“I assume you got the blood on your clothes when you were trying to wake her up?” she asked.
Melissa Ferro looked down at the jogging suit, seeming to process for the first time that it was discolored and damp.
“Oh no,” she moaned. “I had no idea. I have to get this thing off.”
She started to unzip the top and Jessie saw that she only had a bra on underneath.
“Hold on,” she ordered, making the woman stop mid-zip. “I know the blood is upsetting, but it’s evidence. We’ll have someone accompany you to your suite momentarily so you can change and we can bag the clothing. But for now, you need to stay put.”
The woman squirmed in her chair but didn’t argue. Hoping to get her mind off it, and feeling bad for the truly awful position she was putting the woman in, Jessie went in a different direction.
“So I just want to try to nail down that timeline a little more, Ms. Ferro,” she said. “It could be really important to finding out what happened. Where were you before you went back to your room?”
Melissa Ferro looked back at her, and for the first time Jessie saw calculation in her eyes. She paused for several seconds before answering.
“I was just hanging out with people, you know flitting about. I was kind of drunk so I can’t remember everywhere I was exactly. In fact, I’m still kind of tipsy, which hasn’t been fun under the circumstances.”
Jessie was about to press her for more details when there was a loud banging on the door. Everyone looked over as it burst open to reveal a slightly heavyset man with receding brown hair and a flushed face. He was clutching something in his right hand. It only took a fraction of a second for Jessie to realize it was an almost empty beer mug. Without a word, he slammed it against the wall, leaving him gripping a chunk of jagged glass. Then he stepped forward.
CHAPTER FIVE
Before Jessie could reach for her gun, or anyone else could say a word, he shouted at all of them.
“I’m not waiting a second longer. Tell me what happened to my wife!”
“What are you doing, Steve?” Melissa Ferro screeched.
“Mr. Crewe—” Detective Peters barked as he pushed up from his chair.
Jessie, who was closest to the door, wasn’t in a talking mood. As the man approached, she stood up and kicked her chair in his direction. It hit him, and though it didn’t do any damage, it did stop his forward movement.
Jessie, however, didn’t stop hers. Grabbing her backpack off the table by a shoulder strap, she stepped toward him, swinging it in front of her. The man raised the hand with the piece of glass, more for protection than to attack. As the backpack made contact with it, she let go and the pack slammed into the wall.
She ignored that, grabbed the man’s right forearm with both hands at the elbow and the wrist, and yanked it down like it was a plank of wood she planned to break over her knee. The force of the impact made the man drop the chunk of glass. Jessie continued moving, spinning around behind the man while still holding his arm with her left hand so that they were back to back. She swung her right elbow in the direction of his left kidney and made solid contact, forcing a grunt. Then she kicked him in the back of the knee, only releasing his arm when she heard him hit the ground.
She turned around to face the man, who was now on his knees with his back to her. He was slumped, head down, groaning. Wasting no time, she pulled out her cuffs, yanked his hands behind his back, and secured them. After that, she kicked away the sharp chunk of glass. Only then did she step around to face him. He stared up at her, breathing heavily and still wincing.
“Not the best first impression, Mr. Crewe,” she said calmly.
He looked like he wanted to respond, but couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Detective Peters came around the table, helped him to his feet, and then forcefully pushed him down into the chair Jessie had kicked at him. When he looked at Jessie, his eyes were wide with surprise.
“I didn’t realize I was working with John Wick here,” he said, unable to keep the astonishment out of his voice.
“Let’s keep our attention on Mr. Crewe,” Jessie replied, unsure whether he was being sincere or sarcastic and not really caring.
“Care to explain yourself?” Peters demanded, turning back to Crewe and, for the first time expressing anything other than obsequiousness to a guest. After several more wheezy breaths, the man finally responded.
“I’ve been in that ballroom for over an hour and no one’s told me anything for an hour,” he said, his words coming fast, sloppy, and repetitive. “All I know is that Gabby was stabbed to death. I wasn’t even allowed in the room to see her in the room. I think I deserve some answers.”
“Do you think you deserve the right to attack law enforcement officers?” Jessie barked.
He lowered his head and got quiet. After several more seconds of heavy breathing, he looked up again. His eyes were glassy but wet. It was hard to know how much of that was drunkenness and how much was remorse.
“No, of course not. I’m sorry,” he said, forcing himself to speak more slowly. “I didn’t mean any harm. I’m just upset and still kind of drunk. I forgot I was even holding that mug.”
“He was drinking a lot earlier,” Melissa Ferro offered from the corner of the room, where she’d been cowering since Steve Crewe barged in.
“Thanks for your time, Melissa,” Jessie said, using her first name to keep the woman feeling like she had an advocate. “You can go back out now. But as before, no discussing anything we talked about with others, understand? There could be serious consequences.”
Detective Peters looked at her quizzically. She pretended not to notice. There wasn’t really anything Jessie could do to keep Ferro’s mouth shut, but giving her the implication that there was might prevent her from talking for a little while at least.
