“Mrs. Roberts, I’m afraid we have some very bad news.” He heard the sudden intake of breath and continued quickly with what he had to say. “Macy’s body was found early this morning.”
“Where? How? Please tell me what happened?” Mrs. Roberts was rapidly falling apart. Tears were now streaming down her face. The clasp to the chain she wore finally gave way and the chain fell to her lap.
Andrews arose and asked Evans to stay with her. He stepped down the hall and found the maid, quietly gave her some instructions and returned to the sitting room.
“Theresa is bringing some tea, Mrs. Roberts. Is there anything else you would like?”
“No. Thank you, Detective. That was very kind of you. I’m sorry I fell apart. Macy is…oh my…was very special to us. She was my brother-in-law’s only child. Now we’ve lost them all.” Her voice faded away The lacy hankie she’d pulled out of her jacket pocket was now a limp and damp wad of cloth gripped tightly in her fisted hand.
The maid returned to the sitting room. Avoiding her mistress’s eyes, she left the tea service on the antique table between the sofa where Mrs. Roberts sat sobbing and the two very heavily stuffed chairs where the two detectives sat.
Familiar with the etiquette of the formal tea service, Andrews asked, “May I?” Upon receiving a brief nod from his hostess, whose hands now shook too badly to pour, he took over that duty for her. “The maid said you would prefer tea over coffee. I hope that was correct.”
“Yes, but perhaps you…”
“No, tea is fine with us, ma’am.” He continued serving although his partner’s nose was scrunching slightly as he took his first sip of the dark, hot liquid.
“Mrs. Roberts, would you like us to contact anyone for you? Perhaps you would like us to let someone at the club know that you will be unable to attend the breakfast?”
“No, thank you. When we’re done, I’ll call my husband. He won’t be able to return until tomorrow anyway,” she said, as she lifted her cup in her shaking hand. “I’ll let the committee chairman know…about Macy…after I leave a message for George to call me.”
A sip of the hot liquid seemed to calm her enough to go on. “My husband is in meetings with several ambassadors this week. Unfortunately, the Embassy staffs won’t disturb them until they recess for the night.” She suddenly seemed to realize how improbable this sounded. “I’ve grown accustomed to these things over the years. No matter how desperate the need, they don’t take messages to them unless the President of this country or theirs needs something.”
“What business is Mr. Roberts in?” he asked, as if it was idle curiosity.
“Import/export—George is the founder and CEO of RFT, International,” she explained.
“I see. They must be meeting about something of great importance to restrict communication so severely,” Press commented nonchalantly as he took a sip from his own cup. She didn’t realize she was speaking to the son of a senator raised in DC politics and foreign affairs.
“Yes,” was her only response. Then Mrs. Roberts raised her chin and looked at him. “Please tell me what happened.”
“Mrs. Roberts, do you have any idea where Macy was last night or with whom?” Press dodged answering her questions. Unless Moira Roberts was as hard a woman as Press suspected, hysteria would probably set in once the details of the girl’s death were out in the open. He wondered how she would react to those details—that someone had coldly and callously shot Macy Roberts to death. Once that was all out in the open, he imagined he would stop getting valuable information. Therefore, he’d take his time.
Evans had his notepad out and was preparing to take down any information she shared.
“She went out to dinner with friends and dancing afterwards. She seldom came home early enough for us to see her. When she didn’t come down for breakfast, I thought she must be asleep in her room. I had no idea…” a sob interrupted her sentence, “…that she hadn’t come home until I went in to say goodbye,” The tears started to flow again.
“I understand, Mrs. Roberts. Please, just a few more questions before we go.” Press knew that he needed to avoid offending her—at least for now. “Who was she with last night?”
“I…I don’t know for certain. I assumed she was with the young man she’d been seeing lately. I…I’m afraid I don’t know his name. It was someone she met recently. I believe he’s in the Navy. Her best friend might know—Jennifer. She and Macy have been best friends since third grade,” she smiled, as some memory of the two girls crossed her mind. Then the smile quickly disappeared, as if reality had abruptly come back into focus.
