Bad Intent

by Cheril Thomas

  McNamara said, “Brixson thinks the unfortunate Mr. Overton fell onto and then into the dumpster. The blow to his head killed him, and his body was eventually picked with the rest of the contents up by a garbage truck. Fortunately, we know where Overton stayed that last night and I’ve confirmed his room was on the back side of the hotel on the sixth floor.”

  “Balcony?” Banks asked, but he knew the answer was ‘yes’ before the Chief nodded.

  “Brixson sent a forensics team out to go over it.”

  McNamara was getting in the Explorer, and Banks saw his chance to escape foot patrol evaporating. His departure from police work was forefront in his mind and, as usual, what he thought found its way out of his mouth. “Well, I guess if he was drunk enough, he could have fallen off a balcony. If they can prove that’s what happened, that’ll be one case solved before I leave.”

  The only reaction he got from the Chief was a reminder of the stack of reports that needed to be filed after foot patrol was finished.

  Banks thought if death by boredom was possible, working another week and a half would be suicide.

  The front desk manager was a nervous young woman who escorted McNamara to Room 642, even though he assured her he could find it on his own. The Red Bird Inn and Suites had only been open a year, and if Brixson was right, Heath Overton was the first guest to die on the property. While they walked, DeNice Keel described Overton’s stay.

  “It doesn’t seem real,” she said, and she tugged at the bottom edge of her crisp white blouse as if trying to restore order to something she could control. “I checked him in, and I can’t remember much about him, except he was very good looking. Older, but hot. As far as we can determine, I’m the only member of our team who interacted with him.”

  McNamara wondered when ‘employees’ had become ‘teams.’ Probably the same time ‘staff’ had become ‘talent.’ He felt old and cranky and told himself to snap out of it. He followed the team leader into the elevator.

  “Mr. Overton moved his car after he checked in. I remember because he asked me where the safest place was to park, and he made a point of telling me he was driving a Land Rover, like I should be impressed. He must have reentered the building through the side doors because I didn’t see him again. He left before checkout, and since he prepaid, and there were no charges to the room, it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t come back to the front desk.”

  The elevator bounced slightly, and the door opened on the sixth floor.

  McNamara waited for her to step out first, but she seemed reluctant to move.

  “I can find it from here,” he said kindly. “Do you have the images from your security cameras for the period he was here?”

  “The State police already asked. We only keep the data for a week. I’m sorry.”

  He thanked her and stepped into the hallway.

  “This is a good job,” she said. “I’ve been happy here, and the people are mostly nice. But now, I don’t feel safe anymore.”

  McNamara wanted to say something to make her feel better, but nothing truthful came to mind. There aren’t many professions where the formerly happy Ms. Keel would be safe from the darker aspects of human behavior, but he hoped she’d look for one.

  He found Room 642 and introduced himself to the techs who were packing up their equipment. He slipped on protective shoe coverings before joining them. It had been over two weeks since Heath Overton’s visit, but the room had only been rented to three other parties. They were all hoping the Red Bird’s housekeeping staff was sloppy in wiping down surfaces.

  He walked to the balcony, careful to keep his hands in his pockets. The room faced the woods that ran behind the hotel. It was a peaceful view if you looked straight out, but the second team of techs working on two dumpsters six floors below ruined the ambiance.

  “Excuse me, Chief, we’re about ready to leave.”

  McNamara turned to find the lead tech standing behind him. “No problem. Just getting a feel for the scene,” he said and took a last look around.

  “Major Brixson asked me to fill you in on what we’ve found so far, if you have time.”

  McNamara had an appointment at Lightning Strike Films in a half hour, but he was only five miles away. The report wasn’t long, but when he left the Red Bird Inn and Suites, he had new information on both murders.

  Fred Renne was not pleased to meet McNamara, although he managed a civil enough greeting.

  The production company was a larger operation than McNamara had expected, occupying four large hanger-style buildings in a business park. Unlike the chatty front desk manager at the hotel, Renne’s assistant had been silent on the walk from the security entrance of the administration offices to the CEO’s office. Renne held a mug of coffee, but McNamara wasn’t offered any and got the impression he was lucky to be sitting down. His presence was clearly an imposition.

  “Let me save you some time, officer,” Renne said. “I’m well aware that Heath and Felicia Overton are dead, but their deaths, about which I know nothing, do not connect in any way to my company. I should also tell you that LSF’s contract to produce The Plurals Next Door is void. I’ve reassigned my staff and have no connection with the remaining Overtons. Out of sympathy for their loss, however, I’m allowing them to stay in the rental house in your town until the lease runs out next month. Now, if that’s all, I have a busy schedule today.”

  It was a big speech from a little man. Fred Renne, who was even shorter than his nephew, was dwarfed by his outsized desk and a leather chair suited for the bridge of the Enterprise.

  McNamara’s interest was piqued. “Thank you,” he said. “I’d like to know what you and Heath Overton discussed when he met you here on Sunday, May 6.”

  Renne looked surprised, and McNamara wondered if he’d been expecting questions about Sawyer.

