Authors: Teri Riggs
Women glittered in their rhinestone-covered tee shirts and hats. He shook his head as he watched while undulating hips jiggled the fanny packs favored by the vacation crowd. Cameras and mini-camcorders were slung over shoulders like beauty queen sashes. Men gazed nonchalantly at the magazine racks full of ads for topless and scantily dressed “escorts.” An elbow from an occasional all-seeing wife would strike out to jolt the wayward husband’s attention back to his mundane world.
He thought about his partner. Kennedy was so much like her father. Paddy’d been Wilder’s best friend since the first day they’d met at the academy. They’d become partners, and as close as brothers. They’d met their future wives on the same day at a fellow rookie’s birthday party and married within three weeks of each other.
Mae gave birth to Kennedy the following year. Unfortunately, Wilder and Sally had never been blessed with a child of their own. Maybe that was why he cherished being a surrogate father to Kenny.
The guilt of Patrick’s death would always haunt Wilder. If he’d gone through the bank doors first that day, he’d have taken the fatal bullet. Patrick would’ve lived to see his daughter grow into a fine woman and cop.
“Sorry I let you down, Paddy. Damn, I miss you and your ugly mug.” Wilder’s voice cracked as he spoke to his dead friend.
Wilder had made two promises the day he’d watched Patrick’s flag-draped coffin carried from the church and laid to
re
st
.
The first was to find Patrick’s killers. He’d failed at that one.
The second promise was to watch over Kennedy and teach her all he could. He refused to fail at the second pledge. In fact, he figure’d he’d done a pretty damn good job watching out for her so far.
“You’d be so proud of our girl. She’s something else.”
Wilder had always been a big part of Kennedy’s life. When she chose to become a cop, he’d made it a personal goal to make sure she was good, and she’d become one of the
be
st
.
She could take care of herself.
Wilder shelved his stroll down memory lane whe
n he arrived at the small pink
house belonging to Louis
St. Louis
. It looked exact
ly the way Kennedy’d described
it.
Surprise registered on
St. Louis
’ face when he opened the door and found Wilder holding his badge out for inspection.
“Mr.
St. Louis
, I’m Detective James. My partner spoke with you the other day. I need to—”
St. Louis
interrupted him. “As I told your partner, I have nothing left to say to anyone from Metro. If you want to question me again, call my lawyer.”
“Mr.
St. Louis
, I don’t have any more questions at this time. Detective O’Brien and I are just hoping to narrow down our suspect list as soon as possible.”
“What’s that got to do with me? Surely you don’t consider me a suspect. I’ve been nothing but a faithful follower of our Lord, Jesus Christ my entire adult life.”
Wilder had to hand it to
St. Louis
. He really did look confused. “Yes, I understand that, sir. Hey, I even respect it. That’s why I’m here to appeal to your sense of righteousness.”
“Let’s cut the false praise, Detective James. Tell me exactly what you’re after.” “DNA, Mr.
St. Louis
. Your DNA.”
“Excuse me. Is this a joke?”
“No, sir. A simple swab of your mouth will give us the DNA we need to remove your name from our list of suspects.”
“I’m not sure why I’m on that
li
st
.
Frankly, I don’t really care.”
St. Louis
’ face, already flushed from the heat, grew redder with anger. “There’s no way in Heaven, or in Hell for that matter, I’m going to give you my DNA.”
“Not even to clear your name?”
“Not even if Billy Graham himself came asking for it. It’s my belief that I’m only borrowing this body to house my soul while I’m here on earth. God has lent it to me and I intend to give it back intact. That means I don’t give away organs, blood, or any other bodily fluid—including saliva—willingly except for the sake of procreation. Therefore, I must refuse based on my religious beliefs.”
“But you could clear your na—”
“Detective, like I told Miss O’Brien, don’t come back here without a warrant. I won’t open my door to you or her again.”
“That’s Detective O’Brien.”
“She’s just a woman. A woman who should be home serving a husband and raising a houseful of children as God intended her to. Not wearing pants and trying to act like a man. The Scripture says that a man is the head of the household and bears the responsibility for obeying the laws of God.”
Wilder stepped closer. “Want to tell me the real reason you won’t give us a DNA sample? Afraid we’ll find a match?”
“If I wasn’t refusing based on my religious beliefs, I’d still say no. I’m not going to give part of my body to some laboratory. All kinds of evil and genetic alterations can be done with DNA. I’ve heard about cloning—”
This time Wilder interrupted. “I’ll get a court order for the testing, Mr.
St. Louis
. Either way, you will be giving us that sample.” Like anyone would ever want to clone another
St. Louis
. One of this idiot is more than enough.
“Good day, Detective.”
St. Louis
slammed the door in Wilder’s face just as he’d slammed it in Kennedy’s face only days before.
Wilder rubbed his fingers over his temples and sighed. Damn Bible thumping freak. Kennedy will kick his ass if she ever hears him spout that “a woman’s place is barefoot and pregnant” crap. I might actually enjoy seeing that.
Returning to the car, Wilder had visions of Kennedy knocking
St. Louis
on his holier-than-thou, Bible-beating ass.
He smiled and started the car. Hopefully, she’s having better luck with Campenelli.
Kennedy
sucked in a deep breath and stepped into the elevator at Campenelli’s office. Was her stomach queasy at the thought of zooming up at the speed of light to the fifty-fifth floor in a small metal box—or just nervous she’d soon be face-to-face with the man who had knocked her off balance with his kisses less than forty-eight hours ago?
“Shouldn’t this death trap at least have a fucking seat belt?” Kennedy asked Nick’s security man. He didn’t answer, only stood staring at her, his feet apart and hands clasped in front of him. The elevator started its ascent and she gripped the handrail she assumed doubled as an ‘Oh Shit! bar.’