“We’ll need Jennifer’s full name, address and telephone number before we leave.” The hair on the back of his neck was standing up already.
“Yes, of course. They’re just a couple of houses down the beach from here. The, uh…Wyatts…yes, Jennifer Wyatt.”
“Sebastian and Star Wyatt’s daughter?” Despite his attempt to brace for this possibility, his heart sank.
“Yes! You know them?”
“Sebastian and Star Wyatt have been friends of my parents for many years. I have their contact information, so there is no need for you to worry about that.” He could see her face change as she put the pieces of the detective’s connections together. Whatever Mrs. Roberts tasted, it apparently was not pleasant.
“It’s a small world, isn’t it?” Another sip of tea seemed to steady her again. She sat up a little straighter, continuing in what Press would only describe as upper-crust snobbery. “We’ve always protected her from the Navy riffraff that come to the beach in season, but I believe she met this young man at a party at the University. An officer’s son, I believe. I’m sorry; I can’t seem to think very straight right now. Jennifer may know more real information than we do. Macy is…was a very private young woman.”
Press wondered to himself, was Macy private or was she guarded?
“Please…tell me what happened to Macy.”
“She was shot, Mrs. Roberts.” He heard the harsh intake of her breath, saw it hit her and sink in. There was never an easy way to do this. He’d found over the years that quick and simple—the fewer details the better—was often the best way to get it done. They’d hear the details often enough—and in great detail—later. “We don’t know much at this point. It was very quick, Mrs. Roberts. She didn’t suffer,” not that she’d asked, he noted.
“We’ll need you to come to the Coroner’s Office in Norfolk to identify the body later this morning.”
“Of course,” Moira said, covering her eyes with that well-used hanky once more.
“Would you mind if we took a look at Macy’s room, Mrs. Roberts? It might help us figure out who she was with last night.”
“I…I think I should speak with my husband about that. I’m sorry…I’m just not thinking very straight right now.”
“That’s fine, Mrs. Roberts. We’ll come back another time.” He rose from his chair, followed immediately by Evans.
“Thank you for your patience, Mrs. Roberts.” As he saw her start to rise, he added, “Please, we’ll let ourselves out.” He handed her a business card. “If there is anything we can do for you, please call me…day or night. And we may have some more questions later, but we’ll not bother you any further for now.”
“Thank you, Detective Andrews. I do appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
Andrews and Evans left the house, climbed into the car and, as they drove away, Andrews said, “Well, we have a real mess here, Evans.”
“A mess, sir?”
“Yeah,” Andrews’ tone was tense and frustrated. “Now we have a powerful uncle of the vic, an aunt who is hiding something. Why not let us into Macy’s room? Then there is a possible military connection besides the ‘witness’. We’re going to have to get a warrant to see the girl’s room—uncle’s too savvy to just let us in without one.”
“Just say your prayers that the new boyfriend isn’t involved in this.” Press sounded deflated, even to himsel
f.
“Why is that, sir?”
“The Navy, Evans! The Navy. You haven’t lived until you’ve had to deal with the Navy. They can throw a real wrench into the works!” he growled.
12
Virginia Beach
Day 1
5:55 AM
As he turned the key in the Taurus’s ignition, he got the anticipated hit-and-miss, clunking response and the accompanying smoke plume. The car sputtered and spewed again until Press pulled up in front of another beachfront mansion just blocks away from the Roberts home. Turning off the ignition had the same result it had when he’d turned it off the last time—every time, he fumed.
“What are we doing here, sir? This isn’t the Wyatt’s address.”
“Evans, you really do have to stop calling me ‘sir’! If we’re going to be partners—and it looks as if we are—we have to get to know each other, trust each other. Call me Press or Andrews—whichever makes you more comfortable.”
