Designed for Death Read Free Page A

nodded, darted another frown my way and left.
    For a happy instant, Jack’s face flooded my mind, looking as vibrant as when he was alive. A quirky grin lifted his lips, and he started to speak in the brogue I found more enchanting than love songs.
    But I blinked, and he disappeared.
    I struggled not to cry as Officer Batano strode back into Simon’s condo like he owned the place. “Homicide’s on the way. Detective Rossi will want to talk to all of you. No one leaves until he gets here.”
    “We’re not going anywhere.” Simon looked over at me, the hint of a wry smile on his lips. “Why should we? We’re in paradise.”
    Paradise? Where Treasure’s brutalized body had been flung in a tub like a dirty towel? Paradise, where I’d clung to another woman’s husband as if he’d offered me a lifeline? Paradise, where loneliness substituted for love? Paradise? I didn’t think so. No, I didn’t think so at all.
    The scotch had worn off.

Chapter Three
    “Mrs. Dunne, come with me, please.” Lieutenant Victor Rossi of the Naples P.D. beckoned with a finger then started down the hall.
    Knees knocking but shoulders thrust back, I followed him to Simon’s bedroom, where the lieutenant had set up a makeshift interrogation room. I knew I’d have to relive the whole nightmare scene and dreaded it. Another senseless, violent death, another life snuffed out without warning. Nausea rose into my throat. I swallowed and tamped it down. But I couldn’t do a thing about the trembling in my hands.
    Lieutenant Rossi closed the bedroom door. In a pink-flowered shirt, the tail hanging over his white pants, he looked like a fugitive from Miami Vice. The look was deceptive. Though only a few inches taller than my five six, he had muscular arms and seam-stretching shoulders. A shiver rode my spine. Pink shirt or no pink shirt, he scared me. If I hadn’t been sober a minute ago, I was now.
    Lieutenant Rossi closed the door and stationed himself at the foot of the bed, legs wide, notebook in hand. I slumped on the edge of the worst-looking duvet cover in the world. Rust and brown stripes cross-hatched with orange.
    “You live here in the Surfside Condominiums, correct?” he asked.
    “On the first floor, Unit 104,” I said, plucking at a loose orange thread.
    “Your name’s Devalera Dunne?”
    “Yes.”
    He held the stub of a pencil over his notebook. “Spell your first name.” He wrote it down before glancing across at me. “Unusual.”
    “My father wanted a son but got me instead. He named me for his political hero, Eamon DeValera. President of the Irish Republic. Champion of justice. When I was growing up, Dad loved to—”
    Lieutenant Rossi shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stared at the ceiling, so I stopped.
    “How long did you know the victim?”
    I broke into a sweat. “About six weeks.”
    He looked up from his notes. “That’s all?”
    “I’ve only been in Naples a few months.”
    “Where you from?” His tone changed to casual. He must’ve seen my discomfort. I kept trying to snap the duvet thread off, but the stitches continued to unravel. “So you’re from…?”
    “Boston.”
    “Live alone?”
    “I beg your pardon.” Heat rushed up to my face. “Why does that matter?”
    He lowered the notebook like it weighed a ton. “No offense, lady, but there’s a dead body next door. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you go home. So. You live alone?”
    “Yes.” I hated living alone. “I’m a widow.” Tears pricked at my eyelids. It happened every time I used the W word.
    He scribbled some more and, without looking at me, asked, “How did your husband die?”
    “I don’t have to—”
    “No, you don’t,” he said, his voice low, “but I’m asking anyway.”

    I drew in a deep breath. Just give him the facts. You don’t have to relive it, you only have to retell it. “My husband, Jack Dunne, was killed last December fifteenth. His car went out of control on Route