He stepped up to the older couple standing out front with a uniformed patrolman who stood a little straighter as he saw Andrews approaching.
“Officer…?” Andrews said as he met the uniformed cop’s gaze.
“Gibson, Detective Andrews.” Gibson obviously didn’t need an introduction, due to Press’s reputation. “Sir, this is Mr. and Mrs. Floyd Tate from Richmond. They’re here at the beach for the weekend celebrating their thirty-fifth anniversary.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Tate,” Andrews said as he shook hands with the Tates. “I’m Detective Andrews and this,” he said, nodding toward his partner, “is Detective Evans. Sorry Virginia Beach didn’t show you a better time for your celebration,” he added apologetically. He aimed a sincere smile at the pair and saw them relax just a little. “Please tell me what you saw and heard earlier tonight.”
Mrs. Tate looked at her husband and waited for him to take the lead.
“Well, we arrived about 1:40 AM or so. We had planned to have a late dinner, since we had been at a play in Norfolk earlier in the evening.” He looked at his wife and smiled, and then he turned back to Andrews “We met here at the beach nearly forty years ago, so this is a very sentimental place for us.”
“We had been saying how lucky we were that the restaurant was still open. By the time we got here, it was later than we’d anticipated—near to closing. It’s one of our favorite places when we’re here at the beach—Stella here just loves the raw oyster and salad bar here. Thought maybe we’d at least get a dessert and some hot tea before they threw us out,” Tate said, smiling at his wife.
“We had just gotten inside the door when we heard the shots. I doubt anyone else inside heard anything because the music was so loud.” Mr. Tate was nervously patting his anxious wife’s hand, which he had gripped tightly with his other hand.
“Did you see the girl or anyone else outside as you entered…perhaps a vehicle out front?” Andrews probed.
“No, didn’t see a soul in the parking lot,” Mr. Tate nodded toward the north side of the building where the club’s designated parking was located. “There were a few cars in the lot. Didn’t see anybody on that side of the street or any cars—it was pretty late by the time we got here, as I said. Most traffic is over on Ocean or Laskin at this hour unless they’re going somewhere specific on the side roads like this.”
Press recognized that Mr. Tate was very familiar with the resort area of Virginia Beach and had obviously come here often. The beach enjoyed many thousands of return visitors every year—they were an excellent source of income for the area. A horde of students and most of the sailors from the nearby naval base spent time at the beach during season, along with many tourists on their way to Florida, New York or DC.
The sailors, especially when the ships were in port or—God help them all—during Fleet Week, would create overflow in every hotel, motel, restaurant and shop in the area and utter chaos until the wee hours of the morning. Unfortunately, not all of either civilians or sailors were law-abiding citizens.
“We parked in the lot, walked straight up the sidewalk toward the front entrance. No sign of anyone around that I noticed. Course, I wasn’t really looking.” He confirmed with his wife with a glance as her head was shaking a matching negative.
“We were talking about the play we’d seen, and, as you can see, these little fairy lights don’t shine very far out in front of the restaurant—not as far as across the road there. It’s pretty dark over there if you aren’t purposely looking for something,” he said, indicating the direction where the ME’s assistant was now rolling the gurney toward the coroner’s van.
“Did you hear a vehicle pull away?”
“No,” Mr. Tate replied. “It was so noisy inside—the band was playing.”
“How could you be so certain that what you’d heard was a shot?”
“I’m retired Navy, son—Lieutenant Commander. I know a gunshot when I hear one. And I go to the range myself once a week—gets me out of Stella’s hair and keeps me sharp,” he winked at Press. “Some might confuse it with a backfire, but I know a gunshot when I hear one!”
“Yes, sir, you sure do! You a good shot, Mr. Tate?” Press flashed a friendly smile at the old man.
“Aw well, not like I used to be, but I still do a decent job. Eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, I’m afraid.”
