by Jenna Kernan
“Does anyone actually do nightcaps anymore?” she asked, already in his entryway.
Molly, freed from the leash, tore off into the living room. Nadine heard the squeak of the toy the dog captured. Demko paused to remove his shield and unclip the holster from his belt. He placed both in his satchel on the high table in the entranceway.
“I don’t want you to head home. I’d feel better if you stayed here.”
That stopped Nadine. Their eyes met and she tried to gauge his intentions.
He quickly told her that he had three bedrooms.
“One is a home office, but the other is all set up for guests, with two twin beds. My son uses that room when he visits. He’s seven. My ex didn’t want to move him away from his friends and his school. It’s a great neighborhood.” There was no difficulty in interpreting his expression. Demko didn’t like being so far from his son.
“Oh, I see.” She didn’t see, and she had so many more questions, including why he divorced, when he saw his son, how often he drove to Miami, did she divorce him because of the evidence tampering, and did he still love his wife?
“Would you rather go back to your place?” he asked.
Nadine’s stomach tightened at the thought. She had delayed facing this all evening.
Nadine shook her head. “I don’t. But I could stay in a hotel.”
“Of course. But my guest bedroom’s all set up with clean sheets. I have fresh towels. And I make great pancakes.”
She hesitated.
“I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
Nadine had had a terrible day all around. She had not even had time to process her visit and her mother’s crazy exit between two guards.
Demko had lied about his reason for his visit to the prison. She was certain of that. Her concern over that dishonesty pushed against her wish to know him better. After all, she’d lied, too.
She probably should go to a hotel. But she didn’t move toward the door. Instead, she stepped forward into his living room.
Nadine lived alone and did not let others in. It kept her safe. It kept her isolated and afraid. She was sick of it.
Wasn’t it past time to build relationships? She could do this. But what she said was “I’m not sure.”
Nadine found her stomach quivering with a new emotion that could only be anticipation. She stood before him, her fingers laced and busy twisting back and forth.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Let me show you the guest room and guest bath. Then we can come back here and have a drink.”
He proceeded with her down the hall.
The guest bedroom had “boy” written all over it. Posters of unfamiliar animated warriors filled the space, presumably from some video game.
The curtains matched the bedspread and pillowcases. All had a pattern of gaping sharks. A large stuffed shark basked on one bed and a red stuffed octopus coiled on the other.
“My boy loves the ocean. And he’s fascinated with sharks.”
“Sharks and dinosaurs. Seems to grab all children at a certain age.”
They toured the bathroom next. It was, thankfully, not adorned with sharks, and spotless.
“You have a very nice home.”
They headed back to the living room, and Demko went to retrieve the promised drinks. She followed him to the kitchen, thinking it a safer spot to chat.
Nadine sat on a high stool at the counter as Demko opened a bottle of white wine and poured Chardonnay for her. Then he retrieved a beer from his nearly empty fridge, which he poured into a pub-style glass.
He leaned against the surface as they talked. Conversation was easier than she had hoped. She was comfortable with him in a way that did not make sense for the brief time they had known each other. It gave her hope. Hope that she could be normal.
Her mood dampened when she remembered again that he had probably lied about why he was visiting the federal prison. She lifted her glass, knowing that she had many questions about Detective Clint Demko.
Relationships took time and everyone had secrets. What she wanted was to find someone with ordinary, boring, benign secrets. Her gaze flicked to his handsome face.
This man made her feel safe, but was that because she thought him equal to the task of protecting her or because he was dangerous?
She didn’t know. But she was staying, at least until she had some answers.
“Anything new on the case?” she asked.
He drew in a long breath, eyes cast to the ceiling.
“I closed the crime scene. I’ve interviewed coworkers and family and got not one single lead. Nothing from the labs yet on items found on Lido’s South Park. They are slow as a summer’s day, and I don’t have the budget for a faster turnaround. Photographs are all uploaded, and we’ve released the bodies.” He wiped his mouth with a broad hand. “Timeline is tricky because of the tides, have to leave some of it as best guess. Man, I hate that.”
Death investigations were complicated at the best of times.
“Is the press pressuring you?”
“No. I’m getting heat from my lieutenant, who gets it from the chief and the mayor. When the press learned it’s a homicide, they want a suspect in custody. Bodies on the beach are bad for business.”
“That should be on a bumper sticker,” she said.
He cast her a warm smile. “Would you like more wine?”
Nadine lifted her glass in response.
He poured her more than a generous glass and she had nearly finished the last already. Then he lifted those bewitching eyes. He leaned in. She knew it was coming and knew how much she wanted to feel his mouth on hers. She didn’t stop him. His lips were firm and warm. He cradled the back of her head and deepened the kiss. Her body quickened to his touch, unconcerned, it seemed, for the inconsistencies that troubled her mind. He tasted of hops and citrus. She closed her eyes as she savored the thrilling glide of his tongue on hers and struggled with the need to touch bare skin.
She pictured him naked and wondered if she was willing to ignore the warning signs just to have him.
Yes, definitely.
