Читать книгу Double Threat Christmas - Terri Reed - Страница 10

“A 9 mm revolver,” Andy said, holding up the weapon with his pencil through the trigger guard. “Found in the Dumpster out back.”

Paul moved to the exit leading to the back alley of the building. Putting his overcoat back on before stepping outside, he blinked to clear his vision as a sheet of cold snow hit him in the face. A streetlamp provided a small measure of light over the Dumpsters, while lamps had been set up to illuminate the work area for the CSI team as they continued their part of the investigation.

Paul found the team leader and asked her to extend the search in the upper part of gallery.

“Already on it,” Barbara Sims stated in her no-nonsense way. “We’ve dusted the door and lifted at least a dozen prints on the outside, but inside, everything…” She paused to emphasize her words. “And I mean nearly every square inch of that workroom has been wiped clean.”

Megan rubbing down her pumps before using the cloth to set them on the floor of the closet flashed in Paul’s mind.

Had her routine with the shoes been for real or for show?

He reentered the workroom, his gaze taking in the orderly way the room was arranged. Packing materials lined up neatly in one corner, brushes hung upside down from a rack, shortest to longest. The worktable where Megan claimed to have been working hardly looked messy at all.

A ball of string sat on one corner of the table, a tape dispenser beside it, a ruler next and a roll of brown packing paper, all lined up with the beveled edge. Everything one would need to secure a package, except the scissors.

“Lemon,” Paul said as he breathed in the scent.

Andy held up a can of lemon-scented air freshener. One of five that were lined along the bottom shelf of the workbench. “This.”

The same spray Megan had used earlier. Paul also noted the dozen boxes of antibacterial wipes stacked next to the air-freshener cans.

A commotion back in the gallery drew Paul’s attention. He and Andy moved together out of the workroom and found a uniformed officer trying to prevent a short, thin, elderly gentlemen, wearing a long trench coat, from entering the crime scene.

“What’s going on here?” the man asked, his nasally voice echoing off the walls. “I’m Lester Sinclair. I own this gallery.” Mr. Sinclair spotted Paul and directed his words to him. “I demand you tell me what’s going on this instant.”

Paul nodded for the officer to let Mr. Sinclair pass. “Sir, I’m Detective Wallace and this is my partner, Detective Howell. There has been a double homicide on the premises.”

Mr. Sinclair’s face turned ashen. “Oh, mercy no. Is Megan…?”

“Ms. McClain is fine. She’s been taken to the station for further questioning.” Paul pulled out his notepad. Keeping meticulous records of all interviews had served him well over the years, especially when some ambitious defense attorney tried to reinvent testimony.

“Who’s been killed?” Sinclair rose on the toes of his brown loafers, trying to look past Paul’s shoulder.

“A Thomas Drake and a Henry Vanderpool. Do you know them?”

Recognition registered in Sinclair’s green eyes. “What was Mr. Vanderpool doing here? He lost the bid on the painting last night.”

“That’s a good question.” So that confirmed what Megan had said about Vanderpool not being expected, only Drake. “Where have you been for the past three hours?”

Sinclair’s eyes widened. “I was here, until 6:00 p.m. Then I went out to get a bite to eat since I skipped lunch.”

“And where did you dine tonight?” Andy asked.

Sinclair cast him an irritated glance. “What does it matter?”

Andy leaned in intimidatingly closer. “Establishes an alibi.”

Sinclair blanched. “Oh. Oh, well, I was at Figaro’s.”

Paul arched an eyebrow at the name of the well-known restaurant where reservations were required to be made at least a month in advance. And Sinclair just decided to pop in for dinner? “Did you inform your curator that you were leaving?”

Sinclair frowned. “I don’t answer to my staff.”

Almost the same statement that Megan had made. “What about a night-shift security guard?” Paul questioned.

“Mack called in sick. It’s the third time this week. I think I’m going to have to fire him. The security company we use was supposed to send someone over at five. I assumed since Megan hadn’t said anything to the contrary that the guard had arrived as scheduled.”

Interesting. Megan claimed she didn’t know what was happening with the security guards. “So you informed Ms. McClain that a replacement guard would be arriving at five.”

