Bound to Die
Page 23
Court waited until Cami was down the block before going into the little market and buying a cold soda. He went outside to drink it where the teens had been hanging out the previous day. It was almost ten o’clock, but they were nowhere to be seen. The lower half of the building where Drummond had died was dark—the business and shops on those levels closed for the night. A third of the windows on the top two floors of the building still had lights on.
He made a full 360-degree turn where he stood, looking for anything he might have missed. The street wasn’t far off Broadway, the main drag down Capitol Hill. There was enough traffic at any time of day or night, and he didn’t think any one person would get much notice coming or going from the building. Add in the fact the area was famous for its colorful population of gays, drag queens, and artsy hipsters, it was even more unlikely anyone would have noticed anything helpful to their investigation. It made sense to Court the killer had left wearing the suit after killing Drummond.
He went back into the store to show the clerk the drawing and photos, including one of Berkeley Drummond. The clerk didn’t recognize any of them, not even Duffy, who was in the neighborhood on a weekly basis. He left and meandered slowly in the direction of his home.
Court’s usual routine had him riding past this very spot every day. He was seeing his neighborhood in a whole new light.
He saw Cassandra D., a hooker he’d run into a few times over the last three years, on the corner across from the mini-mart and checked his watch. She’d switched neighborhoods regularly. He hadn’t seen her for at least six months. Maybe she’d been around last week. She was leaning into the open window of a red Suburban. Shaking her head, she stepped back onto the curb and waved the car away.
Court ambled over to her, not wanting to startle her. She knew he was a cop and had always kept her distance. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t the kind of cop who would beat the shit out of her “by accident.” He wasn’t the kind of person who would do that to anyone.
He approached with his hands buried in his pockets, hoping to appear casual and off-duty, not that he was ever completely off-duty. “Heya, Cassandra. Been a while since you’ve been around here.”
She spun around, her eyes narrowing into tiny, wary slits. “Detective.” She drawled out the word as if she was trying it on for size and not knowing how to make it fit.
The way she said it made him feel dirty somehow, complicit in the ways other cops treated those who lived or worked on the street. He lifted his chin toward the building across the street. “Were you around the other night?”
Her eyes followed his movement, and she blinked a couple of times, the heavy mascara on her lashes sparkling deep green. “And you think I can help you?” Her voice was deep and masculine.
He lifted the drawing so she could see it. “Ever see this guy around?”
She paused before bending over to look at it. She was at least six-four without her heels. In them she towered over him. She let out a snort of a laugh and leaned against the poster-littered telephone pole behind her. She took off a shoe that would have fit him with room to spare and rubbed away a piece of something Court couldn’t see. “Looks like you.”
Why did people keep saying that? “Okay, so what about these guys?” He handed her the photos of Duffy, Payne, Nolan and Drummond.
She studied them, looking bored while she did. She fanned them out like a deck of cards with Drummond and Duffy’s images on top. “These two. They real familiar.”
“Remember the last time you saw either of them?”
She held up her hands, her long nails glinting in the light from the overhead lamps. She inspected them as if there might be answers somewhere embedded in the specks of glitter. “Don’t recall exactly.”
“Don’t or won’t?”
“You know, you are taking up a lot of my time. I could be with someone right now. I saw three cars slow down already, just since we been talking.”
Court gave her a twenty out of his wallet. “Maybe this will jog your memory.”
She took the money and slid it into her bra. She tapped Duffy’s photo. “I seen him. A few times, mostly at night.”
“And?” Court prompted.
She let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t got more, officer. Look, I seen him a few times coming or going out of there. But I ain’t keeping his diary, you know what I mean?”
“You ever talk to him?”
“No. That skinny white boy ain’t having any part of this.” She dragged her hands along her sides and shimmied.
“And the other?” he asked, tapping Drummond’s face again.
“He’s the dead one. I saw him come out of there a coupla times. That’s it.”
“Ever see the two of them together?”
Cassandra breathed in deeply, her eyes rolling upward in practiced exacerbation. “No. I don’t remember seeing them together.”
He handed her his card. “Call me if you remember anything else about either of them, okay?”
She took the card from him, smiling at him through her lashes. “Oh, you’re giving me your number?” She held the card up to the light holding it out to read it. She slipped it in next to the money he’d given her. There was more than enough silicone to keep both in place.
44
There was no way Court could go to sleep after consuming the gigantic pile of spaghetti with browned butter and mizithra cheese, even three hours later. The evening had worked out rather well, all in all, but it didn’t take much for him to get distracted with the case again. He flipped on the TV as he made himself an Alka-Seltzer to calm his pasta-laden stomach, the old commercial jingle playing alongside the fizzing in the glass.
As soon as the news came on, he was wishing he’d climbed into bed instead. The local news was updating the Drummond homicide. He turned the volume up, wondering what news they could have after the press release earlier in the day. Maybe it was a recap.