When she stepped off at the top floor, she bent over at the waist and took four deep breaths as she waited for the nausea to pass. Facing a bad-ass killer carrying a loaded gun didn’t put the fear of God in her like a damned elevator ride did. She straightened up only to find herself facing Nicolas Campenelli.
Putting her hands on her hips, she squinted up at him. “Waiting for me? I take it the perky Ms. McLouder blabbed to you that I was on the way up?”
“Hello to you, too, Detective.” Nick looked her over and smiled. “Ms.
McLouder’s job is to keep me informed. So tell me, what business brings you here today? Out looking for a dog to kick? Maybe a small child or two to shoot?”
“Cute, Campenelli. I just thought I’d see if I could find where I left my stomach the last time I visited. I’m starting to miss it.”
“Careful, Detective, you might lead me to believe you have a sense of humor.” His smile grew. “By the way, according to the security tapes, and the doorman, after your last visit, you left most of your stomach back in the alley on the way out.”
“Oh, you heard about that?” Crap. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“I had a touch of the flu—or food poisoning—or something like that.” “I see. No problems with the elevator ride today?”
Kennedy answered him with a glare.
“May I offer you a drink? Wine? Soft drink? Water? Perhaps some Pepto Bismol?”
She remembered to play nice. “Actually, Mr. Campenelli, I—” “Nick. Call me Nick, please.”
“Whatever.” Kennedy did a mental eye roll. “I’m sure you know that you’re right up there at the top of our list of suspects in the prostitution murders. What I need from you, to clear this all up, is a small DNA sample.”
She watched the muscles in his jaw go taut. The look he gave her made her totally forget the elevator ride and her queasy stomach. Uh-Oh. The man is pissed.
“I did not murder anyone. I’m sick of you and your partner tossing around accusations that have no substance whatsoever. Have you got a warrant, Detective O’Brien?” He shook his head slowly. His voice softened, sounded more hurt than angry. “Do you honestly believe I’m capable of murder?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think.” Kennedy looked down at her fingers, twirling the bottom button of her jacket. “Come on, Nick, give us the damn sample. Put an end to the whole matter. Clear your name once and for all.”
Kennedy knew he was struggling to control his temper when he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. After a long, silent minute, he spoke, sounding reserved.
“I’ll give you your DNA only because I want my name cleared. After that, I want you and your fellow cops to stay the hell away from me. If need be, I’ll have my lawyers step in. Now, if that’s all, let’s get this over with so you can get out.”
“Thank you, Nick. Metro appreciates your cooperation. We’ll put a rush on this.”
His nostrils flared. “I think I’d prefer you to ca
ll me Mr. Campenelli from now
on.”
Kennedy winced. “No problem, Mr. Campenelli.”
She opened her purse and removed the small buccal swab collection kit. After Nick swiped the inside of his cheek, she put the swab back in the tube, dropped it in an evidence bag and placed it in her purse. “I’ll run this by the lab and contact you when the results are in. Thank you. We should hear in a few weeks depending on how backed up the crime lab is.”
Nick turned his back on her.
“I know it doesn’t mean much to you and I probably shouldn’t say it, but I don’t think you murdered those women.” Kennedy turned and pressed the elevator down button.
Nick gripped her shoulders and spun her around. “Then why the DNA?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. The DNA will remove, beyond a doubt, any suspicions anyone could possibly have. What I believe or don’t believe can’t do that.”
Obviously frustrated, he leaned his head against the mirrored doors and let out a deep breath as he slapped the wall with the palm of his hand. “Damn it!”
The elevator doors opened and Kennedy walked inside.
“Good-bye, Mr. Campenelli.”
The elevator closed.
Kennedy’s stomach, already sick from her confrontation with Nick, rolled over at least a hundred and thirteen more times on the way down to the fourth floor.
AFTER clearing it with him, John Tully’s assistant let Kennedy into his office. He was at his desk sifting through a stack of papers and talking on his phone. He made his goodbyes quickly and hung up. His face was pale and he had dark circles under bloodshot eyes.
Kennedy approached him and offered her badge. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Tully.”
“No problem. I’m glad I could make time for you. Please have a seat.” He nodded to the chair across from him. “May I get you something to drink?”
“No thank you, I’m fine.”
“How may I help you, Detective?”
“I have a few questions about Wednesday night I’d like to ask.”
“The night Nick gave his speech to the League of Women Voters?” “That’s correct.” She pulled out her notebook and pen.
“I’m afraid I won’t be of much help. I was ill and left early.”
“Where did you go?”
“Home of course. I was sick. I had a fever and upset stomach.” “Can anyone verify you were at home?”
“No. I live alone in a house in Summerlin.” Small beads of sweat dotted the skin above his top lip.
“You received a phone call from Phoebe Mixer around midnight?” “Yes, I did. I heard the next day she’d been murdered.”
“Did you murder Ms. Mixer?”
He leaned forward, shaking his head. “No, absolutely not!” “Did Nicolas Campenelli murder Ms. Mixer?”
“That’s ridiculous. Nick would never kill anyone.”
“How long did you know Ms. Mixer?”
“I never met her before. I talked to her on the phone that night for the first time ever.”
“Why didn’t you answer calls from your boss and his PR man that same night?”
“I turned off my phone after Ms. Mixer called so no one else would disturb me. You have no idea how sick I was.” John shifted in his seat. “Detective O’Brien, why are you asking me all these questions? I had nothing to do with that woman’s murder.”
“What did you and Ms. Mixer talk about?”