“The what?”
“Nothing, Becca. Mellow Mushroom, noon. Work for you both?” I asked.
They agreed, Olivia offering to pick me up, and I hung up the phone with at least one part of my life figured out. I stripped, piling my clothes in the middle of the floor, and turned on the jets of Brad’s shower, brushing my teeth as the room filled with steam. Then I stepped in and shut the door, losing myself in the gloriousness of hot water.
* * *
“TELL ME THIS isn’t about Brad.” Olivia had barely allowed me to get both feet in the car before she jumped on me, her tone that annoying level of nag.
“This isn’t about Brad,” I recited dutifully, digging through her glove box until I found a pair of sunglasses and sliding them on, checking my reflection in her mirror. “But I’m not telling you anything more till we get to lunch. Becca will hack me to pieces if I tell you what’s going on before I tell her.”
She glanced over, grinning at me, the open window whipping hair over her face. “You always tell me things before you tell Becca. Why change now?”
“I don’t always do that.” I searched my memory for a leg to stand on and, finding none, moved on. “This has jaw-dropping potential, and I don’t want your reaction to look fake. We all know your acting skills leave something to be desired.” I studiously avoided her gaze, opening my purse and digging around in it, needlessly organizing and reorganizing it until I felt the coast was clear. I sat back, glancing over at her, a small smile on her lips. Our eyes met and she rolled her eyes.
“I’m going to go easy on you because it’s obvious you are having a less than perfect week.” She reached over, turning up the radio, and I sat back, happy to avoid conversation, preparing myself for the interrogation that would meet me once they were both in front of me.
I came, I ate cheese pizza, I conquered and I left. Olivia dropped me off at my house, drunk on carbs and gossip, and I stumbled across the yard and through the front door, collapsing on the couch.
The girls had wrung every juicy detail out of me, save the juiciest of all—my walk down eavesdrop lane. They had different theories for Broward’s murderer, ranging from his secret gay lover to Sheila, in the study, with a revolver. I hadn’t uttered the Magiano name, visions of severed horse heads and smashed kneecaps floating above the Parmesan cheese in front of me. My brooding was noticed, and the girls did their jobs, turning the conversation toward men and shopping, and the second half of the lunch passed by in a sea of lighthearted chatter.
I stared up at the ceiling, feeling the weight in my stomach settle. Maybe the mob wasn’t involved. Maybe the detective was right, and I had imagined the conversation. But just to be safe, I was going to keep the information close to my chest and see what Detective Parks discovered.
Speaking of which...I sat up, my full stomach protesting, and reached down, grabbing my phone and flipping through my wallet, till I found the detective’s business card. I dialed his number and waited, stretching out on the couch and staring at the ceiling.
He didn’t answer, and I left a polite but firm message, giving my cell number and asking him to call me. I stewed, my eyes roaming the spiderwebbed corners of the ceiling, going back over the words I had heard that day, the tension in Broward’s voice. There was part of the conversation I couldn’t recall, some name that had slipped in before the Magiano bomb had been dropped. I pulled deep within, trying to grab the words that had passed through that door. A takeover that had gone well, a name—something that sounded like lasagna. I thought, scrunching up my forehead, and no doubt creating three new future wrinkles in the process. Ugh. It probably didn’t sound anything like lasagna. It was probably Smith, or Jenkins, or something that had no correlation to the crusty TV dinner box that sat in our kitchen trash.
I dragged myself to my feet, the weight of my current situation too great to handle without endorphins. Carbs certainly hadn’t helped; maybe running would clear my head.
The name came to me halfway through lacing up my tennis shoes, as clear and perfect as if it had been stamped on my Nikes. Genovese. Or Ginovase. Italian names always proved difficult, but Google straightened me out, and I stood in my room, spandex-clad, and scrolled through search results, trying to find anything on the turnover that would give credence to my Magiano hypothesis.
Bingo. Eighth result down, a news article dated nine months ago, TAKEOVER, all caps, in the title.
