As they made their way up the driveway, he couldn’t help but think of that horrible rainy night when he had staggered up the red flagstones to Clay Cuthbert’s modest home.
When he had to break the news to Jasmine and Suzan that their husband and father was dead.
“Drake, you alright?”
He looked up.
“Hmm?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing. Just let me do the talking, alright?”
Drake nodded and continued to look around, trying to distract himself.
He guessed the driveway to be twenty meters long, arcing from the front gate and circling around a stone basin in the center that contained a thicket of wildflowers. On either side of the massive red-brick colonial, he could see were more flowers, including an entire section of colorful mums that would make the displays in Central Park bristle.
He wondered briefly if Monarchs were specifically attracted to mums, then shook his head. A blind moth would be infatuated with the radiant display of colors on their teardrop petals.
He nudged Chase and indicated the flowers with his chin. Chase nodded and looked about to say something when the sound of a door opening drew their attention.
The front door to the Smith residence was almost comically large. Like a medieval drawbridge, dark wood planks extended nearly twelve feet high, and Drake guessed nearly as wide. It opened slowly as if by winch, and Drake half expected to see a man sporting an eye patch, muscles rippling from a torn vest, in the entrance, gesturing for them to enter, to come aboard, Matey before the marauders take note.
But the man behind the door was so different from this fantasy that Drake nearly laughed out loud. Instead of a muscle-bound doorman, a squat man with deeply tanned skin, short, black hair and a wiry mustache of the same impenetrable shade stood in the opening. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt and a pair of dark denim jeans.
The expression on the man’s face, however, was not unlike that of a pirate, Drake surmised: stern, thin lips forced into a frown.
What be your purpose here, landlubbers?
“Jes? What is this about?”
Not wanting to shout across the driveway, Chase picked up her pace. She held a hand up politely signifying that she had heard the man, but refrained from replying until they had made it up the first of a half-dozen flagstone steps.
“We’re here for—” she began, but another female voice from behind the man with the accent caused her to stop short.
“I’ll take it from here, Raul, thank you.”
The man nodded, bowed his head, and then slid behind a woman who took his place in the entranceway. Drake’s eyes followed the former for a moment, noting that he never actually left what he now saw was a grand foyer, but when the woman stepped forward again and was suddenly awash in sunlight, he was otherwise distracted.
Clarissa Smith was tall, blond, and had just about the most amazing body that Drake had ever seen. Thin, but not devoid of muscle tone, she was sporting a white tennis ensemble that was cut in a ‘v’ just low enough to reveal the tops of her ample breasts, and continued downward until it ended in a fringed hem just above her knees. Her hair was pulled back in a tight pony and a plain white headband rested across her forehead.
Her forehead, and the tops of her breasts, glistened with dewdrops of sweat.
“What can I help you with?” she asked pleasantly as she brought a small towel up and dabbed at her cheeks.
“Mrs. Smith,” Chase began. Like Drake, she had also concluded that this could be none other than Thomas’s wife.
“Please, call me Clarissa.”
Chase nodded respectively.
“Clarissa, may we come in? We have… we have some terrible news.”
Clarissa’s eyes went from one of something akin to curiosity to concern in a flash.
“Is Thomas Jr okay? Did he get into a fight at school again?”
Chase shook her head.
“We’re not here about your son, Clarissa. Now, please, if there was somewhere we can sit?”
Relief washed over the woman’s pretty face as she took several steps backward and indicated for them to enter.
As before, Chase went first and Drake followed.
The foyer was tastefully opulent without being over the top gaudy. The white marble tiles led to a massive winding staircase in the center complete with what looked like hand-carved newel posts and banister. Off to the right, the foyer opened into a large white, country-style kitchen.
Clarissa led them in the opposite direction, taking them into a small, plain sitting room that had two plush couches aimed at each other, with only enough real estate for a glass coffee table between. Drake envisioned this as a space for timeouts, somewhere devoid of distractions where parents could corner a child, get him to spill the beans about cheating on his math test or sneaking a cigarette.
“Would you guys like something to drink? Coffee, maybe?”
Or something stronger, Drake thought, trying again to swallow away the cattail that seemed to have soaked up every single drop of saliva from his mouth and throat.
“No, we’ll be fine,” Chase said.
“Don’t be silly, Raul will fetch you something?” she asked politely, turning to the man with the wiry black mustache. “If the coffee on the stove is still warm, would you be so kind as to pour a cup for our guests? If it’s cold, please prepare a fresh pot.”
The man nodded curtly.
“Certainly,” he replied before turning and leaving the sitting room.
With Clarissa as their guide, Chase and Drake took a seat on one of the couches, which Drake noted was nearly as comfortable as Chase’s car seat, while she smoothed her tennis dress and sat on the opposite couch.
Fearing that he might not be able to tear his eyes away from Clarissa’s outfit, Drake’s gaze drifted to Raul, whom he could still see despite having already made it to the kitchen.
