Ivy folded her arms, speaking through gritted teeth. “No one in homicide spoke Chinese.”
Court had her now, SPD had wanted someone fluent in Chinese with homicide experience. They’d called on their sister city for some help. The only reason he’d come up to Seattle in the first place was because he spoke Mandarin like a native. An opening came up while he was working the Sino-Trans case, and he was invited to stay. As far as he was aware, they’d never even looked at other candidates, Ivy included.
“Are you fluent in Mandarin, Ivy?” He sounded more snide than he intended, but what the fuck? She was all crossed-arms-and-teeth-clenched bitch, so why not lay it out there?
She focused intently on her coffee mug. They sat statue-still in silence for what felt like forever—interrupted only by the gurgle of the coffee machine expelling its final drops.
At length, she let out a long sigh, crossed her arms and leaned back against her chair. “Okay, Pearson. How the hell did a goy like you get fluent in Chinese?”
Court made it brief, giving Ivy the syllabus of Court 101. Having grown up with a Chinese nanny was one of the many lucky things in his life. He and his siblings used to speak Chinese to each other when they wanted to hide things from their parents.
Ivy admitted to hearing the gossip about Amanda and Bailey from department wagging tongues. He still wasn’t up for giving Ivy the intimate details, but sharing that he had known he was a boy from his earliest memory lightened his heart. His last partner had made it very clear he didn’t want to ever talk about “it.” They had co-existed for a while, becoming close friends after a year of working together.
“My parents were such hippies that they didn’t blink an eye about me being a boy—they always told me they knew I was a boy from toddlerhood. They had a lot more of an issue when I told them I wanted to be a cop. In my family, that was some real rebellion.”
She considered him in unmoving silence before responding. “Well, that was on the verge of being TMI, but I think we should get through this case together and see where we land.”
Court understood her hesitation to pledge to be best friends. A decent working relationship would do. “Fair enough. Let’s get to work, shall we?”
He put the disc from the garage surveillance into the machine. They fast-forwarded through the images, getting through eight hours in less than two—two eye-numbingly boring hours of footage. It showed Hunter’s green Subaru Forester entering the garage and leaving at the times she had told them. That part of her story checked out. The only other people using the garage were quick in and out stops, most likely to some of the small retail shops, all of which closed by seven p.m. Eighteen cars entered the garage after five p.m. before entering the tenant parking area. There was no other traffic within ten minutes of four thirty or six fifty.
“They didn’t have anything from the street view?” Ivy asked.
“No cameras facing the building. The closest intersection is a half block away.”
“Well, that was fun.” Ivy stood up and stretched. “You think there’s any chance our guy lives in the building?”
“There weren’t many cars entering during our time of interest.”
She held up a list. “Eighteen. I wrote down their licenses. Might as well check them out.”
“Why don’t you run them while I go through the site videos.” There was always someone assigned to take videos of the crime scene and the area surrounding it. Sometimes a killer got off on watching the tumult following his crime. Court slowed the video occasionally, zooming in on every person as they came on screen.
He had a good memory for faces. The video showed only a succession of curious faces checking out the scene briefly before turning away when it was clear there wasn’t anything to see. Everything interesting was upstairs out of public view.
25
“This is Caroll Mullins. I got your message about Allegiance Investments. Is … Mistress okay?” His voice was a whispered baritone punctuated by the crackles and pops of a bad connection made worse by Ivy’s crappy phone. Court leaned in closer, but Ivy waived him back and punched the volume up.
“The crime we’re investigating has to do with a death at her office, but Mistress Fidelma is fine,” she said.
“Oh, thank God.”
“Mr. Mullins, can you tell me where you were each evening last week?”
“Sure. Right where I am now. In Australia with the family. Coming home Friday.”
Ivy scowled at the phone. “Thank you, Mr. Mullins. I assume you can verify your whereabouts?”
Court gave her a questioning look. It would be easy enough for them to check on an international flight. Maybe she was trying to rattle his cage a bit. Ivy shrugged.
“Of course I can. What’s this all about anyway? Who died?”
“We’ll get to that in a minute, Mr. Mullins. We are talking to everyone who is known to have a card key to the system at Allegiance Investments. Do you happen to know any of Mistress Fidelma’s other clients?” she asked.
“Me? No. I haven’t told anyone else about my involvement with her. No one knows.”
“How did you learn about her, become her client?”
“I looked her up on the internet. About six years ago.”
“Why use your regular phone to contact her? Aren’t you worried your wife might notice texts or calls from her?”
“My wife? She would never see them. Hey, wait. What is this all about? Hey, you know, this is an international call. Can’t this wait until I am back next week?”
“We’re investigating the death of Berkeley Drummond, Mr. Mullins. Do you have any kind of business dealings with him or Colchuck Down?”
“Oh, wow. That’s too bad.” His voice was distant, distracted. “Berkeley Drummond? She saw him, too?” He sounded like a wounded puppy left out in the cold.
Court met Ivy’s eyes over the phone. Was that all Mullins cared about, who his mistress was seeing? Ivy shook her head and made a face.
