Trevar's Team 1

by Kieran York

  As I slipped into my terrycloth robe, I admitted, “That. And also we need to ensure that the union of Trevar Investigators, Inc. remains.”

  Often, daydreams are safer than reality, I considered as I took the lonely walk to my stateroom. If childhood carved us into who we become, moments when we feel unloved must make us even more frightened to love without restriction.

  “Up shit creek,” Pluma squawked.

  “Exactly,” was my postscript to the darkness. Because Pluma spoke only English, Spanish, and parrot, I whispered the old Latin adage to myself and the silence. Quid hoc ad aeternitatum? What does it matter in the light of eternity? With the exception of now and me.

  4

  GATHERED TOGETHER IN our conference room, the team’s early morning meeting began. Rachel had come with an armload of copied reports and photos. “I made a timeline,” she reported. The police got there right after Lilia checked into Breakers, and Debra Grant claimed to have been with Anita Cruz, and Jeremy was at his motel room sleeping it off. That’s what he told the cops when he was rousted several hours later.”

  “Nothing concrete,” I said.

  “No. The postmortem didn’t stop the clock. Sylvia had been dead over thirty minutes when the police arrived. The body was early-nonfixed lividity. So before three hours had elapsed.” Rachel carefully extracted the Sylvia Grant file with photos. She placed the first 8x10 in front of us.

  My stomach twisted. “She didn’t deserve this.”

  “Gruesome enough for you?” Rachel asked. Knowing how painful the photographs were, she must have selected her bright tangerine-colored dress to brighten up the conference. It wasn’t working. Viewing murder victims in bloodied crime scene photos was always unsettling. She read the accompanying medical examiner’s report. “Contusion. Left mandible. Crushed occipital and temporal. Cracked frontal over eye socket.”

  Summer’s expression was one of anger mixed with pathos. She’d selected an outfit far more appropriate for the occasion of scrutinizing death. She’d dressed haphazardly in denim shorts and a loose navy t-shirt. Her yellow headband was an afterthought. My own baggy trousers and brightly flowered over-shirt was also inappropriate, I’d decided after glancing at the first photo. I should have selected something very dark.

  “Grizzly,” was my response. “She was clearly beaten to death. It began with a hard crack on the head. It was with a blunt object. Maybe a sawed-in-half bat was used to batter her. That tells us a world of information about the killer. Anger, frustration—it was a crime of rage committed by a violent person.”

  “But no footprints. They were wiped clean, obviously,” Rachel said. “And the perp shed no blood.”

  My fingertips fanned the remaining photos across the tabletop. “Before we work on what we have here, let’s go over our reports and speculations. Summer, what do you have?”

  “I checked out the places in West Palm where Debra Grant and her friends hang out. I questioned everyone. People were hostile. Probably fear of Deb’s pals. But I did locate a little bar over in Tequesta. A hangout slash drug cellar.”

  “Are people truly afraid to breach confidentiality because of Debra’s buddies?”

  “Anita Cruz is heavy into nose candy. From what little info I’ve come up with, she hooked Deb on cocaine.”

  “The high price spread,” Rachel offered.

  “Deb’s a snort freak. Anita Cruz’s brother is a drug lord. So the connection is drug availability. Even though he’s in prison now,” Summer added.

  Rachel sat back, crossing her arms. She glared in my direction “What?” I asked.

  “Cruz,” she repeated. “Cruz. Beryl, doesn’t that name ring a bell? Anita Cruz is the kid sister of the man you kept out of prison for a few years. If you’d still be practicing, he probably wouldn’t be serving time now.”

  “That Cruz.” My words sighed out. “I have a news flash for you, Rach. He’s probably still dealing from behind bars. Maybe his kid sister is doing his bidding while he racks up good-behavior days. Summer, is Anita’s gang into murder?”

  “You know the old saying. You’ll commit robbery for cocaine. For coke, you’ll kill. Maybe Cruz’s gang needs bucks.” Summer ran her fingers through her recently showered damp hair. “Sure, they’d whack someone.”

  “Have a description of Cruz?”