  “My attorney wouldn’t approve of this conversation, but I refuse to pay him to tell me to shut up. So, here’s the deal: I gambled on the Overtons. If the show had worked, we’d have made a pile, but they were a long shot. I gambled and lost. It happens occasionally, and I move on. I own the rights to the show, though, and I have another family lined up to take their place. Not right away, of course.”

  “Is that what you told Overton when you met with him?”

  “No. Heath was quite a salesman. He admitted he and Felicia had gotten married four months early and tried to make me believe they could keep it quiet and still meet the filming schedule. I said I’d think about it, but only because I don’t make snap decisions, not because I thought I’d change my mind. I set a meeting with all four of the adults for this week. I intended to cancel the show.”

  “Did you know Overton and his wives each carried a five million dollar life insurance policy naming the other three as beneficiaries?”

  “That so? Huh,” The producer said as he leaned back in his captain’s chair and swiveled. “Now, that’s a story I can sell.”

  Banks couldn’t believe the shirt from closet belonged to Whitney, had been last worn by Felicia, and was stained with Hallie’s blood. He paced around the small police station, mad at the day in general, and McNamara in particular. The Chief had returned from Baltimore in an introspective mood and had dropped the news about the shirt almost as an afterthought. Did he think Banks wouldn’t care that they were getting nowhere with Felicia’s death?

  He’d been pacing and fuming for five minutes before McNamara came out of his office and said, “Enough, already. Get past it and do some work.”

  Once, Banks would have at least pretended to do as he was told, but now he was a short timer and newly emboldened. “You’re telling me Felicia kept Whitney’s shirt after Hallie bled and threw up on it? And she and rolled it up with her own clothes? That’s just sick, and it makes no sense.”

  “The risk you take when making assumptions,” McNamara said, “is trying to make everything else you learn fit what you’ve decided has happened.”

  Banks dropped into the squeaky chair n
ext to McNamara’s desk and rubbed his head. When his blonde hair was sticking up in unruly clumps, he said, “Well, I’m not getting it, so tell me what happened.”

  McNamara said. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  “Right.” Banks perked up. “What do we do first?”

  “You complete the reports I gave you this morning and stand in for me at the Fourth of July parade committee meeting at three. The grunt work still has to get done.” McNamara ignored Banks’ expression. “I’m going to see Grace and the Overtons. And Aidan, see to your hair before doing anything. You need to pick a new nervous habit.”

  McNamara left, focused on seeing Grace, and without another thought for his disgruntled corporal. Banks, on the other hand, thought long and hard about the Chief.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Whatever McNamara had expected to find Grace doing, it wasn’t sleeping.

  He stood in the doorway of her office and watched her, unable to make himself leave. He wondered if Marjorie had known what he’d see when she sent him back without alerting Grace, but he could hear his sister-in-law talking in the reception area. If she’d had set up an embarrassing moment for them, she’d have been front and center to enjoy it.

  Grace lay curled up on the sofa, a hand under her cheek like a child. After a long moment, he eased the door closed. Returning to the reception area, he took a seat and checked his phone for texts and emails. “She’s busy. I can wait,” was all he gave Marjorie.

  Twenty minutes later, Grace emerged with her leather tote and car keys in hand. She stopped mid-stride when she saw him. “How long have you been here?”

  She was too pale and looked tired, but he didn’t take the time to analyze the situation. Marjorie was laser-focused on them. He said, “Not long. You were busy, and I had time to wait.”

  “Come on,” she said as she passed him on her way to the door. “You can feed me. I’m starved.”

  Food wasn’t what he had in mind, but he followed her out of the building and down the block toward the police station. She said, “I only wanted to get away from Marjorie. I’m not hungry.”

  “Aidan has a stash of Doritos we could raid.”

  “Sold,” she managed a weak smile, but he thought she was still off-stride.

  The cabinet behind Banks’ desk turned out to hold four varieties of chips, plus jerky, apples, and a sack of chocolate chip cookies.

  “I’m going to take a pass,” Grace said.

  “You were starved five minutes ago.”

  She pinked up again and looked away. “My appetite comes and goes these days.”

  “Seen a doctor?” he asked as he closed the cabinet.

  “Yeah. Just a thing, nothing contagious.” She burst into giggles, and for a horrible moment, he wasn’t sure she could stop. When she got herself under control, she said, “Don’t mind me, I’m tired and there’s a lot going on.”

  McNamara stared at her as she dabbed at what he hoped were tears of laughter. Unwanted thoughts were sliding into place, and he had no idea what to do with them. “The Overtons,” he said with a touch of desperation in his voice. “We need to discuss your clients.”

  Grace nodded and pulled a Coke out of her tote bag. When she faced him again, her eyes were clear, and she looked resolute. “What do you think you can prove?” she asked.

  He hoped she was only talking about the charges against the Overtons. “Not happening that way,” he said. But he smiled at her audacity. “I have to interview Hallie and her mother, but I can’t do it until six.”

  “Then why did you come to the office?”

  “Just before you came out, I got a text that Desiree’s replacement can’t get over here from Reisterstown any earlier, but I thought we could talk.”