“Yes.” He paused for a moment, a thoughtful look crossing his thin face. “Or maybe I just told Lacy.” He shook his head, his gaze befuddled. “I don’t really recall. Oh, what a mess. This will be bad for business.” He grabbed Andy’s arm. “Can you keep this out of the paper?”

“Doubtful, once the pariah of the media get a whiff of murder,” Andy stated with contempt and shook off Sinclair’s hand.

“The assistant who’d left early for an appointment?” Paul asked to keep the focus on the investigation. He wasn’t concerned with Sinclair’s business or reputation.

Sinclair sighed. “Yes. She’s always running off to one appointment or another.”

Convenience or coincidence? Paul would find out. “I’m going to need the names and addresses of all your employees and anyone else who has the security codes for the gallery.”

“Yes, of course. You can have anything you want,” Sinclair said, and pointed up with his long, bony finger. “All that information is in my office.”

“We’ll also need the video feed from the monitors in the yellow room and if there’s one in the workroom,” Paul stated.

Sinclair grimaced. “Actually, the video monitors are deterrents only. Our security is set up to stop theft, not catch a murderer. All the pieces of art are wired so if they are removed or tampered with, the gates go down.”

Frustration beat a steady tattoo at Paul’s temple. Video of the murders would have been so much more efficient in apprehending the villain.

Paul escorted Sinclair upstairs, and after getting a nod to go ahead from the CSI techs, they entered the plush, opulent office. A wall of windows overlooked Lexington Avenue. Paul made a note to check the building across the street and find anyone who might have seen something at the gallery.

Sinclair went to his glass-topped desk and fired up his notebook computer. “Everything is computerized these days,” he said as he hit some keys. The printer on the glass sidebar started to hum and spit out papers.

“How would you describe Megan McClain?” Paul asked.

Sinclair’s chin rose and pride entered his voice. “She is an exemplary employee. Trustworthy, hardworking and…and very organized.”

“And Lacy Knight?”

“Ah, Lacy.” His chin dropped and his voice softened. “Young, a bit flighty but she tries. She’s my great-niece, you know. Some day she’ll make a good curator,” Sinclair replied as he gathered the papers from the printer and handed them to Paul.

Taking the printed sheets with the employee records, Paul met his partner at the front door.

“I’ve sent some uniforms to canvass the neighborhood,” Andy informed Paul.

“Good.” Paul headed toward the entrance. “We need to find the assistant, Lacy. I have some questions for her.”

“Detectives,” called Sims from the doorway of the women’s restroom. “There are traces of blood in the sink and drain.”

Megan’s raw, red hands popped into Paul’s mind. “Get back to me on any DNA you find besides the vics’.”

Sims inclined her head in acknowledgment and went back to work.

Andy shook his head. “I think what happened was McClain hadn’t wanted to give up the painting. She gutted Drake but didn’t expect Vanderpool to show up, so she used the gun on him. Now instead of just one body to deal with she had two. So she calls 911 and makes up the story about going to find her boss.”

For some reason the whole scenario bummed Paul out.

Megan McClain had definitely become a full-fledged suspect.

“Wallace. Howell.” A man just entering the building called to the detectives.

Paul glanced at Andy and saw the same surprise reflected in Andy’s dark eyes that was shooting through Paul. What was Chief Erickson doing here?

“Chief,” Andy said to the older, balding man.

Chief Erickson shook the snow off his hat as he moved closer. “I heard about our double homicide. I know the victims.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, sympathy coating his words.

Erickson’s brown eyes revealed sadness. “Me, too. So tell me what you have.”

Paul filled the chief in on their suspect Megan and explained what little evidence had been gathered so far. “After we inform the families, we’ll check out the alibi for the owner and find out where the other employees were at the time of the murders.”

“I’ll inform the families,” the chief said, his voice gruff.

A jolt of relief sparked through Paul. Telling the victims’ families of their loved ones’ death was never pleasant.

“You want one of us to go with you?” Andy asked, compassion evident in his voice.

The chief shook his head. “I’ll take Gonzales and a uniform with me. I think I’ll call Shelia Wells, as well.”

