Deep water, p.1
Deep Water, page 1
Deep Water
Jade Cary
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
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DEEP WATER
Copyright © 2021 Jade Cary
Cover Art by Bruiser Designs
Contents
A Note to my Readers:
Quote
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part II
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part III
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Also by Jade Cary
About the Author
A Note to my Readers:
In its original form, Deep Water, originally titled Bella Rosa, was an amalgam of the romances I wished others had written. I wanted action, adventure, and mystery featuring strong women and bold, confident men who were fiercely protective of their women and children. Too many books had one but not the other—never both, to my satisfaction. Bella Rosa, one of my first books, was always a favorite, I enjoyed spiffing it up with a new title, new cover and a few minor tweaks for this re-release.
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Whether you’re meeting Vince and Rowan for the first time, or coming back for a visit, I appreciate you, and I hope you like the refresh.
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Love,
Jade
Truth drives the pen to run free.
Prologue
The sea air drifted in through the open window of Jim Carter’s black sedan. He loved the sea, was comfortable in it and on it. He fancied himself a sailor, but truth was he could navigate only the simplest of sea craft. He hired people to navigate the deep, crystal waters of the Pacific so he could take in the beauty, the peace he knew only when he was on the water. When Jenna Rose was alive, they took wonderful trips together on grand sailing vessels, just the two of them and a hired crew. No kids to tie them down, no aging parents, no strings. Just the two of them. It was all he had, all he ever wanted.
Carter opened the door of the sedan and got out. The sun would be up in another thirty minutes. The cool, end-of-summer morning was invigorating, yet by ten a.m. it would be in the high seventies. He would be long gone by then, of course. And then, maybe, he could live again.
He walked down the street to the house that matched the address and the Google Earth satellite photo. Amazing what a little research could reveal. He did not even have to use his special clearance to get the information. Someone had not been too careful, and that someone would now pay. The loss of another, one loved. There was no pain greater.
The house was dark. Even the porch lights were out. Perfect. A hedge of oleanders bordered one side of the house. He followed those up to the house. He was camouflaged in black, but in another twenty minutes, when the sun came up over the hills and reflected off the clear, blue Pacific, it would do him little good. He held the knife flat against his thigh. This kill would be personal.
He pulled out a metal tool, and with a few shimmies into the lock, the door clicked open. He entered the living area. He did not want to face the children. He wanted this over before they woke up. It was summer, after all. Hopefully they were taking advantage of the long days and late nights in front of the TV, and were sleeping in. They were innocent in all this.
He crept down the hall to the bedroom. The attractive blonde lay sleeping on her side, a gentle snore echoing in the room.
Carter stood over her and waited for her to wake up. He wanted to tell her it was not her fault. None of this was her fault, per se. There was only one man to blame for all this. He wanted her to see that; know it. It was not her – no. She was innocent.
So was his Jenna Rose.
Part One
One
A breeze blew in off the Pacific, and the briny smell of sea water invigorated him like nothing else could. He grew up on the water; miles and a world away from this. He didn’t have the views, or the house on a hill of sand and seagrass, the blue water and white noise of the waves to dull the demons in his head. No, Lieutenant Vincent Girardi didn’t grow up quite like this, but what he had was enough. Eventually, once they’d survived it all, it became enough.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted into the sun, which had come up over the mountains on the other side of Pacific Coast Highway hours ago. He had a headache. He blamed the scotch he’d consumed, and the woman he’d fucked, on a night when he made a point of doing neither, no matter what, or whom. Yet, drink and fuck he did, and he did both with Stacey Cash. Now, Stacey Cash was an abnormally beautiful girl, and he enjoyed her company—to a point. What possessed him to break the rules (his own self-imposed, by the way) and indulge in both Ms. Cash and too much Glenlivet 15-year French oak reserve was a question best left for another time. Vince prided himself on his ability to stay sharp and focused on the job. Now he was paying for it. Stacey was good for one thing and one thing only: helping him forget. She was not, however, worth a Monday morning hangover.
“Thanks for joining,” Frank said, coming up along his blind side. Vince was late, and it was out of character. Detective Frank Jordan also prided himself on sharpness and ability to focus on the job; he expected nothing less of his partner of ten years. It mattered not that Vince outranked him.
“Sorry.”
“You look…hung.”
“Great,” Vince said with a nod toward the ranch style house. “Whadda we got?” Without answering, Frank led him up the driveway and in through an open set of French doors. The main room was bright, the furniture fluffy, and the tchotchkes abundant.