Peters led her out, and Jessie heard him give a whispered tongue lashing to Tommy the bellboy for failing to warn them about Steve Crewe’s intrusion. Jessie felt bad for him. Unlike the security guard, he had no training for this kind of situation. He was probably just a local kid trying to earn some cash. Still, a shout wouldn’t have hurt.
When Peters came back in and closed the door, they returned their attention to the handcuffed man slumped in the chair. Crewe was finally breathing normally again. Peters looked at Jessie to see how she wanted to conduct the interrogation.
“Well, Mr. Crewe, it looks like you got what you wanted,” she said. “I guess we’re talking to you next. Although the way you got here may lead to a criminal charge.”
“Please,” he said pitiably. “I really didn’t mean it.”
Jessie was happy to have him on the defensive. It made it harder for him to use grief as a mask to hide any other feelings.
“I suppose that any potential charges will depend on how cooperative you are from here on out,” she told him. “My first question is: can we take off these cuffs without worrying that you’re going to lose it again? Because next time I won’t be using a backpack to defend myself.”
He nodded without speaking. Now that she had softened him up, Jessie decided to ease back a little, at least at first. She started in on the questioning before Peters took the interrogation in a direction she didn’t want.
“First, despite what just happened, I wanted to offer you my condolences. I know this is all very painful.”
“It really is,” he said. “And I’m still pretty messed up from drinking so late. Part of me feels like this might just be some terrible nightmare.”
“I wish it was, Mr. Crewe,” she told him. “But it’s very real. And unfortunately, we have to have a very real, unpleasant conversation. I’m going to ask you to set aside your heartache temporarily and answer some direct, uncomfortable questions, okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding aggressively as if that would clear his foggy brain.
“The one good thing is that your wife was discovered very soon after her death so all the evidence is fresh and the potential suspects are sti
ll around. We can use that to find her killer.”
That seemed to buoy him slightly. He sat up straighter in the chair.
“Let’s do it,” he said. “Ask me anything.”
“Good. Where were you when you heard about Gabrielle?”
“In the main hotel bar,” he said. “I was hanging out with Rich Ferro. There was this commotion. Some security guard ran upstairs, shouting about calling the police. A couple of minutes later, some people came down and said that a woman was found dead on the fifth floor. Rich and I immediately went upstairs. When we got there, Melissa was sitting on the floor in the hallway, crying. A waiter was standing outside our room like some sort of guard. That’s when I knew it had to be Gabby.”
“What did you do next?” Jessie asked softly.
“I tried to go in the room but he wouldn’t let me. He said the cops had to go in first. I started to push past him but Rich held me back, said that it would only make things worse. Melissa told me not to go in, that I wouldn’t want to see her that way. So I stopped fighting and sat down in the hall too. The three of us waited there until Detective Peters and the other cop arrived a few minutes later.”
“When was the last time you saw Gabby?” Jessie asked.
Crewe screwed up his face in concentration before seeming to find the requisite memory.
“We went to the main drag in town to have dinner with a big group. That was around seven thirty, I think. I know we got back to the hotel sometime between nine and nine thirty. Everyone hung out in the bar for a while after that, maybe an hour? Then folks started to split up. People came in and out constantly. I went to the bathroom for a while, worried that I might throw up. Rich did the same. We were really pounding them down. Gabby said she wanted to go upstairs for a bit. I don’t remember exactly when that was. I don’t even think I said I loved her when she left.”
Jessie could hear the catch in his voice and moved on quickly. She didn’t want him to get so emotional that he wasn’t useful.
“Do you know if anyone had an issue with Gabby? Did she perhaps get in an argument with someone earlier that evening or even during the day?”
“No,” Crewe said, shaking his head aggressively. “Everybody likes her. She’s not the kind of person people get angry at. Once at the grocery store, I remember her chastising some guy in line for cursing when there were kids around. And the way she did it, he actually apologized. She has this ability to exude morality without seeming preachy.”
“Did she ‘exude her morality’ with anyone in particular recently?” Jessie pressed.
“Like did she dress anyone down?” he asked. “Not that I can think of.”
“So you don’t have any idea who might have done this?”
“No,” he insisted. “We’re here with a group of friends. None of them would ever hurt Gabby. We’ve stayed at this hotel for years and love the management here. There’s a lot of turnover among the staff, so I can’t vouch for everyone. But they all seem really nice. Even just recently, while I was waiting in the ballroom, a waitress from the bar brought me some Pepto-Bismol tablets because she heard I was struggling. They’re those kinds of people.”
He was getting borderline weepy again. Jessie debated whether to push him harder but ultimately decided to hold off for now. It wasn’t clear how much additional information he could offer in his state. Maybe once she verified some times and locations from other witnesses she could come back at him.
“You can go for now,” she told him, “but remember, no talking to other potential witnesses.”
He shuffled out with his head down. There was a schlubby, sad-sack element to the guy that made Jessie wonder how he’d ended up with Gabby in the first place. Admittedly, the guy’s wife had just died, which would affect anyone, but the loser persona seemed to transcend the moment. And though Jessie had only seen his wife dead, even bloody and lifeless, she seemed way out of his league.
“Who’s next?” Peters asked once Steve Crewe left, tearing her from her unkind musings.