Paul thought having a crisis counselor on hand when delivering the heartbreaking news a brilliant idea. And taking Detective Maria Gonzales was also another smart move. Maria’s ability to calm people and at the same time gain information was legendary within the department. The chief knew what he was doing when he called Maria. Paul respected the man and looked forward to many years of tutelage under his command.

“We’ll go do our interviews,” Andy said, and headed toward the door.

Paul followed Andy out the gallery entrance and into the deluge of snow; within seconds Paul’s hair was soaked. They hustled into their unmarked sedan, Andy at the wheel.

“So what do you think?” Andy questioned as he maneuvered the car around some pedestrians hurrying across the street, their heads tucked low.

“It doesn’t look good for Ms. McClain,” Paul stated.

Means, motive and opportunity.

But a niggling of doubt lifted the hairs at Paul’s nape. Somehow he couldn’t see Megan, who exercised extreme sanitary measures, leaving behind such a bloody mess.

The phone rang. Once, twice. Then was answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“It’s done,” the caller said with a slight tremor.

Silence met the announcement, followed closely by a sigh. One of relief or regret, the caller didn’t know. And didn’t care. This was about money, not emotion.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t do this for your gratitude. And I want double the money since it was double the trouble,” the caller stated in harsh tones.

“What? What do you mean double? I am not paying you more than what we agreed on.”

“Oh, yes, you are.” The caller’s voice took on an edge of steel. “Because I’m not going away. If you think I haven’t taken steps to protect myself on this, you’d be wrong.”

A strangled sound came over the line. “I’ll get you the money.”

“I know.” The caller hung up.

“Let’s follow up on Sinclair’s alibi. There’s something about the guy that sets my teeth on edge,” Paul said, thinking how convenient it was that the owner would leave early just in time for the murders to take place.

Within a few minutes, they’d made the trek to Figaro’s. The savory smells of spices filled Paul’s senses, making his stomach rumble. The clinking of expensive dinnerware and hushed voices could be heard over the soft classical music playing in the background. Paul’s gaze swept over the mirrored walls, plush seating and white, linen tablecloths where the powerful came to do business and be seen.

A long, oak bar with high stools and brass appointments ran the length of the restaurant. Men in business suits and women in high-fashion styles nursed drinks while assumedly waiting for an available table.

Paul and Andy flashed their badges to the hostess, a pretty woman in her late twenties with long, straight, red hair, which covered her shoulders and made a stark contrast to the silky green shift she wore.

She blinked, her gaze shifting from Andy to Paul and back.

Andy gestured to Paul. “We have a few questions.”

The young woman beamed and thrust out her ample chest. “Sure, anything for you. I’m Gina.”

“Gina, do you remember a Mr. Lester Sinclair coming in earlier this evening?” Paul asked. “Short, thin, sixties?”

Her head bobbed. “The art guy, sure. He’s a regular.”

Paul pulled out his notepad. An expensive habit. “What time did he come in tonight?”

Gina thought for a moment. “He came in at about six something. He wanted to sit in Angela’s section, so he had to wait for a bit.”

“Why did he want Angela?” Paul inquired.

Gina’s smile turned sly. “She’s more his speed.”

“Can we speak with Angela?” Andy asked.

“Let me get her,” Gina replied, and sashayed away.

A moment later, Gina returned, followed by a tall, regal-looking older woman dressed in black slacks and blouse with a white apron.

Judging by the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, Paul put her at fifty-five-ish, but her figure belied her age. Her dark hair had been swept back into a sleek twist, and the woman exuded a graceful elegance that was indicative of Figaro’s.

“Gentlemen, can I help you?” Angela’s throaty voice held just a hint of mild curiosity.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Mr. Sinclair,” Andy stated.

Angela inclined her head. “Ask away.”

“We understand that Mr. Sinclair was here this evening, is that correct?” Paul asked.

A coy smile played at her red lips. “Yes. He came in and, as usual, waited to be seated in my section. He had the house specialty. Then he moved to the bar for a cocktail.”

“So he is a regular?” Paul asked.

“Yes. Twice a week for the past, oh, gosh, five years.”

“So you know him pretty well?” Andy asked.

