Alessandra Torre - Masked Innocence

“Me?” I stepped off the porch, going carefully down the back steps. Why would they want to talk to me?

“Yeah. If he was shot last night, you may have been the last person to see him alive.” He paused. “Other than, of course, the killer.”

We decided to just leave my car at the bar, my nerves way past the level of safe driving. Brad drove us to the office, watching me closely the whole time, as if I were a piece of china with a hairline crack.

We didn’t speak on the drive. I was shaken, trying to put the pieces of what was happening together. It was as if the last twenty minutes had uprooted my world and set it back upside down. I had too much to think about, too much to process. My mind flipped back and forth between an image of Broward’s body, and the words I had overheard on Monday. The Magianos. It couldn’t be, there must be some other explanation. Not in our office, not with Broward. I clenched my eyes shut and sat back in the seat.

“You okay?” Brad’s voice, coming through my thick cloud.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, my eyes closed, the feeling of his hand on mine, gripping my palm, a soothing thumb caressing my wrist.

The car slowed and I heard a turn signal. We must be close. I wasn’t ready to face the office and all this day would entail. My stomach tightened at the thought of being questioned. I needed to figure out what to do.

* * *

BRAD ENTERED THE East Wing of the fourth floor of Clarke, De Luca & Broward. The East Wing was his domain, the area where expensive marriages came to die. Divorce Central. He was God in this wing. He noted that, despite this morning’s events, business was still being conducted. Both conference rooms were full, and two groups of clients waited in the lobby’s leather seating clusters. He walked through the elegant space and up to the three elevated secretarial desks that were the focus of the lobby. The only sign of trouble glistened from the blotchy faces and red-rimmed eyes of his secretaries, who rose at his approach. The three women, who ran the wing with iron, liver-spotted fists, were all in their late sixties, and all had been with him for over ten years. He stopped at their desks and nodded a hello.

Carol Featherston, the center and head secretary, spoke first. Never one to mince words, she skipped over pleasantries. “There is a detective waiting to speak with you.”

Brad nodded. “Give me a moment in my office, then send him in.”

“Certainly.” She swallowed hard, her wrinkled neck stretching and straining. “Brad, we were so sorry to hear about Kent. Despite your history, I know this must be a difficult time for you.” Her two clones, Diana and Beatrice, nodded in unison, both murmuring soft condolences. Brad nodded and walked around their desks, entering his large office set against the east wall of the building, a million-dollar view of downtown stretching its length. He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then walked behind his desk. Opening up a side cabinet, he set his briefcase inside, then sat in his dark leather chair. He closed his eyes briefly and collected his thoughts. There was a knock at his door, and Carol opened it, ushering in a tall, thin man, with short gray hair. The detective.

Let the games begin.

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?”