  “Rach can get us some mug shots,” Summer suggested with a shrug. “Cruz is in her mid-twenties. Hispanic. Maybe five and a half feet tall. Shapely, but slender. Eyes are like nails. Mean, tough, but not all that athletic. She lets her partner take care of the rough stuff.”

  “Her partner?” I quizzed.

  “Partner as in business partner only. A woman they call Hammer. I think it might be short for Hammersmith,” Summer answered.

  “Junie Mae Hammersmith,” Rachel inserted. “She’s got a very long sheet. A very ugly sheet.” To me, she said, “I’m amazed you’ve never represented Anita Cruz and Hammer. But then they aren’t able to pay the millions you charged.”

  “I missed springing a few felons along the way,” I dryly reported. “So Debra Grant might have gotten the three of them access into the Grant home. Cruz and Hammer could have killed Sylvia.”

  “Easily. Junie Mae Hammersmith is a pro-wrestler. Six feet of mean woman,” Rachel recalled. “She goes by the ‘ring’ name of Hammer. And don’t ever make the mistake of calling her Junie Mae. She nearly killed a court reporter for using her given name.”

  “So Hammer has been inside,” I asked.

  “She’s never been inside for long. Intimidation works. Never any proof. It goes away.”

  “I hear she assaults her women,” Summer added. “She launders ‘em the old fashioned way. Beats their heads on a rock. So if she ever asks you if you want a bust in the mouth, it isn’t a nipple invitation. Not that you’d be interested. Hammer is like a muscular wannabe Barbie Doll. Same big, blonde hair. Wears full makeup in the ring. Big, white snaggle-toothed smile. When she’s losing a match, she often tries to bit off an opponent’s nose or ear.” Summer laughed. “You’ll know her when you see her.”

  “What is a kid like Debra Grant doing with these two?” I incredulously quizzed.

  Summer crossed her arms. “Power, in Cruz’s case. She even runs her own pharmaceutical lab. What she can’t get out of Columbia, she can mix up herself. And Hammer is a wrestling star. They both can dispense drugs. From what I’ve heard, Debra isn’t a bad kid. She just picked her pals by the gram. And they gladly recruited her. She was probably rebelling against her mother. Deb is actually a nymph.”

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  “She’s adorable,” Summer replied. “I did a little flirting with her when Anita was outside the bar doing some business. Up close and personal. When I went by the bar where Debra was sitting, I tried to brush up against her. She didn’t object.”

  There was a flicker in her eyes. Summer didn’t need to explain. “It sounds as if Anita Cruz’s gang members are prime suspects.” I glanced at Rachel. She was thinking along the same lines as I was. “Now, Rach, what did you find out about the channel?”

  “Helene Earnest gives the impression she’s from another planet. Example is the old sage, Loma. An old woman who takes over Helene’s body. And her messages get through. Helene passes the collection plate.”

  “Might she have killed Sylvia for the threatened loss of one third of the estate?” I probed.

  “I’m uncertain. She was in Sylvia’s pockets. And,” Rachel confided, “she claims to have been in Sylvia’s bed.”

  “That would piss off the Argentine,” Summer interjected for my benefit.

  I tapped my pen on the desk. “On the flip side, Helene must have had supporters. Why kill off one of the parishioners when there are other supporters?”

  “Precisely,” Rachel agreed. “There are other celebrities and rich folks to buy a place in the coven. But Helene is charming enough to make me suspect her. Suppose Sylvia found out how the channel gets her information. Maybe Sy
lvia was going to inform the flock.”

  “Kind of a weak motive.” My tentative words conveyed skepticism. “But possible. Maybe Helene’s unbalanced enough to get paranoid. What’s your reading on it?”

  “Anything is possible.” Rachel shifted in her chair. “One thing I know about Helene. She is a very brilliant cookie. And how about Jeremy?”

  “He’s a complete incompetent,” I mulled. “And if he were liquored up, he might have beaten Sylvia. Maybe the dispute got out of hand. I don’t think he, or any other batterer, can be excluded. He’s angry. No alibi. He’s large enough to have easily overpowered her. He’s high on my list.”

  “It wasn’t a dainty murder,” Rachel commented as she glanced down at the photos. “I have to guess it was someone very personally involved. A burglar usually gives a quick smash or two to deflect capture. Getting out quickly is top priority. Leaving no DNA. The forensic deal on this is all the prime suspects had legitimate access to Grant and the home. Their DNA would be around her, on her, everywhere.”