“Mr. Mullins, did you know Mr. Drummond?”
“What?” he asked, almost inaudible now. “No. No. I never met the man. He was in manufacturing clothing.”
Court scribbled on a sticky pad. Ivy read it and nodded, getting the gist.
“You both gave large donations to the same candidates in the last election. Perhaps you met up at political fundraisers or other political events?”
“No. Maybe. It’s possible, but honestly, I am shit at recognizing faces. Detective, I know you have a job to do, but talking to me isn’t going to get you anywhere. If you have any more questions, you can contact my office and get my attorney’s information.” The line went dead.
“Wow. That went south fast,” Ivy said.
“Easy alibi to check.”
“Clears him, too.” Ivy tapped the screen on her phone. “Yeah. But why would he be calling me in the middle of the night from Australia? It’s four thirty in the morning there.”
“He said he was traveling with his family, right?”
“Oh, right. Not likely to make that phone call in front of his wife. Got it.”
Before she could pocket her phone, it rang again. “Langston.”
“Yes, hello? This is Giovanni Duffy. You called me last night. I don’t appreciate being threatened with a visit like that out of the blue.”
Ivy made a face at the phone. Her voice was sweet and without any hint of irony as she replied. “Thanks for calling me back, Mr. Duffy.”
“Well, what is this all about, then?”
“We have some questions about your relationship with Mistress Fidelma,” Ivy said.
There was a long pause. “I don’t think I want to talk about this over the phone.”
“You’re welcome to come down to the station, discuss things here.”
There was an even longer pause. “Fine. Give me directions.”
This was surprising. Court checked the time and made some mental calculations. They could finish their report for the briefing tomorrow be
fore Duffy showed up. That interview would take them through to early afternoon. If he was lucky he would still be able to make it to that triple feature with Madeline.
26
They were in the midst of putting together the smart board presentation for the briefing the following morning when Giovanni Duffy arrived with a woman dressed in a tailored business suit. Court wasn’t at all surprised he’d shown up with a lawyer in tow, and in less than an hour. The guy had money. Court wondered what it was with rich men and dominatrixes. Maybe all men secretly harbored a desire for women to take the lead now and again, but only rich men could afford to go to professionals.
Court ushered them into one of the interrogation rooms while Ivy set up the recording equipment. He read him his rights and went through the whole recording-the-conversation spiel, wondering the whole time what they were likely to get from him under the circumstances.
“Thanks for coming in,” he said as Ivy returned and sat next to him.
“Would you please get on with it?” Duffy asked. “I have no idea why you called me down here.”
“Well, as Detective Langston informed you, there was a death at Allegiance Investments. We want to talk with you about your connection there.” Court paused, hoping the other man would volunteer something. When he didn’t offer anything up he asked, “What is your relationship with Mistress Fidelma?”
Duffy didn’t even look at his attorney. “She is my dominatrix. I see her once a week.”
“And?” Court prompted.
“And what? It’s not like we’re dating. She performs a service, and I pay her for it.”
“What service would that be?” Court asked.
The other man sat back and crossed his arms. “Pretty sure specifics don’t matter. The only thing you need to know is we don’t have a relationship outside of our weekly sessions. We don’t talk, we don’t email, and the only time we communicate is to double check or cancel session times via text.”
Ivy leaned forward, halving the distance between her and Duffy. “Tell us how you get into her office.”
Duffy looked a little nonplussed, but he pulled out a card key identical to the one they’d found in Drummond’s wallet, except it had a picture of a daisy on it instead of a rose. “I swipe it, and it unlocks the door.”
“What else do you know about the system she uses?” she asked.
His eyebrows merged into a single thick line as he tried to figure out what Ivy might be getting at. “Well, it’s a pretty normal-looking thing, as far as I can tell it’s like any other card system out there. Don’t know the brand, never thought about it. Looks and works like any other system as far as I know. What’re you trying to get at?”
Ivy shrugged. “How well did you know Berkeley Drummond?”
Duffy blinked a few times, his eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. It took a few seconds for him to gain control of himself. “Oh hell. Berkeley Drummond died in Mistress’s office? Is she okay? She’s n-n-not in trouble, is she?” He spun in his chair to face his attorney without waiting for their response. “Julie, if she needs an attorney, I want you to help me find the best one.” He turned back to Ivy. “She’s okay, isn’t she? I mean, she couldn’t have hurt him on purpose or anything. She’s incredibly professional and careful.”
“I asked you about Berkeley Drummond,” Ivy said. “Can you tell us how you knew him?”
“Met him a couple times at Rotary meetings, I heard a news report about him dying.” He stopped abruptly. “Oh. Wait. You’re doing an investigation to make sure it was natural causes, aren’t you? Mistress had him as a client, and he kicks it while with her? Well, you sure as hell better see to it that it’s natural causes.”
The attorney hadn’t said much to this point, but now she reached over and put a hand on his forearm. “Giovanni,” she said, “You need to be quiet now. I think we can all see you are very upset that your dominatrix might be facing criminal charges, but you need to answer the questions and stop jumping to conclusions.”
