Everything But The Truth

“You didn’t have to cook for me.  I would have eaten anything.  Some crackers.  A piece of bread . . .”  Her voice trailed off.  Staring at the burger, the woman who called herself Pepper inhaled and smiled.  “It smells delicious.  Thank you.”

     Reeve Sinclair watched as she bit into the sandwich, chewed and swallowed.  Her facial bones were delicately carved, her lips full.  The bright red hair had come from a bottle and she hadn’t done a very good job of it.  There were streaks of honey blonde mixed in, which he assumed was her natural color. 

     She was thin, even a bit lanky, and small breasted.  He wouldn’t call her beautiful.  In fact, he’d bet that underneath all that make-up she was only average looking at best.  But she had the most amazing green eyes.  And a killer smile. 

     Clearing his throat, he said, “I’ll go get you some more water.”  Heading for the bar, he thought, if it weren’t for the way she was dressed, he would never believe she was a prostitute.  She had an innocent look about her.  A soft side.  He’d been a cop for ten years and he’d never met a hooker like her. 

     But if she wasn’t a prostitute, then why the hell was she pretending to be one?  That didn’t make sense.  Looking over his shoulder he stared at her some more.  When she met his gaze and smiled shyly, he quickly looked away.  Get a grip, Sinclair.  Of course, she’s a hooker.  No one would lie about something like that.

Everything

But

The Truth

by

Debby Conrad

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Everything But The Truth

COPYRIGHT
Ó
2010 by Debby Conrad

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [email protected]

Cover Art by
Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Rose Edition, 2010

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For Mac Walker, our daughter's real life hero.

Welcome to our crazy family. I hope you and Ashley have a wonderful life together.

Thanks to fellow author Al Chaput

for all your input and the smoking gun tip.

You’re right, a gun that had just been fired

would
be hot against the skin. Ouch!

Without your help

this story would not have come alive.

Praise for

Debby Conrad

Debut novel,
LUST'S BETRAYAL
, was a finalist in the Bookseller's Best Award and a finalist in the Reader's Choice sponsored by AuthorIsland.com.

Chapter One

“The kid knows too much,” Louie announced, pacing the parquet floor of Sonny Donatelli’s library. “We gotta take him out.”

Sonny leaned back in his buttery-soft, leather desk chair, puffed on his cigar and studied the man. “Are you trying to tell me what to do, Louie?”

Louie’s pacing came to an abrupt halt. After glancing quickly at Nick, he said, “No, sir, Mr. Donatelli.”

No one told Sonny what to do. He was in charge. Louie Jacobi and Nick Montero worked for
him
. They did what
he
told them to do. Not the other way around.

Louie ran his hand through his greasy, dark hair, then straightened his bony shoulders. The man was so thin and wiry he looked as if he could be blown over by a strong gust of wind, but in spite of his physique, Louie could be mean and deadly when he had to be.

“Roscoe’s been talking to some priest,” Nick said, coming to Louie’s rescue. “Father Mike Micelli over at St. Christopher’s. Not to mention what he might have told his girlfriend, Lisa Lorenzo.”

“A priest?” Sonny asked, astounded. “When the hell did he find God?”

“That’s just it,” Louie said. “Ever since Roscoe met that Lisa broad, he’s been talking about religion and marriage and babies.” He made a sour face. “And he already told you he wants out, that he wants to go straight. He even brought up the deal with Marco, right in front of the broad.”

Sonny thought the situation over, knowing he couldn’t afford any loose ends. “Roscoe’s my nephew,” he said, though both Nick and Louie already knew that. Then his tone took on a much sharper edge. “I’m the kid’s godfather, for chrissakes. You really think he’d shoot off his mouth about me to his girlfriend and some priest?”

Nick pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up higher on his square face and rubbed at his bald head before exchanging a look with Louie. Those looks told Sonny what he wanted to know. He put out his cigar in the ashtray on his desk and stood. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, he said, “Kill him. The girlfriend, and the priest too.”

Nick spoke up. “You know I don’t kill priests.”