He drew back. His hair was tousled from where her fingers raked through.
“Wow.”
She smiled.
“Would you like to sit in the living room?”
She would like to sit on his lap. His couch was out there, that big soft supple brown leather. And just down the hall, she imagined, he had a king-sized bed.
Sometimes you realized you were about to make a mistake and you did it, anyway.
Demko offered his hand and led the way. They settled side by side and the cushion sagged under his weight, tipping her toward him. She lifted her glass to keep from spilling.
“Oops,” she said, falling against him, but miraculously not spilling a drop.
His body was firm and warm. She pushed herself upright and sipped her wine. Demko set his beer on a coaster and waited. She made him, keeping the glass up and gazing at him over the rim. Finally she offered him her drink and he placed it on the table. He slipped an arm around her waist and pressed her into the backrest. In his arms, she came alive, the need building with each caress.
When they surfaced for air, Nadine was certain that they had something here. Was it simple chemistry? But how much could they share beyond need if she didn’t really know him at all, and if she wouldn’t let him know her?
Perhaps attraction was a start. In time, the rest might follow.
She told herself not to overthink. This was good. A beginning. She was making a connection here. That was something.
He tugged at his shirt, lifting the Kevlar vest off his shoulders momentarily, and making a face. How hot and uncomfortable did it have to be wearing that all day?
“I’ll be right back,” he said, standing.
Molly followed him as he headed toward his bedroom and Nadine considered doing the same. She also considered leaving but disregarded both options and instead took another sip of wine.
Nadin
e glanced around the big empty living room. He had electronics, but no artwork on the walls. There were no knick-knacks, no color. His world was as bleak and lonely as hers. He was here, in this strange place, without his son.
Molly returned first. She had something in her mouth. Too small for a shoe.
“Come here, Molly,” she cooed, and set aside her wine.
Molly did and then lowered her head and shoulders to the carpet dropping her prize. A brown wallet, already showing a puncture in the leather and a damp slobber stain.
Nadine made a grab for the billfold, but Molly was quicker, snatching it up. Nadine got a hold of the flopping half and pulled. Molly tugged, enjoying the game.
“Drop it,” she said, and, much to her surprise, the dog did, but cards and cash spilled from the main opening. Molly made another grab for her prize.
“No, Molly! Where’s your squeaky?”
The dog bounded off as Nadine scrambled to gather the contents and place them on the table. She laid out the money first and the condom. Lubricated. How nice.
It wasn’t the sort of wallet that had spots for photos. But his son’s picture was there, bent on the corner. It was a school photo with a background of the colorful fall foliage you just didn’t see in Florida, ever. His boy had his father’s stunning blue eyes and someone else’s dark brown hair. It was too early to see if he would have his father’s square chin or the interesting bump at the bridge of his nose. She slid the photo back into place and noticed the folded sheet of paper on the floor. It was a newspaper article, clipped, discolored, and worn on the fold lines, now open like a tent. The headline popped out at her.
Valerie Nix Sentenced to Life for Ordering Husband’s Murder.
Nadine carefully picked it up and scanned the article, which detailed the conviction of a murderous mother-and-son duo. Her breathing rate sped as she read about Valerie Nix, convicted of masterminding a plan to collect 2.4 million dollars in insurance money by the murder of her podiatrist husband. Her eldest son, from a former marriage, carried out the hit. Connor Nesbitt, age twenty-four. He entered his stepfather’s medical offices via an unlocked rear entrance, wearing a latex Halloween mask and carrying a loaded shotgun. Patients in the waiting room heard Dr. Nix say, “Connor? Is that you?” followed by a shotgun blast.
Paramedics pronounced Dr. Alan Nix dead at the scene. His stepson, Connor, was arrested the same day. His mother denied knowledge of the plot but was later taken into custody as her story began to unravel. The article mentioned that the murdered podiatrist and his wife had two other children, Caleb Nix and Caroline Nix, ages nine and seven at the time of the writing of this article.
Was this a case Demko had solved?
She flicked her gaze to the top of the page. There, someone had written the date of the paper in blue ink. It read: 3/19/1999.
Nadine stared at the article as if she had found a suicide note. Then she pounded the newsprint with her fist.
“No!” The denial was there, but it didn’t stick.
The fuzzy warmth, generated from both the company and the wine, drained away in the harsh slap from reality.
Why did he carry this? She did the math, subtracting her best guess at his age from the date written on the top and realized the younger son would be somewhere in his early thirties now. She swallowed back the sour taste in her mouth as possibilities rose in her mind, snakes in the garden.
Could Clint Demko be Caleb Nix? Even as she thought this, she took the next logical step. If true, the reason for the detective’s visit to federal prison was clear. The maximum-security facility held women, convicted felons, some on death row. The article said that police arrested Valerie Nix. And she had three children in 1999.
Nadine had her phone out and was searching the web for Caleb Nix.
“Please, oh please…” What was she even asking for? She didn’t know, but she hoped that she was wrong.
Up popped several relevant results. She scrolled and chose a link to an article written seven months after the one in Demko’s wallet.
