Masked Innocence

Twenty-One

The West Wing was chaos. Our front lobby was filled with employees, and I was stopped just inside the doors by one of the firm’s security guards. “Julia,” he said, recognizing me. “All employees are asked to wait here. The police are conducting interviews in the offices, and the hall with your office and Broward’s is closed for the investigators.”

I nodded and moved past him, into the waiting area. Looking around, I saw almost every employee of the wing, some huddled in small groups, some standing alone, and others pacing on cell phones. I sought out Sheila. Seeing her leaning against her desk, at the rear of the room, I walked over and touched her shoulder. She whirled at the contact, her elegant appearance marred by her tear-soaked face and shaking hands.

“Oh, Julia!” she gasped, grabbing me and hugging tightly. We separated, and she wiped under both of her eyes, straightening up and trying to remain composed. “I just don’t know what to do without Kent.”

“I am so sorry, Sheila. I know how close you were.” I didn’t know if close was the right word, but Sheila had been an admin for Broward since he began at CDB eleven years ago. His death had to be hard on her, more so than anyone else in this room. I felt as though I were falling apart, and I’d only known the man two months—she had to be destroyed. “Have the police already questioned you?” I asked, squeezing her cardigan-encased arm.

“Yes. Right when I came in. Now that you’re here, I’m sure they will want to speak to you, too.”

“Do you know anything? Know what could have caused this...?” Anything other than the largest mob family this side of Chicago? I let the question trail off, her watery eyes sharpening in response, looking more like the Sheila I knew.

“No. Absolutely not. But I didn’t have a hand in all of his cases. Not like you.”

Like me? What cases did I work on that Sheila didn’t? I didn’t bother arguing with her. She grabbed my arm and pulled, almost dragged me, to a uniformed officer standing by the wall. “This is Julia Campbell,” she announced, pushing me in front of him. “Broward’s intern.”

The man consulted a clipboard, then nodded to us. “Detective Parks will want to speak with you. Come with me.”

I followed him down the hall, grief and confusion heavy in the air around us. He took me into the conference room, opening the door to reveal a heavyset man in a cheap suit, papers, notes and coffee scattered on our normally pristine conference table. I sat in front of the man, who said nothing to me, scribbling furiously on a form. The officer left us alone and I wondered where Brad was, and what he was doing.

THE OFFICE WAS long, impressive, a view of the city filling the ornate space with light. “Detective Wilkes.” Brad stood and shook the detective’s hand over his large leather and wood desk. “I’m Brad De Luca. Please, sit,” he said, indicating the chairs that faced his desk.

The detective sat, opened a notebook, uncapped a pen and stared at Brad, assessing him. “Good morning. I’m sure you are quite...busy, so I’ll skip the pleasantries and barge into questions. I assume you were close with Kent Broward?”

Brad tented his fingers, looking over them at the detective. He shrugged. “Define close.”

The detective sighed deeply, stretching out the action until he was certain Brad picked up on his irritation. “Knew him well. And don’t ask me to define well.”

“I have known Kent for eleven years, but I do not have more than a business relationship with him. We are not friends, we do not confide in each other, we do not see each other unless it is at a quarterly partnership meeting or in passing.” Brad paused, picking up a pen and slowly tapping it on his desk. “Does that answer your question?”

The man’s mouth tightened. “You seem irritated, Mr. De Luca. Has Broward’s death inconvenienced you?”

Brad looked somberly at Wilkes. “Grief is not a prerequisite for innocence, Mr. Wilkes.”

“Detective Wilkes.”

“Sorry,” he said shortly. “Look, I am happy to answer your questions, but whether it be insensitive or not, I am a very busy man, and I do have appointments waiting.”

“Like it or not, your partner is dead, and I need to ask you some questions.”

Brad waved his hand, indicating for the detective to go on.

“Why were you not friends with Mr. Broward?”

“For several reasons. I considered him dull. He worked constantly, and probably didn’t have any friends to speak of. Plus, as you have probably heard from other staff members, Broward didn’t like me.”

“Was the feeling mutual?”

“I didn’t really care whether he liked me. I have enough friends. I respected his work ethic. That was all I needed from a business partner.”

“Why didn’t Broward like you?”

Brad smirked. “You probably already know the answer to that question.” He sat back in his chair and resumed the slow tap of the pen on his desk.

“I’d like to hear it from you.”

I SAT NERVOUSLY in the big space, the same conference room where I had eaten cold pizza with Brad over six weeks ago. Back when we didn’t know each other, and all I had heard were rumors and warnings. The table was where he had talked me into a trip to Vegas, a trip that had begun the erosion of my sexual boundaries and opened up the possibility of a relationship. The same conference room where Broward had opened up to me, sharing his true hatred of Brad and all that he encompassed. The weight of the memories lay like irons on my shoulders, conflicting emotions driving me wild. It seemed surreal, for me to sit here, questioned by police, an overheard phone call I couldn’t get out of my head. I never should have eavesdropped, never should have blatantly dismissed Broward’s heartfelt warnings, and never should have deceived the good man who now lay dead. Guilt from every angle hit me, but even as I sat there, bemoaning my traitorous actions, I wanted Brad, needed him here, his strength, his arms around me. I was officially a horrible person. I can’t believe he’s dead.

“Ms. Campbell?” Detective Parks in the cheap suit, sitting across from me, had asked a question.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”

He raised his eyebrows, but looked back down at his notepad. “I said, how long have you been employed at Clarke, De Luca & Broward?”

I wondered if the firm name would change. “I’m not technically employed. I’m just a temporary intern. I’ve been here a little over two months. But I will be employed—part-time, starting next week.”

“And you have been an intern assigned to Kent Broward for that entire time?”

“Yes.”