The perky blonde had recently taken over the second chair on the local show. Something about her was familiar. Maybe it was because all women news anchors sported the same shoulder-length bobs and pasted-on smiles. She smiled brightly before switching to a more serious face. She didn’t have quick transitions down quite yet. “And this just in. We reported the death of Seattle philanthropist and businessman Berkeley Drummond on Friday. Seattle Police Department has released a statement today telling us Drummond’s death is being investigated as, quote, suspicious. Scott Ingram is here to fill us in. Scott, what’s the story?”
The view switched to a man standing outside the building with a ticker across the bottom of the screen declaring it breaking news, live report. The street address of the building was visible over the top of Ingram’s head.
There hadn’t been any sign of a news van when Court had been talking to Cassandra less than an hour before. They must have gotten there within a few minutes of Court’s leaving or taped it earlier and were faking the live portion.
Ingram held his right hand to his earpiece and his microphone with his left. “Thank you, Tracy. The Seattle Police Department has been out in full force today, questioning the neighbors in the building where Drummond’s body was found Friday afternoon in the building directly behind me.”
The camera panned the area behind Ingram, and lifted upward to show the building’s entire facade before returning to Ingram. “One witness, who wishes to remain confidential, told me the office where Drummond’s body was found was, and this is a quote, ‘all a sham.’”
Court sat up, stomach forgotten, sleepiness swept away. Damn. Damn. Damn.
“The original press release late Friday night says Berkeley Drummond died, and indicates the investigation was ongoing and the press would be updated when there was further information. Earlier this afternoon, the police issued an update stating the death is now being investigated as suspicious. They won’t come out and say it’s a murder, because even the police do not have an official cause of death. The autopsy has not yet been performed.”r />
“Scott, isn’t that unusual?”
“Tracy, it is, but the medical examiner's office was inundated with victims of the train derailment west of Wenatchee early Saturday morning. Berkeley Drummond’s autopsy is scheduled for early tomorrow morning, however, and the Seattle Police Department has promised a statement with a definitive cause of death by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you, Scott. What else have you learned about the circumstances around Berkeley Drummond’s death?”
Court bristled at their smiling faces, the way they used each other’s names all the time. Why did they do that? The people watching them didn’t care.
“Sources have confirmed Allegiance Investments is the front for a professional dominatrix…” The camera swung upward in a dramatic arc and focused on a window as he spoke “calling herself Mistress Fidelma. Sources say she keeps her private dungeon right here. And it was here that Berkeley Drummond’s body was found.”
Court pulled out his telephone and texted Ivy: Channel 7, NOW.
The camera panned back toward Ingram again. Court could see the excitement of a gleeful journalistic coup. Fuck. Reporters. This was fast even for them.
Ivy texted back. Been watching. Tenants talking? Bound to come out, right?
The screen switched to a photograph of the locked and taped office zooming into the sign on the front door. “This is the sham office. Behind this door is where Berkeley Drummond’s body was found, tied in bondage ropes hanging from a hook in the ceiling.”
Ingram looked into the camera with large sad eyes. “I have seen photos of the crime scene. The images are so disturbing we can’t show them on the air.”
Apparently, there weren’t enough salacious details in the official press release for Ingram. He was bound to go digging on his own. That’s what reporters do.
What made Court’s stomach clench was his mention of the crime-scene photos. From the description he gave, he wasn’t lying—he had seen them. None of the crime-scene photos had been released. Court was sure nothing about Drummond being tied up had made it out through official channels. But Ingram’s description was too spot-on for him to not have seen them.
“The lead detective on this case has not returned any of my calls. We will keep you updated as this bizarre story continues to unfold. Back to you, Tracy.”
“Thank you, Scott.” She turned to stare back into the camera. “And in other news, you can expect some high winds and heavy rain to hit the Puget Sound by late….”
Court shut the TV off and flopped back against the sofa. He double-checked to make sure there were no missed calls or new messages. That asshole was claiming he had called him? Court had to keep himself from throwing the phone at the screen. His name and contact information had been part of the press release. He would have been easy to find. He dialed Ivy.
“Did you put your tote down anywhere? Do you know anyone in the media?”
The closing of a door told Court that Ivy had moved from her bedroom into a different room. “No. Well. Yes, but, I don’t see how anyone could have gotten into it. I had the tote with me at the bar, then left it locked in my car for ten minutes while I got some groceries.”
“You left it in the car while you went inside the store?”
“My car was locked. No one broke in, I would have noticed. It didn’t come from me.”
His heartbeat had slowed down a little. “Okay, okay. So who then? We didn’t give anyone access to the photos. They’re all on the station computer or in your tote.”
“Or on your phone. Court, you took pictures on your phone. Is there any chance someone could have hacked it? You use a screen lock, right?”
Court had a password protection on his phone, and he sure as hell hadn’t texted any of the photos to anyone. “No. It’s in my pocket all the time. Besides, I dumped them all onto the computer Sunday morning. My phone is clean. It’s got to be someone in the department. Unless someone got hold of your files.”
Ivy’s voice sounded muffled, congested. “I honestly don’t see how that could have happened.”
“Langston, are you crying?”
“Fuck you, Pearson.”