Then she scanned, listening for his return.
Caleb and Caroline Nix, the children of Dr. Alan and Valerie Nix, were in court today.
There was a photo of a woman, identified as the siblings’ aunt, Melissa Demko of Miami, Florida, leading the children from the Jacksonville courthouse.
The murdered husband’s sister, she supposed.
Nadine studied the photo. The boy had light hair and stared right at the camera. He had one hand on his younger sister’s shoulder, guiding her along. The boy’s face, younger, rounder and softer, was unmistakably Detective Demko at about age ten.
She tucked away her phone.
She needed to think. She shouldn’t jump to conclusions about their current case. Demko might be a victim here.
Except he had access to law enforcement databases, to her property and to her.
Was he the one messing with her?
It would be easy to discover about her mother. Easy to learn her address, her work history, perhaps the documents that changed her legal name from Nadine Howler to Nadine Finch.
Simple to break into her place after she drove away.
And his response time to her home invasion bordered on an Olympic record. Unless he already knew.
Had he raided her home just to get her here? Or worse, in order to get physical evidence from her?
Evidence tampering—she remembered what she’d heard and what he’d told her. Nadine’s gaze flicked to the wineglass beside the damp wallet, the one that had her prints all over it.
He had told her that he wasn’t responsible for planting that knife in that suspect’s car, but, really, she had only his word. The case had stalled. If he were a dirty cop, how far would he go to apprehend a suspect and restore his reputation?
Had he pinned the evidence tampering on a colleague? Was he about to pin these murders on her?
It was possible.
He’d moved here just before this case and gotten assigned to lead investigator.
Her mind made another leap. What if he were the killer, setting up a case he could solve? Ready to frame an innocent to be the hero.
Had he done this?
Nadine shivered at the thought.
She, Juliette and Clint all had mothers convicted of murder. She headed to the foyer, fumbling with the door locks as she heard the tap of footsteps. Too late to run.
She turned, spotting Demko’s satchel. In a moment, she gripped his pistol.
Nadine slipped off the safety, pointing the weapon down and to her side.
Demko stepped into the living room, his sports coat gone. He wore a different shirt. Nadine was certain he had removed his body armor.
Bad timing, she thought, gripping his pistol.
Thirteen
Speak of the devil
“Caleb? Caleb Nix?” Nadine asked.
Demko lifted a hand in Nadine’s direction. “I can explain.”
“Great. Do that.”
His gaze swept from the article on the table to Nadine’s hand gripping his gun.
“Nadine, put down the gun.”
She shook her head.
“Are you Caleb Nix?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s Melissa Demko?”
“My father’s older sister.”
“Why did you come here?” she asked.
“Put the gun down and we can talk about it.”
She didn’t.
Molly brought Nadine her toy, dropping it at her feet, silently asking her to take it, but Nadine kept her attention on the threat. The foyer was small, but if she stepped back, she could retrieve her purse and get him to unlock the door.
“Who is Valerie Nix?”
“My mother. Nadine, enough. Put down the weapon.”
“Oh, no. You do not get to tell me what to do. You weren’t up at Lowell Correctional for a parole hearing, were you?”
“I was visiting her.”
“She murdered your father.”<
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“No, she didn’t murder him. My half brother, Connor, did that.”
“But she had the plan. She talked him into it, didn’t she?”
“Dee-Dee! Get the trash to the curb, now!”
“You’re just like me, Dee-Dee.”
Was she? The opportunity stared her in the face. Such a handsome face.
“It’s you. Isn’t it?”
“It’s me, what? Nadine, whatever you think this is, we can talk about it. Just put down the weapon.”
“You’re the one who moved my furniture. Did you plant evidence in my house?”
“Nadine, I didn’t.”
She pointed with her left hand at the article on the table as Molly sat on Nadine’s foot.
“Don’t pretend. Both you and Juliette. Are you doing this together?”
“Juliette? Hartfield?” He shook his head, the perfect image of befuddlement.
His shoulders rose and fell as his hands hung limp at his sides. He did not look like a sociopath or psychopath with narcissistic tendencies. He just looked… confused.
“Just tell me the truth!” she shouted.
“I am telling you the truth, Nadine. Whatever you think I did. I did not frame anyone.”
That was his second noncontracted denial and, according to her psychology training, an indicator he lied.
“Do you know my birth name?”
He blinked. “What? Your birth name?”
He had repeated the question, using another technique of liars, giving him time to think. But was it also a technique used by a confused man facing a threat?
Either way, for the moment, she could not trust this man.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
“Tell you? About my mother? It’s not the kind of thing you talk about on a first date.” His voice turned sarcastic. “I’m a Pisces who likes motorcycles and long walks, and, oh, yeah, my mother’s serving life in prison for murder. Co-conspirator with my half brother. We’re not close, he and I.”
Co-conspirator. She had been that. Just like Connor. She had known what her mother was doing, taken out the evidence and destroyed it well after she had figured what was in those bags. But she’d been a minor. So, no charges. Still, she knew the truth.