“Yes, si…Press. My friends call me Trace.” His face was reddening.
“As for why we are here—this is my home. I need a shave, a change of clothes and some food before we go into HQ—and a cup of decent coffee!”
“Your…wow—this is some house, si…Press.”
Press unlocked the front door and started to lead his gaping partner toward the kitchen, just as the housekeeper walked into the foyer.
“Mr. Press, is there anything I can do for you before I run my errands?”
“No, Lizzie, you go ahead. Detective Evans and I will only be here for a short while. Is anyone else in the house?”
“No, sir,” Lizzie answered discretely. She knew what he was really asking. “Palmer and Jones are out walking—they just left, so they won’t be back for another thirty minutes at least.”
“Okay, thanks, Lizzie.” Then he realized he had forgotten to introduce Trace. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. I’ve been rude. Let me introduce you to Trace Evans. Trace is my new partner.”
“Trace, this is Lizzie,” Press said, as he smiled at the small, wiry housekeeper. “Lizzie runs this place. Stay on her good side and you will eat the most wonderful things. Get on her bad side and you might get the business end of a broom,” he laughed.
“Mr. Press…” Lizzie started to argue with him.
“Nice to meet you, Lizzie,” Trace said, smiling at her as he held out his hand in greeting.
“Likewise, Mr. Trace.”
“You have a good day, Lizzie. I probably won’t be home until late—a new case this morning.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. I’ll leave a little something in the refrigerator for you—just in case,” Lizzie said, as she headed to the back of the house.
“Thanks, Lizzie.” Once she was out of earshot, he added, “She’s never failed to take care of me, no matter that I’m no longer that perpetually-hungry, teen-aged boy who stole food from her refrigerator every chance I got. It wasn’t until I went to collage that I figured out that she always stocked that thing especially for those raids and never really stopped me—probably just to keep my stealth skills sharp!” Press found himself smiling for the first time that day.
Just before he heard the front door close, he heard Lizzie shout, “Your favorite bagels are on the counter—cream cheese is in the refrigerator.”
“She never fails! Come on, Trace. First things first—let’s get a decent cup of coffee and some food,” Press said, as he led Trace to the kitchen.
“Who are Palmer and Jones?” Trace asked casually, as he took in the size and layout of the house.
Press laughed as he located the can of Starbucks beans and filters. “Palmer is my butler, gardener, driver-when-needed and the official dog-walker-slash-guardian-of-all-the-dog-can-reach.”
He grinned at the thought of Jones. “Jones is my one-hundred-eighty-pound-and-still-growing dog of unknown origin—part slobbery mastiff and, I suspect, part mammoth. When I adopted him at about eight-weeks, they said he’d top out at about one-thirty. He hit that at seven months and never looked back,” Press laughed.
“We stopped weighing him more than once or twice a year. It’s embarrassing. His vet, Dr. Susan, says she’s not certain he really is a dog. She doesn’t fool me one little bit. She loves that monster of mine.”
“Why’d you name him Jones?”
“Because he’s always ready for his next fix of food—if we’re not very careful that’s usually something he can grab right off the table or the countertop in mid-preparation—mind you that’s with all four feet on the ground. He has a mouth designed to forage for a whole turkey!”
Press set out the bagels and dug the cream cheese out of the refrigerator.
“It’s a good thing Lizzie has a great sense of humor, very quick reflexes and a lot of patience or he’d be a furniture throw or lawn ornament by now,” Press laughed again, realizing Lizzie’s life hadn’t really changed much since he’d grown up after all.
Press noticed Trace taking in his surroundings while Press pulled mugs down from a cabinet. This kitchen was his other guilty pleasure. He had had it remodeled—worked on much of it himself—right after he bought the place. A professional chef would absolutely love what he’d done to it. Lizzie was over the moon!
“This is quite a house,” Trace said, as he took in the beach view from the French doors to a patio that led down to the pool and further to the sand. In the distance, a white-haired man in Bermuda shorts was throwing a Frisbee to something that resembled a small long-haired horse.