She gave him a haughty stare. “Yes. I like to get to know my customers.”

“When would you say he left the restaurant?” Paul inquired, drawing her attention.

“I really couldn’t say. He sat at the bar for a while.” Angela gestured to the bar. “You should ask Rod.”

“We will,” Andy said, and moved to the bar.

“Thank you for your time,” Paul said. “Just one last question. Does Sinclair normally come in on Tuesday nights?”

Angela’s eyebrows drew together. “Now that you mention it, no. Usually Thursday nights and Friday afternoons for lunch. I often sit with him for a while on Thursday nights. But tonight we were slammed, so I wasn’t able to.”

Paul narrowed his gaze. “Do you usually sit with your customers?”

She gave him a bold smile. “Only the ones that tip well.”

“Ah. Thank you. If I have any other questions, I’ll know where to find you.” Paul joined Andy with the bartender, Rod.

“Rod, here, was just saying that Sinclair joined a young woman at the bar tonight,” Andy informed Paul.

Paul recorded the information in his notepad. “Did you happen to hear the woman’s name?”

Rod, a muscular man with a crew cut and a scar on one cheek, shook his head. “No, sorry, dude. She came in and sat here nursing a glass of house wine. When Sinclair got up to leave, she halted him and invited him to sit with her. I got the impression he was surprised. They both drank a scotch and sat talking for about forty minutes, maybe longer. I was busy, so I didn’t hear any of their conversation.”

“What time did he leave?” Paul asked.

“Eight-ish, I think.”

Paul exchanged a glance with Andy. So far Sinclair’s alibi checked out. “Was he here the whole time?”

Rod shrugged. “I don’t know what time he came in. He ordered his first drink from me sometime after seven.”

“Did the woman pay with a credit card?” Andy asked.

Rod shook his head. “No. Actually, Mr. Sinclair picked up the tab.”

“For her wine, as well?” Paul asked.

“Yeah.”

“Can you describe her?” Andy asked.

Rod raised his hand shoulder height. “She was about so tall, curvy in the right places. Blond, blue-eyed. Pretty.”

Paul gauged Rod to be about six feet. If the woman came only to his shoulder, she was about five-five or-six. “Had you seen her before?”

“No. First time on my shift. But I could tell she wasn’t comfortable here. A couple of guys tried hitting on her, but she made it clear she wasn’t interested.”

Paul exchanged a curious glance with Andy.

Paul closed his notebook. “You’ve been a big help.”

Andy handed the guy a card. “If you think of anything else about Sinclair or the lady, let us know.”

Rod slipped the card into the pocket of his black silk dress shirt. “Yeah, sure.”

“Just a sec,” Paul said to Andy. “I have one last question for Angela.”

He tracked her down near the kitchen doors.

She paused with a plate of salad greens in hand and a pepper grinder tucked against her body by her elbow. “Detective? Was there something else?”

“One last question. Did Sinclair stay in his seat the whole time he was in your section?”

She thought for a moment. “No. He actually was gone for about ten minutes. I assume he used the facilities.”

Time unaccounted for. Paul jotted that down. “Thanks.”

Paul preceded Andy out of the restaurant and to the car. He shook off the snow and climbed in. Once they were moving, Paul said, “Alibi has some holes. And he changed his pattern. Angela said he usually comes in on Thursdays for dinner and Fridays for lunch. Why’d he go to Figaro’s tonight, exactly when the murders were taking place? And she said he left his table for a while. The gallery’s not that far from here. He could have slipped out the back and gone to the gallery, killed Drake and Vanderpool and then returned without anyone questioning him.”

“Yeah. Could have happened like that. He must be one quick clean-up artist though,” Andy stated dryly. “What’s with the woman? Random or what?”

“I don’t know. But it’s interesting that Sinclair didn’t mention the lady. Probably more worried about his wife finding out.” Paul consulted the papers with the employees’ addresses on it that he’d received from Sinclair. “Let’s go see the assistant.”

Paul gave Andy the address to an apartment in SoHo on Prince Street. Andy parked a few blocks away from the prewar, six-floor, elevator apartment building. They hustled down the street and under the overhang to the building to get out of the snow and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The dimly lit hallway extended to the last apartment, 4D.