  He felt a tug of sympathy for Marbury. The detective’s immediate admission that she should have handled Hallie’s panic attack without freeing her weapon from its holster was the main reason the girl had been released. It could have gone much worse for the uncooperative teenager.

  Grace said, “I was grateful she stepped up and helped us out. Is she in a lot of trouble?”

  “Desi? It’ll work out. But firing a weapon, even accidentally, always requires a thorough investigation. She’ll be on desk duty for a while.”

  “What a mess. So, what’s new? Something’s happened, so let’s have it.”

  “There’s new information on both deaths, and I might be able to wrap up the investigation into the garage fire if your clients cooperate. We’ll need to talk with Whitney, too, but it can wait until tomorrow.”

  “Let’s start with the easiest.”

  He wasn’t sure she should do anything but go to bed. She looked so fragile; he wanted to wrap her up and tuck her away until she could reemerge as his Grace and argue with every point he made.

  “Mac.” She was waiting. And looking just irritated enough to make him feel better.

  “Nothing to do with the Overtons is easy. How about we start with the lesser charges?” he said. “I don’t believe your clients were trafficking drugs, and I think the fire was an accident. We have questions for Hallie, though, and the outcome will depend on her answers. She has to talk, and it has to be the truth, or she’ll be charged along with Sawyer Renne.”

  “If those are the easy charges, how many more are you contemplating?”

  “Half dozen. Maybe more. It’s time for the family to cooperate. The widows and children pass has run out.”

  “Is that all I’m getting?” she asked.

  “Until we meet for the interviews, yes.”

  “In that case, I have some information for you. I went to see Ernie Sherman at Royal Rides. He told me that the day Heath Overton rented the Land Rover, there was a blond woman with him. He didn’t describe her in a useful way, so I don’t know if it was Felicia. I asked her, but she denied it.”

  He didn’t comment immediately, but when he decided she’d worried long enough, he said, “How did Mr. Sherman describe the woman?”

  “Well,” Grace started, but he shook his head.

  “I’d like his exact words, useful or not.”

  “Chickie.” Grace stared him down. “He said she was blond, and he called her a chickie.”

  “How odd.” McNamara wrote the word in capital letters on a notepad. “He called you a chickie, too. Said you were feisty and a real handful.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. How long have you known?”

  “About an hour less than you.” The laughter he’d been holding onto got away from him. “You did a number on the knucklehead, so he finally returned my call and dumped everything he knew, which I agree isn’t much. He couldn’t identify Felicia from her morgue photo. Said he hadn’t been looking at her face while he was with her.” He expected blowback from that, but she only shook her head.

  She stepped outside to call Mosley, who dispatched Marjorie to make arrangements with Melanie and Hallie to be at the office at five.

  “You can meet with them at six,” she said when she returned.

  “Think you can keep them from confessing to all my open cases?” McNamara asked as she sat down. “What’s with that, anyway?”

  “Many things, but I’m not discussing them with you. May I?” She pointed to the floor fan sitting near the doorway. “Is your AC out again?”

  “Yes, sorry. I’ll open the window.”

  Grace followed him to the single window in the office and watched people hurrying by outside. It was a beautiful afternoon, and a good forecast meant Mallard Bay was filling up with tourists. The view from the window was at odds with the conversation they were having.

  “Come on, Mac,” she said when he turned back to face her. “Whitney’s not a danger to herself or the family, and she certainly isn’t a flight risk. She’d never leave them. They need her. Would you at least agree to release her on a reasonable amount of bail?”

  “You know that’s not how it works. It’s not up to me.”

  “But, your opinion carries we
ight.”

  “One of the Overton women killed the new wife, and they all have motives. Whitney and Hallie are trying to cancel each other’s confessions, and Melanie is a bona fide nut job.”

  “Your professional opinion?”

  She gave him a real smile and erased his last doubts about the decision he’d finally made.

  “Why waste words?” he said, wondering how to change the subject. “Anyway, how do you know one of them won’t confess to something else? They might be at the state police barracks right now with a story you haven’t even heard yet.”

  “Don’t joke about that. It’s not funny. Absurd, maybe, but not funny. They’re odd and their circumstances — ”

  “Which they set up themselves.”

  “Agreed,” she said. “But it’s tragic all the same. All they wanted was a big family — ”

  “And a TV show.”

  “That’s just rude. I don’t interrupt you when you’re talking.”

  “Really?” he laughed, pleased with himself. She was agitated and looking much better for it. “You’re a constant interruption, talking or silent.” They were back to the standoff, but this time he was ready for it to end. If she ran, he was going after her.

  She didn’t run.

  “Do you like it?” she asked. “My interruption of your life. Do you like it?”

  They were still in front of the open window in full view of the crowd on the sidewalk when he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  “Before you do that again, I need to tell you something,” she whispered, leaning back to look at him.

  “Later,” he said. “And, Grace, whatever it is, I don’t care.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Mosley sent Marjorie home at four and announced he’d help with the interviews. Grace didn’t argue. She was finding it hard enough to stay focused without dealing with Marjorie’s wrath. The village grapevine had beaten her back to the office, and only Mosley’s unusual afternoon presence was keeping Mac’s sister-in-law in check.