Yeah, Sonny knew that. Nick’s younger brother was a priest. “Louie and Frank will take care of the priest. You two take care of Roscoe and the girl.” Waving his hand, he said, “Make it look like an accident. If my sister sees her son with a bullet in his forehead, she’ll know I was involved.”

They nodded. “You got it,” Nick said.

Once they’d left, Sonny slumped into his chair. His nephew had betrayed him.

Stupid little bastard
. Sonny had bounced the kid on his knee, attended all of the squirt’s birthday parties and his high school graduation. He’d given him his first job. And this was the way Roscoe showed his respect?

Sonny shook his head. “Stupid little bastard.” He deserved to die.

****

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Jane asked. “No guy is ever going to forget the fact I’m a hooker. I’m never going to find someone who’s going to love me. All he’ll ever think about is the fact I sold my body for money and the men I slept with.” Jane took another drag from her cigarette, looked at it with disgust and finally dropped it in her empty pop can.

Through the haze of smoke, Peyton Delaney stared at the young woman dressed in short, tight clothing sitting across from her. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe that for a minute. You made a mistake, Jane. Took a wrong turn. But you don’t have to punish yourself for the rest of your life. Anyone who can’t put aside your past, and love you for the person you really are, doesn’t deserve you.”

“Stop calling me Jane! I’m Jade now. I told you that.”

Yes, she’d told her. Most of the girls Peyton counseled had changed their names to more dramatic ones like Velvet, Desiree and Bibi, just to name a few. Amy had chosen Amber.

The girl chomped on her gum and avoided Peyton’s eyes. When her attention turned to the closed door of the small office—an office that was actually a spare bedroom on the third floor of the shelter and furnished with only a scarred, gunmetal gray desk and two folding chairs—Peyton feared Jane might get up and leave.

When she’d accepted this job almost a year ago, she had never realized how difficult it would be to counsel troubled teenage girls and young women. Some days she felt as if she were beating her head against the wall, and some days it was as if she were on a personal crusade, although there was nothing she could do to bring back Amy.

Even with everything involved, she wanted this job more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life, and she refused to give up.

Peyton heard a muffled chirping sound. Jane dug in her black leather bag and pulled out a cell phone. “Speak to me.”

The girl wore garish make-up, her bleached blonde hair teased high on her head, but she had pretty eyes and a nice smile, when she bothered to smile. Jane came across as tough and hard, but Peyton knew that underneath she was just a scared eighteen-year-old kid who’d lost her way. The same way Amy had.

“I’m busy, Carlos,” Jane said, frowning and looking at her Mickey Mouse watch. “I know. I’ll be there at six. I promise.” Smiling apologetically, she snapped the phone shut and tossed it back in her bag. “That was my pimp, Carlos Santini. He’s such a jerk.”

Obviously
. Anyone who took advantage of young girls was a scumbag as far as she was concerned. “He has your cell number?” she asked.

“Duh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He insists we each carry one. He even makes us have numbers that are easy to remember. Mine’s 555-JADE. Isn’t that clever?” Her throaty voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Clever.” Wanting to get back to their original conversation, Peyton moved on. “Okay,
Jade
,” she said, emphasizing the girl’s choice in names. “I know you have yourself convinced that no one will ever forgive you, but I haven’t passed judgment on you, and neither has Father Mike.”

“Big deal. You guys are just a couple of do-gooders. You have no idea what it’s like in the real world. As for me, well some people would rather spit on me than sit next to me on a bus.”

“So, you think you deserve to be beaten…used, and stripped of your future and your dreams?”

Jane gave her a look of defiance, but didn’t say anything.

“Is that what you want?”

The girl broke eye contact. “No,” she said quietly, tears forming.

Peyton reached for Jane’s hand and squeezed it tightly.
Finally, we’re getting somewhere
. “Tell me about your mother and stepfather.”

Jane sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her free hand. “My stepfather’s an asshole.”

Okay. That was a typical comment. “Tell me about your mother then.”

Pulling her hand away, Jane’s gaze wandered around the office, but not really focusing on anything in particular. Shrugging, she said, “She’s okay…sometimes.”

Peyton relaxed a little and smiled. “I’ll bet she’s worried sick about you.”