  Summer offered, “Beating her senseless could have been an addict gone ballistic. That’s an entire new set of rules.”

  “So let’s get on to the official reports,” I suggested.

  Rachel grinned. “I suppose Tom Powers gave me more information than he gave you?”

  “That goes without saying.” I sighed. “In fact, he suggested that we were in no way to think of ourselves as posse comitatus.”

  That provided the first laugh of the day. Unfortunately, it was the only laugh my day was to supply.

  We quickly diagramed the day’s work. Rachel had been invited by Helene Earnest to join her for brunch. Summer was hot on the trail of Debra et al. I sat alone in the galley at the small nook. I munched a wonderfully concocted, creamy fruit salad. My penchant for innovative cooking was legendary.

  I conjectured that all the evidence had an explanation. The suspects had all been in the room on the day of the murder. All hair, fiber, etcetera, and traces were accountable. No foreign traces. Sylvia’s blood was the only blood sample. She had apparently not fought. Probably she had been knocked unconscious, or perhaps killed, with the first blow to the head. She hadn’t been expecting the first punch. With all the blood, the perpetrator had to have splattered blood. Some washing machine probably long since laundered the evidence. More probable was that the clothing bundles had been deep-sixed. A ripcurrent laundromat took away all the clues.

  Later, Rachel was planning to work on a computerized re-enactment of the killing. She’d attempt to compute the way the body was positioned, and the blows sustained. She would then try to ascertain some logical scenarios.

  I trawled the files for hints about the case. There was only raw information from which clues might be salvaged. I reexamined the photos. The body was in the state of generalized rigor. Wisps of Sylvia’s hair hung like moss across her haggard mask of a face. A geyser of blood had flowed from her head. Thread-like streams were visible near other antemortem abrasions. It was a blood corsage on her flesh.

  I squinted intently on the close-up photos of Sylvia Grant’s face. Cyanosis, I noted. But the coloring looked suspiciously drug induced. I knew she was inebriated, but the skin tones looked more like a heavier chemical overdose. My fingers traced the image. That shellac-yellow skin meant something. I’d seen death and knew there was a difference between alcohol and drugs. I hoped Rachel would be able to get the path report. Also, I knew we’d need the crime scene evidence list.

  Someone had murdered Sylvia Grant. Someone had killed the mica-eyed woman who fondled a song. I’d vowed to myself that I would find her killer. Admittedly, I wanted to protect Lilia Franco from any taint of suspicion along the way.

  My eyes closed. Falling in love with a client was unethical. One of the reasons was it became infinitely more dangerous. It was not only contrary to good business practices, but it might cloud one’s perspective.

  I suddenly felt the guilt of a truant child. In my youth, my guilt belonged to me alone. Certainly, my parents never cared about my guilt or me. Not as long as it didn’t implicate them in anyway. When my father was around, he was usually intoxicated. My mother, with her once lovely smile, had given her life over to drink as well. When I was fifteen, my father was killed in a drunken brawl. My mother was faced with going it alone with the care of a daughter or just disappearing from the debt collectors. She had always had minimal responsibility for her teenager and was most concerned about not having enough money for the next quart of whiskey.

  Begging on the streets, being a bag lady, and unencumbered was her decision. I saw her packing her bags a few days after my father was buried. Both of my parent’s bodies had been depreciated by hard living. Time was an artisan of life, and it was a destroyer of cells. Life wore her away, and booze allowed her a way not to care. Maybe her vain beauty and too much booze insisted on her going it alone.

  There would be no way of ever knowing about my mother’s decision to opt-out. The contents of life are often sealed. Just as my office safe was sealed. Inside was a probable farewell semi-suicidal letter that my mother had written before taking to the streets, and leaving me behind to fend for myself. Although she’d hinted that she couldn’t go on living alone, I didn’t know for certain what her plans might be. The letter remained the way I had found it—unopened.