MAFIA FAMILY TAKEOVER, BLOODY FUED ERUPTS
Associated Press, March 16, USA TODAY
In one of the major Mafia restructures of this decade, longtime mob patriarch Vincent Genovese is dead, murdered in his home. Genovese, who has been the subject of a three-year multi-bureau investigation for money laundering and extortion, was found Tuesday morning by his wife, Maria Genovese. The victim was stabbed repeatedly in the chest and died from loss of blood. One anonymous source stated Lino Genovese, a cousin of Vincent, had been questioned by police. Lino, who has been slowly moving up in Genovese power circles, has reportedly taken over several family businesses in the last few months. The anonymous source confirmed that family strife due to Lino’s increased interest in their business ventures had grown to a breaking point. Police refused to comment on Genovese’s death or Lino’s involvement, stating that it was an ongoing investigation. As of press time, no suspect has been arrested.
* * *
HOT FUCK. BROWARD had stated that the Genovese takeover had gone well, and that he hadn’t heard any complaints from the Magianos so far. I wasn’t really up on legal negotiations, but I was pretty sure that two bullets to the head might classify as a complaint. My head spun with the new information, and I straightened, shutting the laptop and thinking. I placed another call to Detective Parks, left another voice mail, then grabbed my house key and left, hitting the pavement outside at a strong pace.
Twenty-Six
The detective entered the East Wing, heading for De Luca’s main secretary. He flashed his badge to the elegant, mature woman behind the middle desk. “I need to speak to Mr. De Luca.”
The woman didn’t blink but fixed the detective with a pointed glance. “Your name?”
“Detective Wilkes. Homicide.”
She nodded pleasantly but didn’t make a move to her phone. “I don’t believe that Mr. De Luca is in, Detective Wilkes, but if you take a seat I will try and contact him.”
“You do that.”
Her brows raised, she looked pointedly at the nearest seating cluster. He shook his head and sauntered over to the seat, collapsing into it with a loud sigh.
She picked up her phone and dialed an extension.
“Brad De Luca.”
“Detective Wilkes just came in, unannounced. He is asking to speak to you.”
“Fine. Send him in, then interrupt us after ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
I RAN, QUICKER than my normal speed, but I needed justification for my pounding heart. Broward assisted in the Genovese family turnover. Broward was working for the Magiano family. His words, strained and hateful, not the man I knew. “Some of the biggest names in town are coming to me for services...Genovese turnover was handled perfectly...I haven’t heard any complaints from the Magianos...” No wonder he was dead. I jumped curbs, climbed up and pounded down Stadium Hill, my breath coming fast, a cramp in my side, my legs screaming in protest, until I finally wound down, coming to a sudden, gut-wrenching stop. I bent over, feeling slightly nauseated.
What was I doing? Why was I digging into this crap, trying to find proof of the Magianos’ involvement in Broward’s death? Why was I power-calling Detective Parks to make sure that he explored that angle? Broward, my mentor, a man I had respected, had apparently run a full-page ad in the mobster Yellow Pages. He had wanted the business, bragged about it. And then he was killed. I needed to get the fuck out of this situation and start minding my own business. I had to stop thinking of Broward as an innocent bystander and recognize his part in his own demise.
I needed to stop thinking about the entire situation.
* * *
“DETECTIVE.” BRAD SHOOK Detective Wilkes’s hand and sat on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “I have a meeting shortly. I will only be able to give you a few minutes. Any luck finding Kent’s killer?”
“We’re working on that.” The man looked at Brad appraisingly. “Diligently.”
“Last time we spoke, I believe I informed you that I would not answer questions without my attorney present.”
“Humor me.”
Brad said nothing, just met the detective’s eyes.
“We have discovered large amounts of funds deposited into Mr. Broward’s bank account over the last three years.”
“CDB does very well, I would expect Kent to have a healthy bank account.” Brad crossed his arms and looked down at his watch.
“Not from the firm. From other accounts, foreign, untraceable accounts. Do you know where those income streams would have originated, or why?”