Something about the man seemed off; Drake had felt this as soon as Raul had opened the massive front doors for them. Unlike some of the more seasoned detectives, he wasn’t much for gender roles, case and point him not having an issue taking orders from Chase, and while it wasn’t rare for people of Clarissa and Thomas’s wealth and stature to have a servant, what struck him as odd was the fact that their servant was a man.
Drake filed this away in his mental notes for future reference and contemplation. There was something else unsettling about Raul as well, but Drake couldn’t quite put his finger on the source. Before he could consider this further, Chase leaned forward and began to speak in a soft, mild tone.
“Clarissa, there’s no easy way to say this…”
Chapter 16
Clarissa’s face contorted as if someone had sucked the pretty right out of it.
Tears quickly followed.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Chase said, but the devastated woman didn’t appear to hear. Clarissa’s head dropped, and for one horrible moment, Drake thought that she had passed out and her face was going to collide with her bare knees. At the last second, however, Clarissa caught her face in her hands. Then the sobbing began.
Drake sat frozen on the couch, gritting his teeth with the awkwardness of the situation.
Should I go to her? Put an arm around?
With Jasmine Cuthbert, things had been different. Drake had known Jasmine well; they had shared more than a couple bottles of wine with together over the years. Even though she had shrugged him off, his initial instinct was to hold her, to comfort her.
But this was different; he had just met Clarissa Smith.
Thankfully, Raul appeared almost immediately, a French press full of coffee and several mugs resting on a tray in his hands. He glared at Drake, then put the tray down on the glass table between the couches.
And then something strange happened. Drake had expected Raul to go to Clarissa as he had to Jasmine six months ago, but the man didn’t. Instead, he just looked at her, apparently afflicted with the same uncomforta
ble indecision that gripped Drake himself.
Did he hear Chase telling her that Thomas was dead? That his boss was gone?
If Raul had overheard, he sure as hell wasn’t showing it on his face. Aside from a mustache twitch, his expression was apathetic at best.
Chase shot Drake a look, and then quickly stood and went to Clarissa. She placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, saving both Raul and Drake from any further embarrassment.
“I’m so—” Chase began, but Clarissa suddenly lifted her head, her eyes red and cheeks glistening.
“How did he die?” she gasped. “Please, tell me how Thomas died?”
Chase was taken aback by the question and only stared. Then she looked as if she were going to say something, but no words came out.
Clarissa reached up and put her hand on top of Chase’s.
“Please, how—”
“He was murdered,” Drake said, breaking his silence.
Clarissa’s hand fell way, and she turned to look at him.
“Murdered?” she asked, her voice a tight whisper.
Drake cleared his throat.
“I’m so sorry. It’s a shock to us, especially given how generous he has been to the city of NYC. I mean, why would anyone want him dead?”
Chase shot him a look, but Drake shrugged it off. He had deliberately let it slip that Thomas’s murder hadn’t been a random event to judge her reaction.
Clarissa hadn’t seemed to notice the hint. Like the uncomfortable feeling Drake got around Raul, he filed this tidbit away as well.
“Clarissa,” Chase began, drawing the woman’s attention, “can you tell us what your husband might have been doing in Clinton Hill late Tuesday night?”
A look of confusion filled her face.
“Tuesday? In Clinton Hill?” Clarissa shook her head. “No, Thomas is traveling—he’s been in Detroit on business all week.”
Is instead of was, Drake thought, before he recalled something that Detective Simmons had said during their meeting in the conference room: the wife hasn’t called yet… maybe he told her he was away on business.
“I’m sorry, but his body was found in a… uh… a warehouse in Clinton Hill.”
“Murdered?” Clarissa repeated, not hearing Chase.
Detective Adams pushed a little harder.
“Do you know why he might have been down there at about 3 in the morning? Does he have clients that he visits there? An apartment near there, somewhere he might stay if he works late? “
Clarissa shook her head.
“No—his office is in the main SSJ building. We have another house, but it’s in Martha’s Vineyard,” she shook her head. “He was in Texas…”
“Can you think of anyone that might want to—”
Before Chase could finish her question, the front door burst open and Drake jumped to his feet, his hand snaking toward the holster tucked in his armpit. To his left, he heard Chase stand as well.
Drake never drew his gun.
Instead, his jaw dropped.
Thomas Smith rushed into the room, his face red, his breath coming in bursts.
Drake’s eyes bulged and he had to drive his heels into the ground to prevent from stumbling backward.
What the hell?
“What’s going on here?” the man demanded. He strode toward them, and Raul bowed his head and slid out of the way. “Clarissa? What’s going on?”
Drake expected an outburst from Clarissa, something along the lines of how dare you come in here and abuse me with your sick jokes, but instead, her voice hitching, she said, “It’s Thomas… he’s dead.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she started to sob uncontrollably. The man rushed to her then and as he passed Drake, he realized that it wasn’t Thomas after all. He sure looked a hell of a lot like Thomas, but he was older, his hair thinner at the temples and on top, and he had a mole on the left side of his jaw.
Chase let out a deep breath, and Drake finally looked over at her, making a face as if to say what the fuck.
She returned the expression.