45
Court yanked the drawer open, sure the damn tie clip should be in the front. He hated getting dressed up for five minutes of courtroom testimony. Lack of sleep and having to dig through his dresser put him in a foul mood. He ran through the day ahead as he hauled things out of the drawer and tossed them on top of the dresser. A screwdriver. Autopsy at seven. His last dead cell phone. Court at nine. A plastic hair comb he thought he had lost at the gym. Back to real work by ten at the latest. A wad of papers—old receipts and ATM slips. A pair of sunglasses he rarely used. He stopped short when his fingers touched the small blue box.
He examined it, noticing, for the first time, the box had several nicks and tears roughening its edges. He hesitated for a moment before opening it, knowing what was inside, but needing to see it again. He lifted the lid, picking up the thin silver chain. He held it, looped over his palm, the cold metal weightiness of it familiar. Its slinkiness made it slip down onto his wrist. The small metal circle with the letter A dropped downward and the chain tugged at his skin exactly as it had when he draped it around Amanda’s neck the night he had given it to her.
They had finished making love, and he needed to dig it out of the pocket of the jeans he’d discarded on the floor. He rolled off the bed and onto his knees. She turned onto her side, her cheek rested on her hand, her elbow making a dimple on the bed.
“What are you doing?”
Court smiled up at her from where he knelt, kissing her while his hand fished around into the pile of clothing. He found the box he’d been carrying around for weeks waiting for an ethereal moment of “knowing” to come to him. That sought-after moment had arrived as they made love, though not for the first time. It had been different, though. They had shifted from the tentative, questioning and fumbling of new lovers into a comfortable couple where they could read each others wants and desires without hesitation. He palmed the necklace before breaking the kiss, keeping it hidden from her. “Sit up and close your eyes.”
She hesitated for a second, but shifted into a sitting position. Her legs dangled languidly from the bed but open, making room for him to slip in between them. She closed her eyes, wrapping her legs around his torso, her heels pressing into his back. The scent of her, their sweat, everything mingling together made him want her again.
He lowered his head to kiss the top of her right thigh, worked his way up to her stomach, to her breast, to her collar bone. By the time his lips graced her earlobe, he was fully extended on his knees, her nipples dancing against his chest. He opened the chain loop, reached around to the back of her neck, and clasped it, her hair tickling his cheek and ear. He leaned back, sliding his fingers under the chain until they met the pendant.
An old-fashioned typewriter key with her initial, A, for Amanda, hung from his fingertips. He guided it to the cleft between her breasts and let it fall there.
She breathed in as it landed against her skin and shimmied her shoulders in an exaggerated shiver. Her lips broke into a smile and her hand flew up to touch it. “Can I see?”
Court rocked back onto his heels so he could watch her as she opened her eyes.
Her hair cascaded over her shoulders as she dipped her head to look at the pendant. “Oh, Court! You remembered,” she said, her breath catching on the words.
Court let out the small breath he had been holding. He had known she would like it, but he hadn’t been sure what she would say about him giving her something, especially right then. “Of course I did. You pointed to it and said,” —here, he altered his voice into a falsetto caricature of hers—“I love that little letter A, you can buy it for me as a present anytime.”
She hadn’t, of course, but she had oohed and ahhhed over it in the window of a little jeweler on Sutter Street in San Francisco. Several times. Even a dense guy like Court could get the hint.
/> She hit him on the shoulder, teasing, then leaned in to kiss him, pulling him toward her with her legs. The pendant swung forward and hit him on the chest, bouncing back and forth between them like a pendulum.
Amanda wore it every day, under her shirt with other jewelry or all by itself. It would swing down, hitting him on his chin when she was on top during sex. Over their eight years together, the back of the pendant was dulled from brushing against her soft skin. She wore it until the moment she had died. She took it off and put it with her note, explaining why she couldn’t continue in a world without Bailey.
Court hadn’t been enough for her. He shook his head to clear it all away. He didn’t have time for this. He needed to focus. Testify. Get to work.
He dropped the pendant back in the fluffy white pillow of cotton lining the box and closed it. He swept everything else back into the drawer and set the box in the center of the dresser. He didn’t know what he was going to do with it, he only knew he had to do something.
46
Court could never have been a pathologist. It wasn’t the bodies or the job itself so much as the location. Morgues were windowless places. He always needed a window—a way out. Ever since he was a kid, he preferred being outside where he could be physical. He always got a little edgy when he spent too much time inside doing the desk part of his job.
Of all the clichés held up by television and movies, the deep dank nature of the morgue was one true to life—even if it had been recently remodeled into a modern wonder of stainless steel, brighter lights, and mildew-free tile. There was no changing the nature of a place dealing so intimately with death. King County’s Medical Examiner office was located on the second floor of an annex to Harborview Medical Center—the same hospital where Li Wu had spent the evening of the murder getting his severed toe sewn back on.
Because of Drummond’s close ties to the police department and political donations, the mayor, the chief, and Lieutenant Stensland were waiting by the time Court got there. Stensland gave him a penetrating look, but didn’t say anything about the news the night before.