That’s what Press was afraid of, too. In the dark with aging eyesight and across the street without any backlighting—well, hell, what chance did they have of seeing anything that would be of value? They hadn’t been looking in that direction—had been talking and paying attention to where to step on the cracked sidewalk leading to the restaurant’s entrance. The killer may well have waited until they got inside before doing the job—maybe the timing was just a coincidence. I need coffee.
“I peeked out the little window in the door,” Mr. Tate pointed to a diamond-shaped window not much larger than a human face. “I saw her lying on the ground. Couldn’t tell it was a girl—the officer told us about it later, but I knew it was a body. That’s when I called 911.”
“Stella wanted to go out to check on her, but I made her stay put and called 911. This young man,” he said, as he pointed at the uniformed officer who had waited with them for the detectives, “arrived just a couple of minutes later.”
“Well, thank you ma’am, sir,” Andrews said. “Give Officer Gibson your address and telephone number in case we have any further questions. Then you can go. Thank you for calling for help so promptly.”
“You’re very welcome, young man. Darnedest thing! Just in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.”
Yeah, Press thought. Same could be said for young Macy!
Shaking his head, Mr. Tate double-checked that Officer Gibson had their contact information correct as Andrews walked away toward Evans.
10
Crime Scene
Day 1
4:15 AM
Press stepped into the restaurant and found a small wait staff, kitchen help that had been in the back of the building and would be no help whatsoever, six band members still entertaining the approximate dozen customers just to keep them all awake. The band members were enjoying themselves and would play until they dropped.
During the tourist season they’d have had three times as many people to talk to—even at this hour and despite the liquor getting cut off at 2:00 AM.
He approached the uniform standing at the hostess’s greeting area. “Do we have all their addresses and contact information?”
“Yes, sir,” the officer said, handing him the list of names and information.
“See if you can dig up a cup of coffee with cream, will you?” Press asked the uniform, who immediately disappeared into the hallway to the kitchen.
Press turned to the room, introduced himself and apologized for keeping them so long. “Did anyone hear a shot or see anything suspicious around 1:30 AM this morning?” He quickly scanned the room and faces of all those present—none of which seemed familiar.
The response was a unanimous no or shaking of heads. “All right, folks. We’re going to let you get home now. If we have any questions later, we’ll contact you. Thank you for your patience.” He ignored the grumbling.
The uniform returned with Press’s coffee. It disappeared in a couple of deep gulps that Press didn’t even taste.
“If anyone needs a ride home, let the officer know, and he’ll provide assistance getting a cab.” Although the staff had been serving everyone hot mugs of coffee during their wait, he didn’t need anyone who’d been drinking being hurt or killed on their way home.
As he exited the restaurant, Evans joined him. “The car’s on the way to impound. It was a block over in the Jewish Mother’s private lot.”
“Hum,” Andrews pondered this for a moment. “Well, that may be a lead, Evans. Although…” he hesitated as he closed his eyes and pictured Jewish Mother’s and it’s three-quarters of the block of restaurant and parking lot. “Mother’s lo
t is on the side of the building around the corner from the view of the entrance. Unless our girl went inside, we’ll probably come up empty. Nothing else on that block is open at night.”
Then, speaking more to himself than to Trace, “Gotta wonder why she parked at Jewish Mother’s if she was coming here? Their lot’s clearly marked as a tow-away-zone for non-patrons and this lot clearly had room. Or, did she just meet someone there and come here afterward?”
Coming out of his thought process, Press said, “Well, Mother’s is closed by now. We’ll hit them in the morning—get a list of last night’s crew—see if anyone can remember the girl.”
“Yes, sir, it was the only car left on their lot. Glad VBPD didn’t tow it before we found it. They’re usually pretty strict about parking infractions during season.”
“Yeah,” Press agreed hesitantly. “It’s still a little early in the season yet, Evans.” He shivered slightly as a waft of cool air blew off the beach just two blocks away, through the dark, mostly-deserted streets. “Another week or two and it would have been gone hours ago. Tourist travel will double by then.”