“Female vic,” Frank began. “Alice Jessup, fifty-five, throat slashed.”
“Who called it in?”
“Friend. Vic was supposed to meet her for yoga or something this morning at nine. When she didn’t show, the friend calls, and after an hour or so and no answer, she came over. She knocked, no answer, saw the vic’s car in the driveway, and walked around the house. Saw the door open in back.”
“She come in, touch anything?”
“She came in, and she saw what you’re seeing,” Frank said. “She’s pretty shook up.”
“Yeah. Did she touch anything?”
“Says no, but you know how that goes.”
The body lay supine, but it did not appear to Vince she had started out that way. Her legs were together and to the side, as if that was the position in which she slept. Her hands rested on her upper chest, just below her throat. Her hands were covered in blood.
“Jane on?”
“She is,” said Jane Davis from the doorway. The county coroner was a fixture on most of their cases and all worked well together.
“You got a time of death yet?” Vince asked.
“Rigor puts time of death between five and six hours ago.”
“So, five a.m.”
“Give or take,” she said.
“Forced entry?” Vince asked Frank.
“Uniforms first on the scene said yes, back door.”
“What do you think?” Jane asked.
Vince studied the corpse. “A murder, up close and personal. No sign of a struggle, which means she was probably asleep when the attack took place.” After so long in homicide he was immune to the signs and smells of death. He never felt at peace with that. “We’ll do our thing, you do yours,” he said.
“Always,” Jane replied. “Hey, you look nice.”
Vince ran his hands down the lapels of the jacket self-consciously. “Thanks. Court this afternoon.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah. Copy that.” Vince joined Frank at the end of the driveway. Across the wide street—fifty yards at least—stood another house, bigger, higher on the hill, with nothing but beach, seagrass and flowering pink ice plant surrounding it. Almost a mile between the only two houses on the road, and the highway.
“Odd road,” Vince observed.
“Yeah. This place,” Frank said, waving his hand toward the steel-blue Cape Cod style home, its tall iron gates anchoring ornamental iron fencing and flagstone balusters down to the sand line, and up past the house another 300 feet. Privet grew along the fence line for privacy, its sweet smell permeating the air. Vince looked from the big house to the smaller one.
“Private. No one to hear you scream.” Vince crossed the street and pressed an intercom button on a keypad next to the gate. A female voice came through the speaker. “May I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am, Lieutenant Girardi and Detective Jordan, Metro PD. May we speak with you a moment?” He held his identification up to the eye of a camera.
“One moment, please.” When enough time passed to irritate Vince, he pressed the intercom again. This time the woman said, “Come in, please.”
The gate clunked and slid open to the left, disappearing behind the privet. A semi-circle of thuja fifteen feet high hid the west end of the house from the street to the sand line, and two deep pink crape myrtle dominated lower shrubs on either side of the flagstone walkway to the front door. Another walkway led to a side door next to a three-car garage and a concrete pad with a basketball hoop. Bikes and balls littered the pad and the deep green expanse of lawn beyond the garage and down to the fence. It was not lost on Vince that the thuja was strategically placed to block the play area from the street. Large windows took in the view of the bay and the beautiful front yard. Four dormer windows graced the second-floor roofline. Cameras were well-placed to take in every angle of the yard, and beyond to the street.
“We’ll need to look at video from those cameras,” Vince said.
“Top line security, on a street like this.” Frank noted. “Why?”
“I guess we’ll know in a minute,” Vince said as a woman opened the side door. “Good morning.” Both held their IDs aloft and introduced themselves again. “Are you the owner of the house?”
“No. I’m Lucy Vega. I take care of Mrs. Castillo’s children. Come in, please.” The kitchen was well-appointed, and the smells of coffee and maple syrup made Vince’s mouth water, despite the headache he was still sporting. A long black granite counter separating the kitchen from a round table and chairs was set with plates, silverware, and napkins.
The woman led them out a swinging door and into a long hallway that stretched the width of the house; tiled foyer inside the front door led to a stairway. A large room sat at the end of the hall beyond a pair of open French doors. In front of them was a step-down living room with a wall of windows and, if Vince had his bearings right, the beach beyond. The house felt solid under his feet. Having lived with sinking floors and thin walls, the assessment was something Vince was well-versed in.