From the other side of the door, music blared. The metal door had a round peephole. Paul knocked and held up his badge. Paul knocked harder. The music abruptly stopped, and the door was yanked open.

Paul stared in surprise at the curly haired, little girl standing in the doorway. He guessed her to be about six. “Is Lacy Knight here?”

The girl frowned. “Lacy’s out. What do you want?”

“Is there an adult here with you?” Andy asked, his gaze searching beyond the girl.

“Momma!” the girl yelled, and moved away from the door, leaving it wide open.

Paul shared a look of disbelief and anger with Andy. They could be serial killers. What was this kid doing opening the door to strangers?

A young woman stumbled out from a doorway to the right of the small kitchen. She had the same curly blond hair and blue eyes as the kid. She wore floral flannel pj’s and fuzzy slippers. Her eyes widened when she saw Paul and Andy. Paul held up his badge for her to see.

She rushed forward. “Is something wrong? What are you doing here?” She turned toward the little girl now sitting on the couch tucked under a blanket. “Susie, go into the bedroom.”

“Aw, Ma,” little Susie huffed but took her blanket and stomped away.

“Ma’am, we’re looking for Lacy Knight,” Andy stated, his voice harder than normal.

The woman waved her hand. “Lacy’s not here. She’s staying with her parents uptown. Susie and I are just camping here for a few days.”

“And you are?” Paul took out his notepad to record her name.

“Jasmine Oliphant and that’s my daughter, Susie.”

“How do you know Lacy?” Paul asked.

“We met a few years ago at an AA meeting. Is Lacy in some kind of trouble?”

“No, ma’am. We just have some questions. You said you met at an AA meeting. Is Lacy an alcoholic?”

Jasmine’s gaze grew defensive. “Recovering. Just as I am.”

Paul made a note of the information in his notepad. “If you could give us her parents’ address?” Paul asked, his pen poised to take down the address.

Jasmine’s mouth turned down. “I don’t know it. I never asked for their address. She works uptown at some art gallery, though.”

“Yes, we know.” Frustration knocked at Paul’s ribs.

He’d have to wait until Lacy came in to work tomorrow to interview her. He flipped his notepad closed. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother.” She smiled, two dimples appearing near her mouth.

“Ma’am, I’d suggest you have a stern talk with your daughter about opening doors to strangers,” Andy stated. “We wouldn’t want to have to come back to find you both raped or murdered.”

Jasmine paled. “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.”

Paul stared at Andy. He wasn’t usually so harsh.

Just as they were stepping into the hall, Paul thought to ask, “Where were you this evening?”

She blinked, her gaze shot up to the right. “Here. Here with Susie.”

She was lying.

She was about the right height, blond and blue-eyed, as Rod described. But Rod hadn’t mentioned the dimples and they were hard to miss. Looked like Paul would be revisiting Figaro’s. “Thank you. Good night.”

Back in the sedan, Paul gave his partner a sidelong glance. “What was that about?”

“What?”

“You know what. You deliberately tried to scare that woman.” Paul had been just as bugged by the lack of child safety, but Andy’s blunt words had taken Paul by surprise.

Andy sighed. “When my sister was about eight, she opened the door. She wasn’t as lucky as those two were tonight. Alesha can’t have kids now from the attack and she’s still plagued with nightmares.”

“Oh, man. I didn’t know.” Empathy for Andy’s pain dug at Paul. Nothing like that had ever touched Paul’s life. At least not here in the States. He’d seen more death and destruction during Desert Storm than he’d care to think about.

“Yeah, well. Life goes on and all we can do is try to help others not make the same mistakes,” Andy said, his voice grim.

“You got that right,” Paul agreed. Fighting in Iraq had been hell on earth. But the war they fought every day in New York City, trying to keep their piece of the world safe, was just as fraught with heartache and devastation as a battlefield.

Sometimes Paul missed the military life. At least then he knew who the enemy was supposed to be. Here…the enemy could be a blue-eyed art curator with a propensity for cleanliness.

“Let’s head to the station. I think we’ve let Ms. McClain cool her heels long enough,” Paul stated.