One block east of the crime scene, the windshields and shop windows would be covered with cold, salty mist. The fronds of tall palms on Ocean, released from their winter wrappings just the week before, would be swaying in the heavy morning wind.
God, I love this place in the off-season when it belongs to the locals.
Something wasn’t sitting right with Press, but it hadn’t come into focus yet. It will—it will.
“We’ve got a retired Navy man hearing and recognizing the shots as gunshots and calling 911 almost immediately after the shooting. Cops are on the scene within a couple of minutes of the shooting, so the scene is almost pristine, and yet the killer is gone, unnoticed.”
Andrews paced briefly, stopped right in front of Evans and looked into the younger man’s eyes. “You believe in luck, Evans?”
“No, sir, I don’t!”
“Good answer, Evans. Good answer,” Press said, almost distractedly. “Let’s have one of these uniforms take your car back to the station. You can ride with me.”
“Where’re we going, sir?” Evans raised his voice since Press was already six long-legged paces away.
“To break the news to the family and then to get some breakfast and lots of coffee, Evans. Damn,” he said, looking at his watch. “We’ll be waking them up this early,” he sighed. “But it’s got to be done. He wasn’t looking forward to this notification, and he had to give himself a little time to decide just how he was going to handle it.
Damn, I hate it when work gets all tied up in my personal life and visa versa. It makes my life hell every time. Then he felt the pain hit his heart—I’m going to have to tell Steffi!
They’d make their visit to the victim’s home, where he knew a family probably was still innocently sleeping away the last peaceful bits of time they would have for a very long time—if ever.
“Oh, great,” Evans quietly said to himself more than to Andrews. “That’s going to be pleasant.”
“Imagine how they’re going to feel, Evans.”
“Yeah, believe me, sir. I am.” Evans quickly stepped over to the responding officer, gave him his car keys and pointed the officer to his private vehicle.
Press watched as the officer saw the sporty red convertible—Evans’s college graduation gift from his parents—parked just outside the crime scene tape. The officer grabbed the keys, apparently eagerly willing to do a favor for the detective.
11
Virginia Beach
Day 1
5:30 AM
As the sun peeked into a sky of pink, gold and peach glow over the water, the unmarked car pulled up in front of the Roberts’ house—perhaps mansion would be a better word for it.
Typical for this neighborhood, you didn’t find your usual idea of a mansion—no dark brick and high walls surrounding them. No, these were mostly wooden beach houses done on a very grand scale—twenty rooms or more, many with rooftop decks, complete with hot tubs and gardens. Some had well-manicured front lawns due to well-paid laborers who tended to them every day. Others might have more water-conservation-type beach gardens with palms of varying sizes and lots of stone and sand.
The rear yards would contain pools, tennis courts and private beach access. There would be maids, butlers, cooks—all the help the lady of the house needed to handle her difficult responsibilities in Virginia society. Boats would be moored at the marina or the yacht club, both north of hotel row.
The car’s coughing, vibrating and stinking black smoke, announcing its obvious need for a valve job, caused Andrews a jolt of embarrassment. He dropped his head and banged it on his hands as they held a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. His leftover gas station coffee sloshed in the cup holder.
“I’m going to kill someone in that damned Motor Pool. Mark my words, Evans, someone is going to pay for this car being dumped on us!” he said, as he climbed out and the car sputtered once again and then fell quiet—at least for the moment.
“Yes, sir, I don’t blame you one little bit, sir!” The humor of a final tremor from the car leaving its impact on the senior detective sneaked through to the young cop’s voice.
“Are you laughing at me, Evans?” Press turned his angry face toward Evans just enough that one icy blue eye drilled through the young cop.
“Oh, no, sir!”
“I didn’t really think so,” Press said, as he slammed the car door and stormed toward the house. “Damned thing’s loud enough to wake the…” He caught himself and reined in his temper.
