“They towed it to the crime lab to go over it. It was parked across the street, about where the beat up Honda is now.” Ivy pointed at a dented, 1990s maroon Accord.
“Why park on the street? The garage is connected to the building.”
“Avoiding security cameras?” Ivy asked.
“Maybe, but the lobby is probably wired, too. Why avoid one and not the other?”
It was unlikely the car would tell them anything. He doubted Drummond would leave anything of value inside a parked car on a street this busy. The area teemed with the colorful life he expected here. Couples, straight and gay, strolled by arm in arm. Punks or Goths or whatever they called themselves these days walked by without people craning their heads to stare. Their dark clothing and pierced noses fit in with the other leather-clad, tattooed, animal-print-wearing, and otherwise modified people who populated the area.
Court waved a hand to the corner across the street, where a teenaged girl leaned into a car window, chatting with an older man. “We’ll probably be done by four, maybe we can catch up with some regulars who were around Wednesday when Hunter left and when the mystery key holder showed up.”
The girl stood and backed away, disgust twisting her face. The car pulled away and disappeared down the street. The girl threw back her shoulders, dragging herself back to the group of other kids standing outside the mini-mart.
Ivy followed his gaze. “Any time of day, any time of night.”
She almost sounded sympathetic.
14
Hunter was waiting for them inside the main door of the building. She was dressed more like Court expected an Eastside housewife to dress—jeans, button-down shirt, striped Toms.
It wasn’t until he saw her that Court realized how much he had been anticipating seeing her again. They would have hit it off in a normal setting. He found her attractive and intriguing, if a little scary. Scary in a compelling way. It was too bad they had met over a dead body and not at a party or the gym. Add in that she was a suspect in the murder he was investigating, was probably married with two kids—though, curiously, she hadn’t mentioned a husband during their first interview—and he had no right to even be thinking along those lines.
Hunter strode to the elevator and pushed the up button. She tapped her watch like a school teacher herding children into class. “You know, these things exist for a reason. You’re ten minutes late.” The elevator opened with a gentle swishing sound. Hunter pushed the floor button and turned to face them. “My attorney told me the paperwork came through, so we have a deal.”
Ivy reached into her tote and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Here’s your copy. It’s all in order, Ms. Hunter.”
“Detective Langston had the docs all signed, sealed and delivered to your lawyer earlier. And, honestly? We’re only interested in the murder. Anything you have going on inside is your business. As long as you didn’t kill the guy, you won’t get any trouble from us.”
“Your word, Detective, is only so good. I prefer the paper.” Hunter rolled the paper into a tight round and shoved it into her purse.
The elevator glided to a stop. The scene had been reduced to the office suite. Crime scene tape marked her door with a big yellow X. Two long strips along the door cracks served as official seals.
Hunter fingered a piece of the plastic and wrinkled her nose before looking down the hallway, past the other offices on the floor and toward the elevator. “How long until this goes away? Until I can get back in on my own?”
Was she worried about what her neighbors would think? Or was she anxious to get back to business? He couldn’t imagine she’d ever see another client in there again, though she didn’t seem too broken up over the death of Berkeley Drummond. Court cut through the tape along the edges of the door with his pen knife. Then he tapped the code into the security lock and pushed the door open. The stench was greatly subdued now that the body was gone.
“We’ll need it closed up until we’re done,” Court said. “Could be a week. Could be longer. You know, this smell won’t completely go away. Not until you rip out the floor and subfloor and replace it. Probably have to repaint and have all the fabric items replaced. Maybe the insulation. All that soundproofing? They’re like massive sponges for the smell.”
Things were the same as they had left them. He studied the outer office again, looking for anything of interest, anything he might have missed last night. Abstract soapstone sculptures, books about financial markets and planning, and empty vases filled the shelves with a spacious gracefulness found in empty houses staged for market readiness. It all made for a bland boring space. Completely sterile. Easily forgettable.
Hunter glided past them, leaning casually against her desk, arms crossed. “So, what exactly do we do now, detectives?”
“Let’s review everything you did yesterday. From the time you entered the office until we spoke. We also want you to walk us through what would have happened on Wednesday night if you had been here,” said Court.
“All right, then. I’m here to help best I can. I cared for Berkeley deeply and want to see whoever did this to him caught. And tortured in a very unpleasant way.”
Court hit the record button on his memo app and went through the whole ‘date, time, place, we’re recording this with permission’ spiel. “Starting with yesterday. Tell us exactly how you entered the office, and how you came to find the body.”
Hunter stared at the recorder for a moment before squaring her shoulders and taking her place like an actress on a stage. “I came in through the door and bent down to pick up the mail.” She bent over, pretending. “I picked it up from the floor and walked with it to the desk, putting it here.” Her fingers circled an area on the polished desk, indicating where she’d left the mail.
She tilted her head toward the door leading into the other room. “That’s when I noticed the door to the other room was closed. I always leave it open. So, I thought someone might be inside. Then, I took off both my shoes. I dropped one by the desk.” She paused and slipped off one of her flats, her hand wrapped around the inside so the heel was pointed outward. “I held it like this, with the heel outward, but it was a stiletto.”