  My childhood was one of neglect. With my mother’s exodus, it also became one of shame as well as guilt. I was bewildered by the universal truths of life. I decided not to search too deeply for emotional justice. My search for life’s verity became proclaimed justice in courtrooms. For me, admissible truth was more tangible and substantial than metaphoric reality. Evidence and preponderance are elements I could manage.

  One of my teachers had evaluated me as being troubled. But she had written, Beryl Trevar does have a thirst for knowledge and a sense of inquiry. I supposed that was her way of saying there are storms within each of us. And in attempting to retract the tempest, we often redirect our quest.

  I spent a great chunk of the morning on a different search. The Palm Beach old guard was skeptical of nouveau wealth. Newcomers undergo enormous scrutiny. Needless to say, my morning attempt to extract information from those living adjacent to the Grant Mansion yielded nothing. When I was allowed to talk with anyone, the quiet was deafening.

  The old guard also had numerous bons mots. One that springs to mind was that in a junkyard, everything you see was once desired or needed. I was convinced there were no junkyards in Palm Beach, just as there are no true burial grounds. So how, one asks, can there possibly be murder? By noon, I was convinced it must have all been my imagination.

  I’d returned to The Radclyffe dejected. When the telephone rang, I half expected it to be a clandestine call from one of the dozen maids and gardeners with whom I’d spoken. It was Lieutenant Tom Powers. He informed me that Lilia Franco would be allowed to return to the Grant Mansion this afternoon to collect her personal belongings. Debra Grant had taken possession of the premises early in the morning.

  Powers added that Trevar’s Team was to relax. Not interfere with police business. He also mentioned that although Debra was heir to the mansion, and had the right to reestablish residency, the police department was insisting that no furniture be moved. So I wasn’t to allow Lilia to hoist the bed over her shoulders and pitch it wildly. He huffed that it was to be left as we found it in case there was a jury walk-through during the trial.

  I immediately called Lilia to tell her there was an all clear on getting her belongings. Debra would be there, but had promised to allow Lilia hassle-free access. Then I dialed Summer’s smartphone to tell her I planned on picking Lilia up to take her to the mansion. Summer informed me she was already outside the gates waiting to get in. She’d tailed the trio from Anita Cruz’s Boca Raton condo where they had been staying.

  It was implied that I expected Lilia to be treated respectfully by the scum ball druggies.

  Summer sighed deeply. “Trev, I’ll gladly
frisk Deb. You can have your way with Cruz and Hammer.”

  My laugh was muted. “Summer, I’ll pass.”

  Her chuckle was refreshing.

  Not so refreshing was foul-mouthed or fowl-mouthed Pluma. “Brujas.”

  Sometimes, I had to consider that she probably didn’t process her vulgar chats. But just in case, I uttered, “And Pluma, I think you’re also a witch.”

  Moments later, I was on route to pick up Lilia. She looked lovely. We drove to Sylvia’s estate. My Firebird rolled through the gates, and I spotted Summer’s motorcycle. We were greeted by the maid. Lilia’s thickly lashed eyelids blinked back wetness.

  The living room’s neutral décor had been undisturbed. The place had been sanitized. Debra Grant stood near an etched glass panel that separated the rooms. With a scowl at Lilia, she mocked, “Didn’t you soak my mother for enough when she was alive?”

  Cordiality by necessity, I surmised. “Ms. Grant, we want to thank you for allowing us to pick up Ms. Franco’s belongings.”

  Debra folded her arms. “Yeah, damn nice of me to let my mother’s killer back in here.”

  “We aren’t here to swap allegations,” I assured her. Glancing to catch Summer’s expression, I added, “And we certainly don’t want trouble. Nor will we tolerate trouble.”

  My admonition was given.

  Debra leaned her petite body against the wall. Her eyes narrowed with rebellion. “She’d better not take anything that belonged to my mother.”

  “Debra,” Lilia spoke softly. “I loved your mother. I’ve never taken from her.”

  “You never loved her.”

  Lilia glanced away. Her voice was laden with sorrow. “We both loved your mother.”

  Debra’s features thawed a moment. Her lower lip trembled. “You had a choice of loving her or not. I was born into it.”

  I recognized the pain in her voice. My words were gently spoken. “Debra, your mother loved you. She told me about you the night she died. She was concerned about your future. Lilia also cares.”