I Have a Secret (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Three) (14 page)

Dinner came and went, and while Trista whisked the twins off to bed, I sat on the sofa with Alexa.  She smoothed her hand over the cloth couch cushion and glanced in my direction several times but didn’t say anything. 

“Is there something you want to ask me?” I said.

She shrugged.  “I don’t know.”

“Because if you do, it’s okay.  You can ask me anything you like.”

She bit the corner of her lip.  “Do you umm…think you’ll find the person who hurt my dad?”

I tilted my head and leaned closer.  “Did your mom tell you what happened?”

“She said my dad was in a fight with someone and he fell overboard.  My brothers think it was an accident, but I know better, and I heard the neighbors say you were some kind of a detective.  Are you?”

I nodded.

Her eyes widened.  “Then you’ll find who did it, right?”

“I hope so,” I said.  “How are you doing with all this?”

“It’s weird, I guess.  I’m sad he’s gone, but it wasn’t like I was his favorite.”

“What do you mean?”

Alexa rose, walked to the pantry, took out a bag of cookies and plopped back down on the sofa.  She tugged at the bag with her hands, and when it didn’t open at the seam, she tossed it on the coffee table in front of her, bent over and rested her face in her hands.  “I know my dad loved me, but he loved my brothers more.”

I snatched the cookie bag, opened it, and slid it next to her.  “I’m sure that’s not true.  What makes you think that?”

She raised her head up and wiped her moistened eyes on the sleeve of her shirt.  “I dunno.  I can’t explain it.  I mean, I know he loved me.  I was his kid, so he had to, but the way he looked at me was different.  When my brothers were born I felt like I didn’t fit in.”

It was hard for me to believe Doug would ever shun one of his own children, and yet, she seemed certain about his feelings for her.  I thought about my own insecurities as a child and my feelings of abandonment from a father whose only favorite was himself and a bottle he called Jack D.

Alexa removed her hands from her face and looked at me.  “I keep thinking I should come home so I can be here for my mom.  It’s not like it would be forever.  I can go back to college next semester.”

“Your mom is so proud of what you’ve accomplished already.  I’m sure she’d want you to stay in school.”

She shrugged.  “Maybe.”  

“Does your mom know how you feel?”

“Yeah.  She said she wouldn’t allow it, but I think she would.  She can’t force—”

Trista entered the room with plates of pie in each hand and glanced at Alexa.  “Can’t force you to do what?”

Alexa stood up.  “Nothing, I’m going to my room.”

Once she was out of sight, Trista handed me a slice of pie and sat the other’s down.  “What was that all about?”

“Nothing, really.”

Trista rubbed her hands together.  “Alexa hasn’t talked much since she got here.   I have no idea what she’s going through—and I’m probably not doing a good job of being there for her right now—I can’t even take care of myself.”  

“You remember what it was like at her age,” I said.  “Alexa is processing a lot of her emotions internally.  I’m sure she’ll talk to you when she’s ready.”

I knew precious little about the world of teenagers except what it felt like when I was one, but it seemed like sound advice.

Trista grabbed a plate of pie, scooped up a piece on a fork and took a bite. “Have you found out anything new since I last saw you?”

The time had come for me to make a decision about whether it would be better for her to hear about Nate from me or from everyone else in town.

“Did Doug and Nate ever spend any time together?” I said.

Trista blinked a few times.  “Nate Vargas?”

I nodded.

“We bought our cars from him.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but, did Doug ever see him for anything other than business?”

“Uh, no.  Nate’s lifestyle is umm—how can I put this—a lot different than ours.  We were all about family, and he was, well, about being eighteen years old forever.  Why?”

There wasn’t an easy way to say it, so I grabbed her hand and blurted it out.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I think it would be better coming from me.”

A look of concern spread across her face.  “What’s happened?”

“I went to Nate’s house earlier today.”

“So you saw him?”

“Yeah, except when I found him, it wasn’t what I expected.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Was he with a woman?  Wouldn’t surprise me.  He’s been with about every girl in town.” 

“He wasn’t with anyone,” I said.  “He was dead.”  

After a few hours of Trista going from very frazzled to a little less frazzled, she took something to help her sleep.  I waited for it to kick in and then stopped by Alexa’s room and let her know her mom was having a rough night.  Alexa promised she would stay with her.  I waited for things to quiet down and then took my leave.   

When I returned to my own home-away-from-home I sent a text to Jesse.

WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT POKER NIGHT.

YOU MAY HAVE BEEN THE LAST ONE TO SEE NATE ALIVE.

I KNOW WHAT I SAID, BUT CALL ME—PLEASE.

Then I called Giovanni. 

“I was just thinking of you luce mia,” he said. 

The phrase
luce mia
was one among many phrases he used that I didn’t understand.  He said it often, and after I’d heard it several times and guessed it meant everything from me being loose—which couldn’t have been his intention—to my love or my lover, I gave in and googled.  Its meaning:
My light
. 