“Are you asking Clarke these questions?”
“No.”
Brad spread his arms, exasperated. “Then why me? Why assume I know anything about Kent and his money, his clients? I don’t have anything to do with Kent or his business. And as you so clearly pointed out, he despised me!”
“Clarke doesn’t have ties to organized crimes.” Wilkes’s eyes glittered triumphantly, as if he had found the cure to cancer.
Brad turned, walking behind his desk. “My family has nothing to do with me, or my business. Don’t drag unrelated items into this discussion. If you want to investigate my family, go right ahead. You will have my full cooperation. For now, get out—unless you have something to arrest me for.”
There was a knock on the door, and then Carol Featherston appeared. “Mr. De Luca, we need to leave for court.”
Brad nodded and turned to the detective. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wilkes. Carol will see you out.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked out, shoulders relaxed, but his hands in fists in his pockets.
Twenty-Seven
Detective Parks sucked; it was official. Either he had no concept of how to return a call, or he had no intention on following up on the Magiano lead. Either way, as I had decided on my return jog home, I would leave him one final voice mail, telling him about the Genovese connection, and then I would be done with it. No follow-up calls, no reading the papers, no digging through Broward’s stuff. I completed the task, speaking clearly and slowly into the phone, laying out everything I knew in one, concise, forty-seven-second voice mail. Then I hung up, pressing the end call button with reluctance.
Ending that call felt so final, as if I had taken a step off a cliff and couldn’t stop my descent. Giving up on Broward felt traitorous, as if I were weak and running from his killer. But I needed to be smart. I had passed on the information to Parks. Now I needed to get back to the land of the living.
* * *
I THREW LISA Strong’s instructions out the window and decided to go to the office. After reorganizing my jewelry box and flipping through every television station I had, I was going stir-crazy and actually contemplating cleaning, a sure sign that dementia was only a few steps away. I threw on a pullover and grabbed my keys, my mind skipping ahead to the half-finished documents that were currently wasting real estate on my desk.
I walked into the CDB offices at 5:00 p.m., hoping to get into my office and into my work without being seen. Once I knocked out the half-finished items, I could sneak back out. I wasn’t sure how tomorrow would play out, or if our cases would get transferred, and I wanted to get a few tasks wrapped up while I had the chance.
Lights were on in the other two wings, but all was dark on our side of the building. Every cop show I had seen prepared me for crime-scene tape and black fingerprint powder, but the halls and offices looked normal, ordinary. I was almost disappointed by the lack of drama. I left the lights off and went straight to my office, unlocking the door, the click sounding loud in the silent halls. Going inside, I pulled the door behind me, leaving it ajar so I would be able to exit in a quiet fashion.
Starting up the computer, I skimmed over the open files on my desk. About an hour of work. Just enough to distract me, without committing me to this office all night long. My computer chimed, loading the desktop, and I leaned over, typing in my credentials and logging on.
I quickly became engrossed, finishing the open files and reorganizing the folders without even noticing. I was starting on a fresh case when the voice came.
“Julia.”
I jumped, my breath catching, and straightened, looking at the door to my darkened office. A huge silhouette filled the doorway, and quiet masculinity crept into my small office. Brad.
“What are you doing?” His voice was dark and still. Definite.
“Nothing. Working.”
He walked toward me, his hands in his pockets, the expensive suit hanging perfectly on his large, muscular frame. His eyes, dark and intense, picked up the light from my monitor and glowed blue in the darkness.
“On what?”
“Filing, typing. Why? Does it matter?” His authoritative tone irritated me, and I pushed away from my desk and folded my arms, my eyes narrowed into a stern look. His tie loosened, a day’s worth of growth on his chin, he looked like the perfect late-night distraction. Too bad it was only—I snuck a look at my computer’s display—6:30 p.m.
“You aren’t supposed to be here.”
“Says who? This is my office.”
