Masked Innocence

Twenty-Two

With Broward dead, we milled like ants through the lobby, everyone unsure of their duties. CSI staff, police and detectives were everywhere, and it was whispered that Broward’s body still lay in his office. Finally, the police moved us all to the East Wing, Brad’s domain, to get us out of the way. We filled his lobby, the ornate room now a sea of black suits and boring neutrals. I felt a hand tug mine, and turned to see Todd Appleton, six feet of blond and blue-eyed concern. He tugged on my hand, pulling me into a hard hug, his arms wrapping around me and hugging me tightly to his chest, white shirt and black suit smooshing comfortably against my face. A sudden sob welled in my throat, an unexpected breakdown of the walls I had fought all morning to control. He shushed me, bodies and voices crowding us from all sides. “I’m so sorry, Julia. So sorry.”

I pushed gently on his chest, stepping back and wiping at my eyes, sniffing back snot and tears. “Thanks, Todd. I’m still trying to work it all out.”

He raised his voice to be heard over the crowd. “There were cops everywhere when I arrived, but we haven’t heard any updates over here—they’ve all been in your wing till now.” He looked a little too enthusiastic about the drama, the earlier concern replaced by excited curiosity. The wing doors opened and a new group entered, causing the room to go from crowded to packed. There was pure bedlam for about two minutes, and then Brad appeared at the head of the room, calling out and bringing the room to silence.

“Everybody, go home. Sheila and Beverly, you both stay and use Conference Room D to reach out to clients and reschedule appointments. Everyone else, please leave. We will email you tonight regarding tomorrow’s schedule.” He sought out and met my eyes but gave nothing away, turning and heading back to his office. There was silence; then the din of the room resumed, and we moved as one giant mass to the double doors that led to the elevator lobby. I met Todd’s eyes, moving away with the crowd as he stayed in place. I gave him a crumbling smile and waved, turning and looking to the exit. As nice as Todd’s embrace had been, I needed a stronger set of arms, the steadiness and security of Brad.

I avoided eye contact and conversations as I moved with the crowd. I wanted nothing more than to be at home and alone with my thoughts. What would happen with our wing? Who killed Broward? Was I a suspect? Was the Magiano family involved? Was I in danger? Most of my thoughts and questions were selfish, and I scolded myself as I moved with the crowd. Beside the elevator was one of the firm’s chauffeurs, and he tapped my shoulder lightly.

“Ms. Campbell. My name is—”

“Jeff. I remember. You took me to lunch one day.” Me and Brad, but I wasn’t about to say that in the crowded lobby.

“Yes. I’ve been asked to take you to your car. Or to your home, whichever you prefer.” He ducked his head toward the elevator, and I nodded, moving forward when the doors opened. My car. I had forgotten about it. It was, no doubt, still two blocks down from the bar, in a metered spot, the windshield littered with tickets.

We avoided the crowd and walked through the lobby. I looked at my watch as I stepped into the morning light. Only nine. The shortest workday on the planet. The town car was idling in one of the reserved spots in front of the building, and we moved toward it. I wondered what time they would email us. Brad would undoubtedly keep me in the loop.

“Ms. Campbell?” Jeff held open the car door, a questioning look in his eyes.

I murmured an apology as I stepped into the car, hugging my purse to my chest. I waited until he got in and started the car, then spoke. “I’d like to be taken to my car, please.”

His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “Okay. Where is it?”

I gave him the location and we moved, pulling up to the car before I had a chance to collect my thoughts. He was out of the car and opening my door, his pale hands gathering the two orange envelopes off my windshield as I stepped out. I winced, holding my hand out for them, but he shook his head, stuffing them in his pocket. “Mr. D said for me to bring any citations to him.”

I opened my mouth to object, thought better of it and smiled at Jeff. “Thank you for the ride. Please pass on my thanks to Mr. De Luca.”

He grinned in response and tipped his hat, walking jauntily back to the driver’s side. It was as if Jeff was completely unaware that anyone had died. I frowned, getting into my car, the familiar smell bringing a sense of normalcy back into my life. I started the car and headed for home.

THE HOUSE WAS quiet when I unlocked the front door, my roommates still asleep. Their social life didn’t accommodate waking before noon, a norm that I was grateful for this particular day. I took out my contacts and changed into sweats and a baggie tee from three boyfriends back, a giant soft number that advertised a fundraiser and would one day soon completely disintegrate in my hands. I crawled into bed, flipping on my TV and scrolling through the stations. I finally stopped on VH1, piling on blankets and adding pillows until I was completely surrounded, in perfect pity-party settings. Then I added a box of tissues and let myself go.

My depressed wallow didn’t last too long. Two hours later, my house, in full glory, awoke. I was typically not home when this happened, more by design than default—my lesson learned last semester when I had to endure the morning ritual twice a week because of poor course scheduling on my part. Zach and Alex waking was similar to some type of aboriginal male bonding. One would start blasting music—Insane Clown Posse-style, make-you-want-to-pull-your-hair-out screeching, until it woke the other roommate, who would respond in kind by blaring his own form of musical madness—hard rock. My room was, unluckily enough, right in between the two centers of musical expression.