“Did you attack Jesse?” I said.

“Is that what he told you?”

“His face said it more than anything.”  

Giovanni’s voice never wavered.  “I was with you all night.”

“After you made a phone call outside the room first.”

He sighed.  “I made one business call, yes.”

“And did it have anything to do with Jesse?”

A brief pause and then, “It did.”

“So where is he?” I said.

“Who?”

“Your sidekick, bodyguard, whatever you call him—Lucio.”

“Around.”

Around
in Giovanni speak meant he’d left Lucio at the hotel to keep an eye on me while he was away.  Giovanni respected my independence and never stood in the way of my investigations, but he also looked out for my safety.  He both respected and protected me at the same time.  It was something I hadn’t gotten used to yet. 

“And did he—”

“Give Jesse a reminder about how not to treat women?” Giovanni said.  “He did.”

If there was one thing I appreciated, it was his honesty.  

“I believe his face got the message,” I said.  “Can you tell Lucio to back off?”

“If your police friend doesn’t touch you again, that can be managed.”

We talked for a while longer about things that didn’t have to do with Jesse, the town, or the murders, and then ended the call.  It was strange.  Although we’d known each other a short time, when he wasn’t around, I missed him.  It didn’t matter whether I hadn’t seen him for five minutes or five hours.  I found myself thinking of when we’d be together again.  It was a feeling I hadn’t felt for any other man before. 

I grabbed a blanket, reclined on the loveseat and went over what I knew about the case so far.  Doug had been stabbed by, I assumed, the same person who killed Rusty and Nate.  To an outsider, it probably looked like the work of a serial killer who could even be tied to some random cases in neighboring counties.  Doug had been stabbed multiple times, which led me to believe one thing: He was the practice round.  With Rusty and Nate, the killer was more methodical and precise, managing to deliver death by a single stab wound to the chest and then the knife was left as a representation of their crime, as if to say
look at me, look what I did.
 

The knife in Nate’s chest was long and thin, unlike the short, thick blade used on Rusty.  Had the killer hand selected specific knives for each of them?  And if so, why?  That alone made it personal, it bound them together, and yet all three men were so different. 

And then there were the suspects.  Heather was tied to both Doug and Nate, and if I dug deeper, chances were I’d find a connection to Rusty.  Public enemy number two was Candice who probably still had ties to every guy in town and could have befriended Heather as an alibi to cover her ass if suspicion rose against her.  On the night Doug was killed, she made sure everyone knew she was in the ballroom.  Had it all been an elaborate scheme to make it appear she’d been there the entire time? 

On my list of less likely suspects was Rosalind, Doug’s mother.  She was hiding something, but was a bit up in years to deliver death by knife in one blow to grown men.  I didn’t put it past her to hire an accomplice to do her bidding for her, but to kill her own son?  I didn’t think so. 

I thought back to the surveillance video.  The killer hadn’t been able to lift Doug over the side on the first try or the second—my first clue I may have been profiling a woman.  But what caused such rage?  Only two possibilities came to mind: Jealousy or revenge.  And then there was my biggest question.  How many more men would die before the killer was finished?

“Morning.  Mind if I come in?” I said. 

I strolled through the door Candice had just opened. 

Candice turned in my direction, but left the door wide open.  “I do mind.  You’re not welcome here.”

“Why?” I said eyeballing various personal possessions in her hotel room.  “It’s not like this is your house.” 

“I’m paying for the room, same thing.”

“Relax,” I said.  “I won’t be here long.”

She brushed past me wearing nothing but a men’s V-neck t-shirt—minus the bra—and thong panties.  I’d never understood how a thin piece of fabric wedged between a woman’s crack was considered comfortable enough to endure hours of poking and prodding.  I’d tried them myself on a few occasions, but it never took long for me to buckle under the pressure of a never-ending wedgie that sent me running for a pair of thigh-hugging cotton bikinis. 

Candice clutched her throat like she was afraid I’d try to choke the life out of her—again.

I laughed.  “This isn’t that type of visit.”

With her hand still secured over her neck, she said, “Why don’t I bhh…believe you?”

“Funny choice of words.”

“Why?”

“I’m here because I don’t believe
you
.”

She poured a glass of white wine, gulped the entire thing down, and leaned against the wall like it had the ability to offer her some type of protection.  She used the empty glass as a pointer finger.  “You know what you’re like?  A teeny tiny gnat buzz…buzz…buzzing in my face, and no matter how many times I’ze swat at it, I can’t seem-ze to get it to go away.”

“Isn’t it a bit early to be drinking?” I said.  “You’re slurring your words.  How much have you had?”

“I’ve earned the right to do as please—it’s called being an adult.”

Too bad she didn’t know how to act like one.

“Not everything is about you, Candice.  I’m here to talk about your relationship with Nate.”

She snickered.  “Why, you want to date him or something?  He’s all yours, honey.”