This poor family has more to worry them than a spitting, quaking, smoke-spewing car parked in front of their door. The last spit and cough and the Taurus died—at last.
Evans caught up with Andrews as he looked at his wristwatch—5:30 AM—then he took a deep cleansing breath and pressed the doorbell.
The bell was very quickly answered by a maid—Press didn’t recognize her—in a very tidy grey uniform complete with white apron. He seemed to recall that the Roberts household didn’t hold onto their hired help for very long. If they had this poor woman up and working at this hour, he didn’t have to wonder why they had a constant turnover.
The two cops held their badges out for the maid’s inspection, and Press asked to see Mr. and Mrs. Roberts.
She opened the door wider, glanced at the disgraceful car in the driveway, and, frowning sourly, she admitted them. “Please wait here.” While she disappeared down the hall, the maid left them standing in the spacious foyer.
Evans whispered, “This entry is as big as my whole apartment.”
Press just grinned.
They soon heard the confident clicking footsteps of a woman’s Jimmy Choos on the rich wood floor.
She’s up and dressed very early.
She had to be Mrs. Roberts. About five-foot nine-inches, auburn hair—from a bottle, he suspected—her well-toned figure the result from a carefully observed exercise routine was carried with assurance, Mrs. Roberts was exactly what one would expect of a moneyed matron—well-dressed and well-maintained. His mother would have had something to say about the description, but it was what it was.
He’d also be willing to bet that Mrs. Robert’s list of frequent contacts included a very good plastic surgeon and a personal trainer—perhaps a very personal trainer. George Roberts had a reputation as a womanizer; perhaps Mrs. Roberts shared that particular lack of respect for her marriage vows.
“Gentlemen.” She held out her well-manicured hand to Andrews. Her well-trained eye had decided that, despite his rough, unshaven appearance, he was the top of this particular two-man food chain. “Moira Roberts. How may I help you?”
“Mrs. Roberts. I’m Detective Andrews.” Nodding toward his partner, he added, “This is Detective Evans. Is Mr. Roberts at home?” He noted that she didn’t recognize him as the adult version of the tall, willowy teenager that had often accompanied his younger sister here all those yea
rs ago.
“No, I’m sorry. He’s in DC on business. Please, come into the sitting room and tell me what this is about, Detective Andrews.”
Press sent a silent message to Evans—I’ll take this. Evans seemed perfectly content to leave this to his senior partner.
“I hope we didn’t disturb you, arriving this early?” Press hoped this would elicit some information on what this woman was doing up, dressed and ready for her day at the crack of dawn. Up close, he could more easily spot the unrested eyes.
“No. Not at all, Detective. I have a breakfast meeting at the country club, and, since I am in charge of the arrangements, I thought I should get there a little early. One should never leave such arrangements to chance, should one?” she smiled patronizingly, as they entered the sitting room
“No, ma’am. I understand completely.” He wondered how often his mother had done that same thing over the years of committee work she’d done here before they moved to DC. Then he thought again of his mother and realized the similarities ended there—Rosemary Andrews was much kinder and gentler, more refined than Moira Roberts would ever be.
They sat, as directed by the stiffly polite Mrs. Roberts. It didn’t surprise him that she hadn’t recognized him. He didn’t think that in all the time he’d known Macy he’d seen Moira Roberts more than once or twice. He decided to conduct the interview as if she was a complete stranger—as she was, really. “Ma’am, you have a daughter, Macy?” Of course, he knew better.
“Macy is our niece, Detective—my husband’s younger brother’s daughter. Macy’s parents died in an automobile accident. She’s been living with us since she was just a young girl. I’m afraid she isn’t home either.”
Andrews didn’t miss the nervous hands quickly pulled into control. She’d been very cool and polite until he mentioned Macy’s name. Now she was fussing with the gold chain at her throat and both hands tensed to minimize their ever so slight quivering.
“Please, Detective, tell me what this is about. You are frightening me.” Now the quiver made its way into her voice.
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