“How close were you to him?”

I frowned at the question. It seemed a little odd. “I worked with him every day for ten to twelve hours. We discussed business, little else.”

“So, a strictly business relationship.”

“Yes.”

“Sheila Ponder says you are intimately familiar with his current caseload.”

“I would agree with that. All of his current cases I am familiar with.”

“I will need a list from you of which cases or clients might have endangered his life.”

I laughed, a small, awkward sound. “You’re kidding, right? Didn’t Sheila tell you about our cases? We have the most lame, unexciting files on the planet. No one is killing anyone over anything Broward was working on. We deal with corporate documents, real estate transactions, civil litigations.” I shook my head emphatically. “Whatever happened to Broward couldn’t have had anything to do with a client.” At least, not a CDB client.

“Hmmm.” He wrote something down. Hmmm? What does that mean?

“At least no clients that I am aware of.” I rushed out the words, anxious to speak before my conscience took a convenient vacation.

He set down his pen. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just, ah, if there were other clients, ones I wasn’t aware of, maybe they had something to do with it.” I was sounding like a complete idiot, a fact I was sure he was picking up on.

He flipped back a page, looking at the notes he had scribbled down. “You just said that you were familiar with all of his cases and clients. So, in theory, there shouldn’t be any clients that you aren’t aware of.”

Shit. This was it, time to put up or shut up. I took a deep breath and told him about the conversation I had overheard two days before. He sat quietly, his pen placed beside his notebook, and listened. When I was done, he tilted his head and looked at me.

“I’m not understanding where you are going with this, Ms. Campbell.”

Was the guy daft? “Broward pretty much stated that he was providing some type of services to the Magianos. Then he’s killed one night later!” My voice had left the calm and rational level and was now in full-blown hysterical female mode.

“And you think the Magianos are...” He lifted his chin and met my teary eyes head-on.

Was this a damn current events quiz? “The Al Capone of this generation? The most powerful crime syndicate in the Southern U.S.?” I leaned forward, smacking my hand on the table, eliciting a frown from the detective.

“First of all, Ms. Campbell, we don’t know that the ‘Magianos’ that Mr. Broward mentioned is the same family that you are referring to.”

I tried to remind myself this was an officer of the law and not someone I could flick off at will. “He’s dead. He didn’t stumble over a gun and get shot licking stamps! How can you not think that the Magianos had something to do with this!”

“Ms. Campbell, lower your voice. You haven’t even explored the possibility that you misheard Mr. Broward. He was on the phone. You were outside his office, with the door closed. You could easily have misunderstood what he said.” His voice was firm, his gaze direct, and I looked at him helplessly, my hysteria close to returning.

I opened and closed my mouth, trying to put intelligent words into action. I didn’t get a chance; he returned pen to paper and went to his next question.

“Are you aware of any upset clients, or anyone who disliked Mr. Broward?

“Other than the possible Magianos?” I asked sarcastically.

“Yes. Answer the question.”

“No. No one that I can think of. Broward is...” I paused briefly, closing my eyes. “Was a likable guy. I’m sure you will find that out by speaking to all of the staff.”

He nodded. Then he set down his notebook and looked at me.

“Ms. Campbell, where were you last night, between 8:30 and 10:30 p.m.?

“Last night?” I was suddenly tense.

“Yes. Are you aware of what you did last night?”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes. Broward dismissed everyone early. I went home, changed and met my friends for drinks at nine. We stayed at the bar until about eleven.”

“I will need to speak with your friends and verify this.”

I sat back and folded my arms. “Are you verifying all of the staff’s alibis?”

Parks paused and looked at me appraisingly. “Alibi is probably too strong a word, at this point. But to answer your question, no. Not all of the staff.”

THE AIR HAD gotten hot in Brad’s office. He sighed. “Broward doesn’t, or didn’t, like me for a few reasons. The main one, and what I assume you are hinting at, is that I once slept with his wife.”

The man cocked an eyebrow at him, but didn’t move otherwise. “You seem awfully cavalier about that—sleeping with another man’s wife.”

Brad shrugged. “I sleep with a lot of women. I regret that specific experience, because he was my business partner, and because it complicated an already strained relationship.”

“Strained how?”

“He was...irritated by me. By my large income and what he considered to be lack of work ethic.”

“Did you dislike him?”

“You already asked that. No.”

“Hmmm.” The detective wrote something down.

“Where were you last night, Mr. De Luca?”

“At home.”

“When did you arrive home?”

“After work. I am unsure of the exact time.”

“Take a guess.” The irritated voice of the man had turned harder.

“I would guess six or seven.”

“And you stayed in your home all evening?”

“Until about eleven.”

“Where did you go at eleven?”

“Do I need to re-create my entire evening for you? I was told the time of death was before 10:00 p.m.”

“By who?”

“Hugo Clarke. Am I done here?”

“Just answer the question, Mr. De Luca. Where did you go at eleven?”

“To pick up a female friend, and no, I will not reveal her name.” He stared at the detective, a tic beginning in his cheek.

“Are you aware of any of Mr. Broward’s current projects?”

“That’s it.” Brad leaned back in his chair. “I’m not going to answer any more questions without a lawyer present.”

Wilkes snorted, then laughed softly, shaking his head. “I thought you were a lawyer.”

Brad said nothing, just stared at him over the desk.

“Fine.” The detective snapped the notebook shut and stood, scraping his chair backward. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Brad, a stern look on his face. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised.

Brad smiled and lifted his chin in response, but did not stand. Wilkes turned and stalked out of the office, and Brad watched him leave through the heavy glass. He frowned, then opened his center drawer and pulled out a cell phone that he kept in the back, behind paper clips and Post-its. He dialed a number and waited, listening to the ring in his ear.