Three layers of pillows did nothing to soften the effect. I stared up at the ceiling, the frame above my head rhythmically vibrating against the wall. I could scream, yell and pound on doors until they shut the hell up and went about their day, but that typically only started a fight. It was easier to just ignore it for the fifteen minutes it lasted, and then deal with the boys once they had caffeine in their systems.

I sat up, looking around, until I spotted my laptop. Crawling over, I grabbed it off the floor and plugged in some headphones. Putting on a Top 40 playlist to join in the noise, I checked my Facebook account, campus email and then my personal email. All three sites were in sore need of attention, and two hours passed before I logged out of the last account. I shut my laptop and rolled my neck, needing a break. I got up, stretching, my legs asleep and my back aching. Hitting the kitchen, I stole one of Zach’s TV dinners, halfway read the directions and popped it in the microwave. While it cooked I flipped through the mail, which had been left on the counter. Junk, bills and more junk. Yippee. The microwave beeped, shrill and annoying, and I grabbed the hot plastic dish and pulled it out.

Alex appeared, his dreadlocked head captured under a wool beanie. “What up, chica?” he said, wrapping his arms around me and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Too much to get into right now,” I mumbled, ripping the plastic wrap off the lasagna dish and tossing it into the trash.

“I would stay around and wade into that land mine, but I have class in twenty, so you’ll have to lament your woes to me some other time,” he said, grabbing a granola bar and snagging his backpack off the floor.

“Thanks, roomie,” I called out sarcastically.

He waved, pounding on Zach’s door on his way out. “Zach!” he yelled, then spun, giving me a quick grin and jogged out, slamming the door behind him.

Zach appeared thirty seconds later, pulling a baseball cap on his head. “What’s up?” he said, eyeing my lasagna as he walked past me into the kitchen. I leaned against the counter and stuck a fork in the dish, waiting, my mouth full of Stouffer’s pasta.

He opened the freezer, glanced inside, then looked at the box, sitting on the counter. He raised his eyebrows at me, then his hands. “From the look on your face, I’m not even going to go there. Take as many as you want. I’m not hurting for the three dollars right now.”

I grinned despite myself. “Thanks, Zach. Alex just left—he’s the one who called for you.”

He nodded, opening a cabinet and pulling out a bag of Doritos. Undoing the tie, he grabbed a handful of chips and hoisted himself up onto the counter. Tilting his head at me, he studied my pajamas. “Is your internship already over? I thought you had one more week.”

I opened the trash, chunking the remaining lasagna into it. “They let us go home early. My boss was found dead this morning in the office.” I moved past him to the sink, washing my fork, my peripheral vision catching his shocked expression. Even in my fragile state, I could appreciate the shock value of my statement.

“No shit,” he breathed.

“Yes shit. All sorts of crazy shit. Hence me, in my pj’s, eating your lasagna. Which, by the way, sucked. You should buy a different brand.”

“It’s better when you cook it in the oven,” he said through a mouthful of chips. Crunching loudly, he stared at me as if I had something poignant to say. I stared back, our eye contact stretched out until he finished chewing. “Sorry.”

“About the lasagna, or about Broward?”

“Broward is, or, sorry, was, your boss?”

God, I really needed to have better lines of communication with these two. “Yes.”

“Then I’m sorry about him. Are you gonna start crying or something?” He looked terrified, as if my tears might cause him physical harm.

I fought a smile. “No. Not right now, at least. Though you do seem so adept at comforting.”

There was a soft cough behind me, and I turned to see a tall redhead, clad in pink panties and a white tank top. “I can’t find my pants,” she whispered, as if there were someone else in the house who might hear her. “I think they’re in your car...?” She looked to Zach for help.

I turned back to him, fighting a grin.

“Oh—right. Let me go get those for you.” He hopped off the counter, tossing the Doritos bag down and bending down to give me a hug. “Find out her name,” he whispered in my ear, then bounded out the front door, leaving me and the girl alone. She looked out of place and blushed, covering up as best she could with her hands.

I stepped forward, smiling brightly, and held out my hand. “I’m Julia—Zach’s roommate.”

“Jen,” she offered shyly, shaking my hand. “I met Zach last night, at a party.”

“Can I get you anything to eat?” I offered, gesturing toward the kitchen. “There’s some really shitty lasagna if that rings your bell.”

“No—I’ve got to run, but thank you,” she said, smiling politely.

Zach saved us then, stepping back inside with a pair of white jeans in his hand. Skinny jeans, from the look of them. I had newfound respect for her flexibility if she was able to get out of those in his coupe. I squeezed past them, headed for the hall. “Zach, I’ll give you and Jen some privacy. I’ve got to get some stuff done on the computer.”

I closed my door to his grateful look, fighting the urge not to flick him and his slutty ways off.

Ten minutes later, I was snuggled under a heavy down blanket with an eye mask on. I had set the alarm for two hours, closed the blinds in my room and turned my television to the History Channel. I closed my eyes and tried not to think of Broward’s intelligent face, or the grace in which he had handled the clumsiness of my first day. I remembered Brad’s eyes, finding mine in the crowded lobby, his face calm and in control while Broward’s body lay in a body bag somewhere. Broward. My mentor, my slave driver. A tyrant that I now, suddenly, missed.