This explained the shoes. The long heel had been pointy and would make a hell of a stab wound. “They’re both in evidence,” Court said. “But, you’re telling us you went toward a room where you thought there might be an intruder, the heel of a shoe your only weapon?” Either she was gutsy or stupid. He’d go with the former.
“Why didn’t you back out and call 911 if you thought someone might be in there?” Ivy asked.
Hunter breathed out heavily. “The only reason I’m talking to you now is I have a signed document that lets me speak freely. Think about it from my perspective. Calling the police is the last thing I would do.”
This was pretty true for any sex-worker. Cops were rarely their best friends. “Okay. I get that. So, you had the shoe in your hand and you were holding it up for protection. Then what?”
“I walked slowly over to the door and opened it. Then, the smell hit me. It was so quiet. So still. It didn’t occur to me someone might be inside. Then, I saw Berkeley. Hanging there…” Her voice trailed off and she closed her eyes.
She used Drummond’s first name. It showed familiarity. Dominance. A relationship. One he’d had an uncomfortable glimpse of through their texts.
“How did you know it was him?” Ivy asked.
“I recognized him.”
“Really?” Court asked. “He was facing away from the door.”
“Yes. He has a mole on his left buttock. Those skinny legs? The calluses on his toes? The bony ankles? I know…knew…every inch of him.”
“So, you enter the room. See him hanging there and know it’s Drummond. And then what?” Ivy asked.
Hunter’s eyes went distant as she relived the moment. “I circled around to his face. Then, I dropped down to look at him.” She raised her hand, holding her canvas loafer in front of her. Her voice became
wistful, monotone. “I still had the shoe in my hand, so when I went to touch his face, I almost hit him with it by accident. I tossed the shoe over my shoulder, and then I touched his cheek. I had to make sure he was real.”
“Then what?”
“I came back in here. Sat down for a couple of minutes to think. I called my attorney. It took her at least fifteen minutes to call me back. We spoke for a bit, and she advised me to call 911.”
“Why didn’t you mention Drummond’s name in the 911 call?” Ivy asked.
Hunter sucked in her lower lip. “Bernice suggested I keep his name out of it. Sometimes people actually pay attention to those scanners.”
“So, what did you do after you made the 911 call?” Court asked.
“I waited for the police. Talked to the cop that showed up first, and then was stuck out in the hallway and told not to move. You know the rest.”
Her story aligned with what they already knew. Court checked the relief he was feeling. He didn’t want her to be guilty. “How did he find you?”
“I have a website. He did a thorough background check on me. He admitted to hiring a private investigator to check me out before contacting me.”
He opened the browser on his phone. “What’s the address?”
“Of my website?” Her brow wrinkled as if she didn’t understand why he would want it, but pulled a business card out of the top desk drawer. “I don’t think you can afford me, Detective, but here you go.”
The site came up quickly—a tasteful homepage with a photo of a woman’s curvy hip and thigh along the length of the left side. Her arm held a whip dangling toward the floor. The site was a little out of date, and a large banner read, Mistress Fidelma is no longer taking new clients.
“Fidelma?” he asked. “Like in the mystery series?”
Hunter inclined her head, the tightness across her face relaxing a couple of notches. “Very good, Detective. Not many people get the reference.”
“A mystery series about a Mistress Fidelma?” Ivy asked.
“Not exactly. It’s a series about a plucky young nun who solves mysteries back in Medieval Ireland. Her name is Sister Fidelma in the series,” he said.
“Sort of like the Brother Cadfael series? But with a nun instead of a monk?”
Hunter nodded. “Pretty much.”
Karen Hunter aka Mistress Fidelma was nothing like the dominatrixes Court had seen in porn. On the other hand, he’d never found porn to be a match for reality. The photos on her website were more sophisticated and artsy than pornographic. None of them showed her face. They were all teasing images of her body tastefully dressed in lingerie or leather.
“Sort of a strange choice, isn’t it? I mean, a mystery-solving nun as a stage name for a dominatrix?” he asked.
Hunter leaned toward him, her hair sweeping past her cheek and shadowing her face. Her eyes became smoldering coals. “In my profession, being a nun is sometimes rather appropriate.” Her voice dropped into a low sultry purr and her eyebrow lifted slowly on the last two words. It was a subtle change, but it made all the difference.
The gentle caress of her words washed over him. He could get lost in her voice. He cursed his Nordic complexion as the rosy heat of a blush crawled up his neck toward his ears. Her sudden change in voice and appearance showed she was also a remarkable actress.
Court cleared his throat to break the spell and continue with the interview. “What did Drummond come to you for, specifically?”
“He’s in this high-powered position. High-powered life. Über-stressed all the time. He adores his wife, but she’s completely vanilla, and not interested in giving him what he needs.” She paused, sucking in her lower lip along with a bit of air and squeezing her eyes shut before continuing. “Needed. What he needed. I helped him relax.”
“You helped him relax. Interesting way of putting it. And exactly how did you achieve that?” Ivy asked.