Shrugging, the girl said, “We never got along. She’s probably glad to be rid of me.”

Amy Wilkins had said the same thing once, but Peyton would never forget the way Amy’s mother had broken down at her daughter’s funeral. Nor would Peyton forget that Mrs. Wilkins had blamed her for Amy’s death.

****

Peyton was late for her meeting with Father Mike. Her session with Jane had run over, but wait until Father Mike heard the good news. Jane had actually allowed Peyton to phone her mother in Albany, and then the girl and her mother had talked for almost an hour. Although Jane hadn’t agreed to go home to her family, or move into the shelter, Peyton knew it was only a matter of time.

After her session was over, Peyton had called her own mother. Just to let her know everything was going okay in the Big Apple and to tell her about the progress she’d been making with some of the girls.

Her parents hadn’t wanted her to take this job. Not just because of the constant reminders of Amy, the girl she’d been counseling, but because they were worried about her living in a big city on her own. “A small town girl with no street smarts,” her father had said. “New York City isn’t safe for someone like you.”

In the end, they’d given her their blessing. After all, she was thirty years old and had never been outside her hometown. Bedford, Iowa—population eight hundred fifty-two. Eight hundred fifty-one, now that she’d gone.

She’d attended a local university and then worked as a high school counselor before moving to New York to work with the runaways and prostitutes at the women’s shelter. Parishioners of St. Christopher’s Church had donated to this worthy cause to get these poor women off the streets. The program she wanted Jane to participate in was called WIN and stood for Women in Need. In exchange for room and board, the women had to learn a skill, find a job, and donate twenty percent of their income to the shelter during their stay. They also had to give up drugs and alcohol, which seemed to be the biggest challenge facing most of them. Then, after six months, they were on their own.

So far the success rate was higher than similar programs around the country. Nearly fifty percent of the girls had kept their act together.

Jane was a different story. She’d sworn she’d never used drugs of any kind, but still she was one tough cookie. Although she fought Peyton at every turn, she kept coming back for her weekly counseling sessions. Peyton had been working with her from the very beginning, and now, today, finally a breakthrough. She was so giddy with excitement she could jump up and down.

The bus came to a stop a block north of Yankee stadium. Peyton gathered her purse, stepped down from the bus and started walking toward St. Christopher’s, which was less than half a mile away.

For June, it was awfully humid. Her khaki pants and linen jacket stuck to her skin like wet tissue paper. Once she updated Father Mike on the girls’ progress, she’d head back to her apartment, take a nice cool shower, and maybe curl up with a good book.

She walked around to the side of the church and headed toward the rectory. That’s when she heard a funny popping sound, followed by a crash. Peyton hurried toward the house, telling herself it was nothing. Father Mike had probably just broken a glass or something.

“Father Mike?” she called out. Most of his windows were open, so she assumed he’d hear her. When she reached the porch steps, she peered through the screen door and froze.

There he was, lying face up on the kitchen floor, shattered glass strewn around him. Several carnations lay scattered among the broken glass.

The first thing she thought was that he’d had a heart attack. Yanking the door open she was about to step inside when she noticed the small neat hole in the middle of his forehead. It looked more like the peep hole in her apartment door than a bullet hole, except for the blood seeping out from beneath his head.

“Oh my God,” she gasped when she got her breath back, having no idea what to do. Suddenly, a man emerged from the shadows. A huge man with hard, cold, beady eyes, thinning blond hair and a thick mustache. He was pointing a gun directly at her chest.

Opening her mouth to scream, nothing came out. So instead, she flung her purse at him and ran toward the side door to the church.

She ran in a zigzag fashion, the way she’d seen people do on television shows when they were being shot at. And she was definitely being shot at. She heard the bullets as they sailed past her head. One hit the steel door just as she opened it. Screaming, she kept on running.

Although it was still light outside, it was dark inside the church, but Peyton knew her way around by heart. Running down a long, narrow hallway, she took the stairs leading to the basement. Opening the door to one of the storage rooms, she quickly slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Dodging what felt like a metal bucket with a mop, she climbed behind some boxes and dropped low to the floor.