“I think we should talk to the friend he was hanging out with, Rich Ferro. We can at least see if his memory of the timeline matches up with Crewe’s.”
Peters stepped out of the room and instructed Tommy the bellboy to send Richard Ferro their way. A minute later, a tall, good-looking, bald man with a lean muscular frame stepped through the conference room door. He had a distinguished, energetic vibe that Jessie could easily see winning over his eventual wife, Melissa.
“Have a seat, Mr. Ferro,” Peters said politely.
The man settled into the chair. He looked like he was holding his liquor much better than his friend. Of course, it wasn’t his wife who had died.
“How do know the Crewes?” Jessie asked, deciding to shake things up and start her questioning a little differently with him. Though his wife had been told not to talk to anyone, Jessie had no way of knowing if she’d followed the directive or if she’d secretly given her husband a heads-up.
“We’ve known each other for several years,” he said. “I think Melissa and Gabby met at a yoga class. They hit it off and it went from there. Now a group of us hang out, sometimes go on couples dates, that kind of thing.”
“How many other couples?” Jessie asked.
“Two more—Marin and Barry Lander, as well as Ariana and Theo Aldridge.”
“They’re out in those ballrooms?” Jessie confirmed.
Ferro nodded.
“And I understand you were with Steve when he found out about the murder?” she asked, now ready to get into the nitty-gritty.
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, we didn’t know she was dead at the time. But I was with him when we heard something bad had happened. We ran straight upstairs.”
“What time was that?” she wanted to know.
He sighed deeply, trying to gather his thoughts.
“I don’t know exactly. But it was before eleven thirty. I remember looking at my watch when the detective here arrived on our floor and that’s what time it was. So we probably found out about five minutes before that, eleven twenty-five or so?”
“Where were you before that?” Jessie asked as if she was unaware that Steve Crewe had used him as his alibi.
“Mostly in the bar downstairs,” he said. “We had gone out to dinner. Then we came back and drank away the rest of the night. People were in and out the whole time but that was kind of our base of operations. By the time we heard something had happened, it was just me and Steve from our group.”
“Can anyone verify your whereabouts?” she asked.
“We’re just trying to get a picture of everyone’s movements over the course of the night,” Peters interjected apologetically, speaking for the first time since Ferro came into the room.
“Specifically your movements,” Jessie added, doing her best not to glare at the detective.
“The whole time?” Ferro asked, impressively not offended by the question. “Maybe the bartender, I guess? She was there all night. But it’s not like I was keeping track of all the guests coming in and out.”
Jessie tried to hide her frustration. It sounded like the bar area was a madhouse. And without video surveillance to reference, she would be dependent on the hazy memories of multiple drunken people to compile a timeline of events. If Steve Crewe and Richard Ferro were indicative of how things would go the rest of the way, she wasn’t optimistic about narrowing things down.
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. A cute, youngish girl, likely college-age, meekly poked her head in.
“Hi, I’m Leena. I work at the front desk,” she said. “Sorry to bother you but I have a message for Detective Peters.”
Peters raised his hand and she walked it over to him, her eyes filled with curiosity at the juicy scene. As she passed it to the cop, Ferro looked her over with some curiosity of his own. Peters glanced at the note and his demeanor suddenly changed.
“Thanks, Leena,” he said, before leaning over and whispering to Jessie. “We should wrap th
is up. The medical examiner and crime scene unit from Long Beach just arrived at the dock. They’ll be here in five minutes.”
Jessie nodded. She didn’t love being rushed but had to admit that she probably couldn’t get much more out of Ferro until she’d heard from others. It occurred to her that the bartender whom he’d mentioned in passing as a possible alibi witness might actually be a credible source of information, assuming she hadn’t been drinking with the patrons. If she was sober, she’d be the first person Jessie interviewed all night who was.
“You can go back out to the ballroom, Mr. Ferro,” Peters said compliantly to the guest. “We’ll be in touch.”
It was all Jessie could do not to call the detective on his subservience. If this was how law enforcement operated on the island, she was amazed they could stop a shoplifter, much less a murderer. But Peters was the only professional resource she had right now, so she bit her tongue and hoped that the local bartender might get her closer to catching the killer than the detective she’d been paired with.
CHAPTER SIX
“My name’s Maura,” said the bartender, who was indeed sober. A tall, lissome woman in her mid-twenties, Maura led Jessie to a small cocktail table in the corner of the now closed, empty bar and tied her long, black hair into a ponytail.
While she settled in, Jessie hoped Peters was having success up in the Crewe guest suite with the crime scene team from Long Beach.
“Doesn’t the hair get in the way when you’re mixing drinks?” she asked as they sat down.
“A little,” Maura said. “But you get used to it. And the extra tips I collect from flipping it around while I pretend to laugh at customer jokes are well worth the hassle.”
Jessie liked her almost immediately.
“So I’m trying to nail down some timeline details,” she said. “Unfortunately, everyone I’ve talked to so far has been too drunk to confidently give quality information. I was hoping that technology might come to my rescue but I understand you don’t have cameras in here either, correct?”
The Perfect Impression Page 4