The man who looked like Thomas went to Clarissa and she invited him into her arms. Sobbing, she held him tight. As they embraced, the man turned his now red eyes to look at them, then went back to hug her tight.
Don’t shoot the messenger, Drake thought.
This went on for nearly a full minute, all the while Chase and Drake watched on uncomfortably. Eventually, however, they separated, and Clarissa used a tissue that Raul handed her to wipe her nose.
“They say that he was murdered here, in New York… but he was in Texas, wasn’t he?”
Drake watched this exchange very closely.
The man swallowed, and his Adam’s apple moved up and then down a single time. Unlike Sergeant Rhodes, the Thomas lookalike didn’t have a goiter of an apple, just a subtle roundness to his throat. If Drake hadn’t been watching closely, he might not have noticed it at all.
But he had.
He just wasn’t sure what it meant.
Yet.
“I—I’m not sure. I was away myself,” then he turned to face the detectives. “My name is Weston Smith… I’m Thomas’s brother.”
Drake nodded, putting together the final piece of the puzzle.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Chase said for what felt like the hundredth time. “We are doing everything we can to find out who did this, and we think that you might be able to help us. I know it seems callous for us to ask, especially now, but the truth is the longer we go without talking, the less likely we are to find Thomas’s killer.”
Weston’s eyes, which were brown as opposed to Thomas’s blue, suddenly narrowed.
“How in the world would we be able to help?” he snapped.
Drake, who had not yet sat down since Weston had burst through the door, felt his instincts take over and he tensed slightly.
Chase’s reaction, however, was the opposite. She casually lowered herself onto the couch, a flat expression on her face.
“I understand you’re upset, and of course you have every right to be,” she said. “But we’re trying to find out who did this and why. Can either of you tell me why your brother might have been in Clinton Hill in the early morning hours on Wednesday?”
Weston’s face contorted in anger.
“Clinton Hill? Clinton Hill? Why the hell would Thomas be there? He’s a well-respected lawyer, a damn philanthropist, not some junkie!”
Chase held her hands up defensively.
“I don’t mean to offend you or Mrs. Smith,” she said softly, reverting to a more professional air. “But as I said before, anything that you can tell us might be helpful in finding whoever did this.”
Weston suddenly rose. Clarissa reached for him, but he shook her off.
“My brother wouldn’t be caught dead in Clinton Hill,” he hissed. “That place is full of degenerates and junkies. My brother was a respected member of New York’s elite.”
Drake cringed at Weston’s choice of words. The man must have realized it as well—caught dead—or maybe he was just made aware of what he had said when Clarissa exploded into renewed sobs. Weston looked down at her.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “But you don’t have to answer any more questions. Not now, anyway.” Then, to Chase and Drake he said, “as Clarissa’s attorney, I’m instructing her not to say anything else at this time. How about a little privacy? Is that too much to ask?”
Drake didn’t move. During his tenure as a homicide detective, he had observed the gamut of reactions to the loss of a family member. He had seen cold-blooded killers who had murdered their own kin burst into tears, while mourning wives broke into fits of violence and anger. Unlike on TV, Drake had very early on learned that one behavior, or lack thereof in some cases, was no more an indication of guilt than another.
But this—I’m her attorney, she’s not to speak to you—this was a new one for him.
Chase nodded and stood. Then she teased a business car
d out of her pocket and laid it gently on the coffee table between them.
“If you think of anything, Clarissa. Please give me a call.” Then to Weston, she added, “we’ll be in touch. And, again, I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m new to New York City, but what little I know about your brother suggests that he was a kind, caring and giving man.”
With that, she turned to Drake and mentioned for them to take their leave.
“Raul, please escort our guests out,” Weston hissed after them. “And how about a little tact next time?”
Chapter 17
Chase pulled her sunglasses from her pocket and slipped them on as they made their way toward the front gate. She opened her mouth to say something, but Drake, remembering the video cameras and unsure of whether or not they captured audio, held up a finger.
She nodded and led the way to her car.
Only once they were safely inside, did Chase speak. Before she did, however, she removed a cell phone out of her pocket and chewed the inside of her lip. Then she tapped the large phone against the back of her hand.
“You know what the strangest thing is?” she asked softly. At first, Drake wasn’t sure if she was just musing out loud, or if he was supposed to answer the question. But when she turned to him, he realized that it was rhetorical. She tapped the cell phone again. “It didn’t ring.”
Drake raised an eyebrow.
Her phone didn’t ring? Why would Chase’s phone ring?
Chase acknowledge the confusion on his face.
“Did you see Raul use a cell phone at all? Go into the kitchen for a long time? I mean, he went to fetch coffee, but I could see him the entire time. He never used a phone.”
Drake nodded in agreement. He too had been keeping his eye on the small man and hadn’t seen him go anywhere near something that looked like a phone.
“So why was Weston there at the house? I mean, he wasn’t there when we arrived… he came in through the front door,” she paused for a second before continuing. “The only thing that makes sense is that the minute I pressed the button on the intercom and announced that we were NYPD detectives, Raul must have called Thomas’s brother.”
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1 Page 7