So far, Duffy’s response had Court thinking Duffy was in the clear, unless there was some connection between him and Drummond they hadn’t found yet. Or, if their only connection was Hunter. Could there be some sort of personal battle between clients? The way Duffy was talking, though, made Court pretty sure about one thing. “You don’t know her legal name, do you? You only know her as Mistress Fidelma.”
The other man’s cheeks turned splotchy red. “No. I could have found it out. It wouldn’t be hard to do a search on the lease situation, but I was told to not try. She didn’t want me contacting her at home or knowing anything about her private life. I respected her wishes.”
“Tell me about your relationship with Berkeley Drummond.” Court said.
“We didn’t have a relationship. I met him a couple of times at fundraisers. He supported the mayor in this last election cycle. We exchanged a few emails about campaign issues. I oversaw all the major donations to the campaign, so I saw his checks, wrote the thank-you letters.”
“Where were you last Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings?” Ivy asked.
Duffy had to refer to the calendar on his phone. “Tuesday I was at a board meeting for my son’s school. Wednesdays, I go to a club. Thursday … went out to dinner with the family, then came home, did homework with the kids.”
“Which club were you at on Wednesday, Mr. Duffy?” Ivy asked.
Duffy closed his eyes and exhaled loudly, shoulders slumping. “Belle Nuit.”
Court exchanged a glance with Ivy. “The private BDSM club? How often do you go there?”
“Every Wednesday. And sometimes on Tuesday afternoons.” Duffy tilted his head up to the ceiling and rubbed at his face. “There’s a new member orientation every Wednesday. I volunteer to help with the refreshments and small group tours.”
A club and a private domme once a week? That must be hard to hide from a spouse.
“You can give us names of people at the school and the club who will verify this? Receipts for the restaurant?” Ivy asked.
“Yes. Of course, but the people at the club, they don’t know me by my name. We all use different names there.”
“And yours is?” Ivy asked, her pen paused above her tablet.
Duffy glanced over at his attorney. She nodded for him to answer. “Is there any way you can skip writing this down? I mean, if this ever gets out, it will be humiliating for me. Maybe even wreck my marriage. My wife has no idea that I go there anymore or that I saw Mistress. She would be more than devastated.”
Court pointed at the two-way glass, reminding Duffy they were recording everything.
“Mr. Duffy, if you want us to verify your alibi for Wednesday night, you’ll want to make that as easy as possible. I would imagine facing a murder charge would be even harder to explain to your wife.”
Duffy shrank back against his seat, his face drained of all color. “You don’t know my wife.”
27
Court and Ivy spent the rest of the morning doing paperwork and prepping for the briefing. They made a list of everyone in the apartments above Hunter’s studio, correlating their cars. After putting together packets for the uniformed officers to use for interviews tomorrow, he called Belle Nuit. No one answered and the recording said they were closed for the day. No sense in going over there if no one was around. He left a message asking anyone who might be around to give him a call, but he didn’t expect a response. Following up on Duffy’s alibi would have to wait until tomorrow afternoon or evening. It was going to be a bitch of a day.
“I’m betting he’s in the clear,” Court said. “The way he reacted when he heard about Drummond? He was worried about Hunter and not himself. He didn’t come across as guilty so much as embarrassed and worried what will happen if his wife finds out what he’s up to on Wednesday nights.”
Ivy put her hands to the back of her neck and rolled her head around as her fingers kneaded away. “Yeah. Hunter must have some power over guys to make them jump in to help
like that. I mean, think about the money Drummond is leaving her. They’re both super protective of her.”
Most of the so-called paperwork was actually digital and stored in the nebulous “cloud.” There were still forms to fill out, and they had plenty of documents to organize. Court scanned in his sketch of the crime scene, which had all the measurements written down without being proportional. He’d have to go in later to make a more accurate version if the case made it to trial, but this was all he needed to document for now.
Court added the photos he had taken on his phone to the official photographer’s file and deleted them from his phone.
Ivy took over when it became clear her PowerPoint skills were way better than his. She had flow charts down to a fine art.
While Ivy finessed their presentation, Court worked through the contacts that Audrey Drummond had come up with. He completed the last call as Ivy pushed back in her chair.
“I’ll write up the interviews with the kids and add it to the file.”
“Learn anything from them?” she asked.
“Not a lot. Got the same story as we got from the mom, pretty much. All three were out of town on Wednesday. All three have alibis. All three have witnesses for their alibis. And, all three claimed to have known about the tumor. None of the three had spoken to him in the last week other than to confirm they were coming out for the weekend. Apparently, Drummond was planning a special family dinner on Sunday.”
Court paused. It was inconceivable to him that none them had called their dad the entire week while knowing that each time they talked to him might be the last. Court talked to his dad at least twice a week, even if it was only for a half-minute check-in. The Drummond family might have plenty of money, but Court’s had plenty of love. He shook his head. “Anyway. The daughter brought up Henri Montpelier as a possible suspect. Interesting, since Audrey Drummond was so adamant that Montpelier was not capable of hurting her husband.”
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