“One moment, please.” The woman exited through an open sliding wall. Vince looked around the high-end but comfortable room; wide-screen TV, top- of-the-line stereo and speakers, comfortable micro-suede couches, high-gloss black and glass tables, and a dominating stone fireplace—it screamed money, good fortune. No worries. Family photographs in unassuming frames sat atop side tables and a wall of shelves. Two children—a boy and a girl—were in all of them, some with them together, others alone, and many with a blonde woman. One appeared to be a family photo: the kids, the blonde, and a handsome, dark- featured man. The boy child was dark-haired and light-eyed, and the girl had hair the color of honey. Her complexion was olive, like the man in the pictures.
In a moment the woman was back, beckoning them outside. “Lieutenant Girardi and Detective Jordan,” she said, addressing the back of a woman leaning over the gate.
“David, breakfast,” the woman said without turning around. “Please dry off and come in.”
“Ten minutes,” came a pre-pubescent reply
“Now, David.” Her tone brooked no argument.
“Fine. God, Mom,” the boy answered.
“David, come now, mijo,” Lucy said, draping a towel over his shoulders when he came through the gate. “I’ve made pancakes. Dry off, now, please, and find your sister.” The kid gave Vince the side-eye before he was ushered inside.
“Sorry about that,” the woman said. She turned to face the men.
Her hair was flaxen and sat atop her shoulders, straight and coiffed around her face. Her eyes were the color of moss. She was tall, mid-thirties, in Vince’s estimation. She wore a lime green, sleeveless blouse and white Capri pants that showed off a spectacular curvy figure. Money. Money and class. The woman oozed it.
“I’m Rowan Delaney.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her right ear. “What can I do for you?” They made their introductions again before Vince spoke.
“Had a situation occur across the street early this morning, wondered if you heard anything unusual.”
“Yes, I saw the police cars.”
“You know Mrs. Alice Jessup, ma’am?”
“Yes, of course. What’s happened?”
“She was murdered.”
“What?” Vince hesitated, pretty sure she heard him the first time. “You’re kidding, right?” she said.
“No, ma’am.” Vince saw the look of confusion, followed by the desperate need to make sense of the senseless—eyes wide, lips parted, moisture dotting the small creases in her forehead, the sadness that suffused an otherwise-flawless face.
“Alice?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” It was a platitude cops uttered often because there was nothing else to say. This time was no exception.
“Let’s go in,” she said, moving past them. Once inside, she addressed Vince. “I— I don’t understand. Please.” She’d run out of any reasoning for what had happened. He saw it all the time.
“Were you home all morning?” he asked.
“Y-yes. I was up at seven or so.”
“Anyone else in the house?”
“The kids and Lucy.”
“Who’s Lucy?”
“The woman…” She waved a delicate hand in the general direction of the kitchen, where Lucy and the boy disappeared.
“Sorry,” Vince interrupted. “Who is Lucy to you?”
“She helps with the kids, she takes care of me. What hap—”
“What time did everyone else get up, do you know?”
“Eight thirty or so. Can you please explain to me what happened?”
“Does Ms. Vega live here full time?”
The woman huffed out a frustrated breath. “No.”
“But she slept here last night?”
“Yes.”
Vince turned to Frank. “Question her.”
“Hold on...”
The detectives stared at the woman, who looked ready to toss them both out on their asses. Frank stepped up.
“Ms. Delaney... sorry. I know this is a lot to take in. We’re not really sure what happened across the street. Ms. Jessup was found this morning after she missed an appointment. We’re just beginning our investigation, so we can’t tell you much right now. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to speak to Lu— Ms. Vega.”
“Kids, too,” Vince said.
“Whoa, hang on...” Rowan began.
“Not just yet,” Frank said, trying to smooth things so that he could at least question the nanny... or whatever she was.
Rowan Delaney seemed to contemplate this for a moment and looked over Vince’s shoulder as Lucy Vega came out of the swinging kitchen door.
“Luce, while the kids are eating, would you speak to the detective here? Alice Jessup, across the street...”
The woman looked from Vince to Rowan, then nodded. “Of course. Whatever you need.” Now Vince found himself alone with the woman and unsure of how to proceed. Something told him this wouldn’t, or shouldn’t, be a quick visit. He wasn’t sure why. “What about your husband?” he asked, believing it to be fair territory.
Confusion crossed her face for a moment, until she glanced over at a picture displayed on a side table of a man with the two children.
“He’s no longer with us.”
Vince nodded. “So, you saw or heard nothing unusual this morning, early, say around five or six?”