“You know, I understand you want more specifics, but you need to have some respect here. He was very private, and he wouldn’t want the world to know any of this about him. He wasn’t exactly ashamed of what he was doing, but he knew most people wouldn’t understand.” She leveled her gaze at Ivy. “And you’re like the rest, aren’t you, Detective?”
“It’s not exactly normal,” Ivy said.
“Most of the time, people find out what I do and are freaked out or disgusted. Sexual domination is parodied in books and movies, porn makes a hash out of it, and it’s totally misunderstood. It may not be something the majority of people need, but it’s a lot more than you think.”
Court had plenty of experience with people shunning things they didn’t understand. Being a cop had made him a bit jaded, though. Some people practiced a careful BDSM lifestyle--Cami was a pretty good example of that. Court had also seen dozens of injuries and deaths at the hands of careless, drunk, or angry people. A spate of recent deaths stemming from people jumping into trying kink based on a popular novel was proof that most people didn’t research safety properly.
He’d known plenty of strong and successful men who got all masochistic in their down time. The more successful their outside life, the wimpier they were in private. Court had always figured it was repression and conservative guilt that led most guys to seek out a dominatrix. He’d never have imagined it of Berkeley Drummond. He was all over the news for being a huge philanthropist. A total liberal. Maybe the total change in family politics went only so deep. Maybe Court needed to take a closer look at his own stereotypes. It kind of blew his mind. If the press got hold of any of this, it was going to be huge. Huge in a bad way. Scratch that. Not if. When.
“Okay,” Court said. “Rather than starting with a laundry list of what you two did together, let’s talk about the last few days. When was the last time you saw Drummond alive?”
Hunter relaxed a little. “Last week. We had a regular appointment on Wednesday evenings from seven to ten, though he sometimes stayed later to rest. Sometimes spent the night. But I haven’t seen him since a week ago Wednesday. He left around eleven fifteen or so.”
“But you had some texts in between?” Ivy asked.
Hunter paused, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve read them, haven’t you? They were all on the iPad you took last night. So why ask? Are you trying to catch me in a lie?”
Court shrugged. “It’s one way of figuring out what happened. To ask a question we know the answer to.”
“I hate games, Detective. You ask your questions, and I will tell you the truth. And, one last time, I had nothing to do with Berkeley’s death.” Hunter’s voice grew louder with each word. She took in some air and continued more quietly. “I am here because I want you to find the person who did this. I am here for justice for a man I cared deeply about.”
Court believed her. For whatever reason, it was implausible she would kill anyone in such an obviously bad location. She didn’t come across as a complete idiot. Unless it was an accident, and she was covering for a mistake. Or she had an accomplice. It kept coming back to that possibility, especially with the second card key in her name.
The most logical conclusion was that Drummond had come here for his regular appointment and things had gone awry. Whoever did this must have taken advantage of the sudden change in schedule.
Court held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay. Okay. Let’s move on a bit. How do you think he got hung up that way?”
Hunter leaned back against the desk. “I don’t know. I mean … he was tied up using knots I sometimes use, but not all of them. I rarely mix Western ties with Shibari style. And, I’m never that messy.”
“Shiba-what?” Ivy asked.
Hunter turned her attention fully to Ivy and her speech picked up a notch in speed. “Shibari. It’s a Japanese form of bondage. Google it sometime. It’s beautiful and incredibly erotic. I tend toward more conventional ties because it’s what I know best, and they are faster. But, I do occasionally use Shibari techniques for aesthetic reasons.”
Co
urt was pretty sure the internet would give him an eyeful on that particular search, but Ivy was focusing on the wrong thing here. “What do you mean, messy?” he asked.
“Oh, well, I am very meticulous with my rope-work. The knots along Berkeley’s arms, for example, they were not exactly the same size, and they didn’t line up perfectly. The rest of the rope, holding his weight and pulling his legs up, was dangling over him.”
“Can you speculate as to why this was so messy?” he asked.
“I would have to say there are two main reasons. No one would do this intentionally. It’s ugly, and Shibari is Japanese and all about presentation. No. I would say the person who did this was either inexperienced or in a hurry.”
“How long does it usually take for you to do something like this?” Court asked.
“I draw it out. An hour? Sometimes longer depending on the client.”
There hadn’t been enough time to do a proper job of it if the killer left half an hour after Drummond entered. So, he was in a hurry, then. But why? If the killer knew Hunter wasn’t coming back, why rush things? Maybe to solidify an alibi while Drummond was dying?
“Were you planning on tying him up Wednesday night?” Ivy asked.
“Yes, I was. I purchased a new rope for him, and I had set up the workroom for our session. The purple rope on his body is the one I had put out with the other things. The black rope was his pelvic harness … a sort of rope underwear made for him to slip on easily. It saves time.” Hunter crossed her arms, hugging herself. “I didn’t kill him. Intentionally or not. I haven’t seen him since last week. Berkeley was a good client. My best client. He was responsive, kind, and always respectful. Yes, he paid me very well. Really, really well.” Her eyes opened wide to emphasize the point. “It was more than the money, but I can’t lie, the money was important to me. Why would I kill him? He pays … paid … the mortgage.”
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