Press knew exactly what was going through Trace’s mind as he spotted the pair on the beach. The man was built like an aged bodyguard who’d stayed fit. An ex-Marine and his dad’s bodyguard for many years, it was an apt description. As for the dog…could anything that big really be a dog? He caught himself before he laughed out loud.
“This was my parents’ summer home when I was growing up. They decided to sell it a few years ago and, since I’ve always loved it here, I decided to buy it.” Press told Trace.
Before Trace had a chance to react to what Press said, he added, “And no, I’m not on the take and I don’t sell drugs. My grandparents left me a nice big chunk of trust fund, so I can afford it.”
Trace appeared to be appalled. “I never would have thought such a thing, si…Press.”
Now Press was grinning at the kid. “Remember what I said about getting to know one another, trust one another, partner? Well, I’d just as soon get this side of my life right out there,” he said, as he nodded toward the huge house. “The subject of my family is not for discussion at work, is that understood?”
“Yes, sir…sorry…it’s a tough habit to break.”
“Had manners drilled into you from a small boy, I’d guess.” Press just grinned at him.
“Yeah.”
“We have that in common. Probably one of the reasons the ‘sir’ grates so.” They stood there grinning at each other, understanding each other better than they had earlier in the day.
“I was fortunate enough to be the son of a U.S. Senator and to come from family with enough money to pay off the national debt—should they be so inclined.” When Press saw Trace’s mouth drop open, he just grinned.
“It’s okay, kid. I grew up as normally as my parents could manage. My family’s wealth has always been much more important to them than to me. I enjoy using it for things I consider worthwhile, but I earn my own way in life.”
“Now, let’s get that coffee and I’ll run upstairs and get rid of this,” he said, as he rubbed his hand over the thick black stubble that was fighting its way to the surface of his face. “I didn’t take time to shave before heading to the scene before 2:00 AM.”
“Would you like to use a guest room to clean up?”
Press saw that Trace decided quickly that he’d be an idiot to say no. He followed Press up the stairs and was shown to a guest room with a bathroom the size of his entire apartment.
* * *
A half hour later, Press—now freshly showered
, shaved and dressed in tan Armani slacks with a pale blue long-sleeved shirt, a striped tie of darker blue and his dark brown Italian loafers—climbed back into the unmarked car. His newly showered and shaved partner was at his side.
“Where to now?” Trace asked.
Press’s jaws clenched together as he felt a pain in the heart that was more than grief for the young life lost in the night. “I have to make a stop before we head to the office.”
Trace asked no questions.
13
Virginia Beach
Day 1
6:20 AM
As the car laboriously made its way down the road, all was quiet inside. Pulling into the apartment complex that Trace recognized as off-campus housing for the university, he thought he knew why his partner was so out-of-sorts.
Press parked the pile of junk at the curb and turned to Trace. “Stay here. I won’t be long.”
Trace just nodded as Press unfolded that long, muscular body through the open car door. Meanwhile, the car put on its usual show for any bystanders, while Press growled.
* * *
Press headed up the sidewalk toward the familiar building. Steffi had lived here for the last three years, through her junior and senior years and now as a post-grad. The university offered a select few post-grad students the opportunity to stay here—at a premium rental that helped subsidize students unable to afford their own housing. Some deemed the price worthwhile just to be so close to campus—the recipients of the rental break were also appreciative.
The faded brick building’s wooden trim had peeling paint and was badly in need of repair. The blinds askew in the windows showed the lack of care from hard-studying, equally hard-partying students. The azaleas that flanked the sidewalk were struggling to stay alive; boxwoods planted where they should conceal the ugly building foundation had given up trying.
Remember to contact the chancellor about a donation for building improvements and new landscaping, he thought.
Press climbed the typical apartment stairwell and could hear music playing too loudly in several of the apartments he passed on his way to the third floor.
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