had to walk from home to the shop every damn evening. Three miles, each way. That’s the last time I ever stole anything in my life. You planning on telling me who the hell you are?”
“You already know who I am,” Derek replied. “Knew who I was and all about me four days ago when I arrived in town. Knew about my partner, too.”
“Let us dispense of the games you are suggesting. Correct?”
“So, how much? How much will you, as Sam Gracers’ alternate power of attorney walk away with?”
“You know anything about life insurance, Derek? Mind if I call you Derek?”
“I know it pays when people die, and I don’t give a shit what you call me.”
“How about key person insurance, Derek? Know anything about it?”
“Probably could figure it out. The name says it all, right?”
“I take out a key person policy on every one of my partners. They all do the same as well. I’m sure you know by now there are eight people in my corporation. Each of us eight takes out a key person policy on the other seven partners. Tough as hell at first to get through underwriting, but, the policies are in place. If a partner dies, the key person policy pays out to each surviving partner. Sort of to make up for the inevitable loss in revenues and profit. Every one of us is a key person in my company, Derek. Every one of us.”
“You must be doing all right with two key persons dying in a week. Must be doing damn well.”
“Not at all. You think a five million dollar life policy can even come close to making up for what the partnership has and will lose after Sam’s and Brian’s deaths?”
“So you and the other partners all get an easy ten million because Sam and Brian were murdered? Sounds like I’d be watching my back if I were you.”
FJ stopped, dead in his tracks. Looked Derek straight in the eye.
“You’re not me, Derek. Not even close.”
By the time Maryanne Jenkins had finished, the two detectives were hustling out through her front door. Both had their cell phones pressed to their ears, barking out orders or filling in their superior officers. One of the detectives paused, turned around to face Maryanne. He motioned to his partner, the other detective in Maryanne’s house, to hold up a minute.
“That was my captain who just called me,” he said directly to Maryanne. “Told me to stop questioning you. He told me you’ve already been cleared of the crime and should not, in any way, be considered a suspect in this murder.” The detective gave a long, hard glance at Maryanne. “My captain asked me if you told us anything yet. Asked if you had said anything about people you believe may have been behind the murder.”
“And what did you tell your captain?” Maryanne asked.
“I told him you hadn’t said a damn thing. And that’s exactly what I’m going to tell my partner in a second. I’m going to tell my partner to not investigate anything you suggested we should investigate,” he said directly to his partner who was staring at him, his face screwed with confusion. “But I’m not going to tell him to forget what you told us. And I won’t forget a word you said, either.”
“So, what are you planning on doing?”
“Don’t know, yet, honestly. But we’re keeping a deputy stationed right outside your front door. Don’t even think of trying to leave.”
Maryanne looked down at her legs, knowing they were still attached to her body, but terrified over her inability to stop the icy chills racing through them.
“Where in the world could I go?”
“You nee
d us to call someone for you?” the detective asked.
“I’ll make my own calls, thank you. You need to get your ass in gear, detective.”
He turned, closed the door behind him, and left Maryanne alone with Iron Lou.
“What a way to go,” she thought. “What a damn shame way to go.”
Jessica Gracers kept a close eye on her car’s dashboard clock. She knew she only had four hours to get everything she needed to do accomplished. Not that a deputy would be knocking at her front door exactly four hours and one-second after she had left her home, but, still, four hours was four hours. For Jessica, that arbitrary time became a personal challenge to her.
“Earn one hundred and eighty-five million dollars in less than four hours.”
She had everything in place to meet the challenge. In fact, she really didn’t need to do anything at all. Just spend four hours outside her home, make two phone calls, spend ten minutes on the Internet and fulfill the last promise she had made to someone she hardly knew at all. And if a deputy did knock on her door four hours and one-second after she started this trip, no one would be there to answer.
Her decision to race back up the stairs and grab what she needed from the medicine cabinet was the only thing she could possibly imagine wanting from the house which saw her husband murdered. And that one item was tucked safely into her pocket.
Chapter 41
“Ten million in life insurance probably doesn’t hold a candle to what you’re expecting to get out of Sam’s accounts. Have to believe his wife is the primary power of attorney, meaning after five days, she gets first crack at the funds.”
“Unless my calendar is inaccurate, today would be that sixth day,” FJ responded with a smile.
The two walked a bit over two miles, according to Derek’s internal gauge of distance, when FJ stopped, turned around as would a marching serviceman in a military parade, then began walking back in the opposite direction.
Deathly Reminders: a Derek Cole Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 6) Page 24