“Says the office email that you received.” His voice commanding, he continued moving forward until we stood inches apart. For no good reason, I was suddenly pissed, mad at his invasion of my office, a space he seemed to control and command whenever he damn well pleased.
I looked up at him, feeling ridiculously short in my tennis shoes. He was close enough that his scent invaded me, and my insides quivered traitorously. “Oh, now you want me to follow the rules!” I lifted my chin, meeting his stern eyes, but my response was weakened, standing this close to the damn stern sexiness of him.
We stayed there for a moment, our eyes locked on each other. He looked exhausted, and his eyes finally broke from mine and traveled down my body, his mouth twitching slightly as he took in my tank top and running pants. When his eyes returned to mine, they were almost pained, twin fires flicking hot and cold. “I hate how you make me feel,” he whispered, his voice tight.
I recoiled from the intensity in his voice. “What does that mean?”
He grabbed my neck, sliding one hand back and grabbing my ponytail, pulling it hard and tilting my face to him. I growled, low in my throat, and glared at him. I struggled against him, but he held me easily. “Take your fucking hands off me,” I said.
He ignored me, walked me backward by my ponytail, hard, until I slammed against the back wall of my office, the chair rail pressing into my back. He released my ponytail and ran his hand firmly and slowly down my body, his eyes burning into mine, his hands groping and squeezing my breasts, stomach and ass as they traveled down. His hands, slow and deliberate, said more than his mouth ever could. He owned me, I was his to do with as he wanted. Fuck, I hated that I liked it. He bent down to kiss me, and I turned my head, evading his mouth and trying to push him off with my hands.
They met only rock-hard, unmoving muscle. I employed my best defense and brought up my knee, swift and hard, aiming for his nuts. He grabbed my wrists and jumped back, a hurt look in his eyes. Then he smiled, slow and confident. Slamming my wrists against the wall, on either side of my head, he leaned in close, catching my mouth in his. I stiffened, my body unyielding. Taking my mouth, he kissed me, long and deep, and I sagged a little against the wall. He pressed his body against me, pinning me to the wall, and I felt the hardness of his cock.
“Get off me,” I whispered, trying to stay firm.
“No.”
“I am not fucking you in my office.”
He laughed, kissing my neck, and over his broad
shoulders I noticed my office door was still open. I pushed hard against him. “Brad, the door!” I whispered urgently.
“Fuck the door,” he growled, grabbing my shorts and yanking them down, exposing my white cotton thong.
I squirmed against him, thoughts running through my mind, too many and too quickly for me to focus on. The dominant and only thought I could grab was the image of his thick cock fucking me right here, right now.
He yanked me forward a step, then grabbed my face, looking at me hard, breathing fast, a tortured look in his eyes. “Please.” The word, which should have been a plea, was somehow an order, and I resisted, now for the sheer perversity of it.
I pushed him back and tried to grab my shorts, to pull them up, but he caught my hands and spun me around, grabbing my hips and pushing me forward, till I was bent over in front of him. The speed of his movement caught me off balance, and I reached forward, trying to grab something, anything, to stop me from falling. I grabbed the wall and pushed on it, the motion inadvertently arching my back and pushing my ass against Brad. He chuckled, and I heard a zipper and then felt his fingers, working fast, a ripping sound of condom wrapper, my thong pushed to the side. I realized what was happening and was opening my mouth to object when he shoved hard and was suddenly inside me.
My objection stopped in my throat, quivered there and died. He was so big, so thick, so hard. He pushed deeper, and grunted when he was fully inside me. My hands flexed against the wall and I groaned, low in my throat. He squeezed my ass, hard, then slapped it, the sound loud and animal in the darkness. Then the fucking started, hard and fast, our bodies slapping loudly, too loudly, in the quiet office. All I could think about was the floor full of people, my open office door. What would happen if someone walked by and saw me, bent over, being fucked relentlessly, workout pants bunched around my tennis shoes? The thought turned me on so much that I instantly tightened, an orgasm building around Brad’s stiff rod.
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