In the foyer, Giulia pressed the button next to Fitch’s name. He buzzed them in without asking who they were. She pushed open the stairwell door and they walked up two flights of scuffed steel-tread stairs. When she rang Fitch’s doorbell, she wondered if Geranium had her ear to the wall between the two apartments.
Fitch opened his door. “Come in. I’m all yours ’til lunch.” He caught sight of Zane. “I didn’t know you were bringing someone else.”
“You remember my assistant, Zane Hall.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
They shook hands, and Giulia caught Fitch’s startle at Zane’s strength. Perfect.
He led them into the deep-carpeted living room. Giulia’s feet sighed with envy even as she assessed the art on the walls and the cologne wafting from Fitch. It smelled like something new from a Sports Illustrated tip-in.
“You want coffee?”
“Thank you, no,” Giulia said. “Let’s get right to what we came here to report.”
She gave Fitch an edited version of Geranium’s interview. A good thing, too, since his only comment was “Nosy old fart.”
“Can you tell me any more about the night the neighbors called the police because of the argument between you and Ms. Gil?”
He waved it away. “We fought. We got loud. So what? Lori wasn’t a timid little flower. She had fire in her. That’s what I like in a woman. Not our fault the neighbors eat dinner at four o’clock and want to go to bed at seven. If landlords wouldn’t cheap out on the sound baffling in the walls everybody’d be happier.”
Giulia let that slide and proceeded to Len Tulley. Fitch stopped her two sentences in.
“I’m the one who told you Len found the video. I know that makes Len look bad, but it doesn’t mean his hand is sticking the knife into my back.”
“Mr. Fitch, you hired me to look into everything that could save you from the death penalty.”
“Jeez, you’re using that patient voice again.” He gave Zane a grin that attempted to exclude Giulia. “Does she use that on you too?”
“Mr. Fitch.” Giulia wrested the steering away from Fitch’s hijack attempt. “Len Tulley also mentioned you and Mr. Petit have a history.”
Fitch blinked at her. Giulia waited.
“Yeah,” Fitch said. “Yeah, we went to the same high school. So what?”
“I understand there was some rivalry between you and the possibility exists that it may still be ongoing.” This roundabout way of coming at vital questions made Giulia itch.
“Are you kidding? That was sixteen years ago. Nobody cares what happened in high school once you get a real job and a life.”
Tendrils of red inched up his neck. Giulia could’ve kissed them.
“That may be true for certain people, but Leonard Tulley’s condo is a shrine to his teenage football triumphs.”
Fitch barked a laugh. “He gave you that old sob story, eh? You should hear him at the bar. He ought to have a warning label for new customers coming into Long Neck. Poor Len, could’ve been somebody, would’ve made the NFL Hall of Fame if only his rivals hadn’t tackled his knees in the State Championship game his senior year. Blew ’em both out.” He leaned back in his chair. “Truth is, Len was the big fish in a small pond at his D-2 college, but he would’ve been outclassed in any Division I school.”
“That’s somewhat harsh.”
Fitch shrugged. “A short stint in the pros would only have delayed Len’s permanent career as a bloated has-been. He’s a good brewmaster, though. Long Neck’s profits have increased at a slow but steady rate since he signed on.”
Giulia said with no change in her voice, “Do you work at the bar with him?”
“With him?” The sneer in his voice matched the one on his face. “I’m part owner of Long Neck. He works for me, in the strict sense of the word. Want to know the best part of being on top? Minions.”
Still without a change in inflection, Giulia said, “But we were talking about history between you and Colby Petit. This was in basketball, not football. Am I correct?”
Fitch looked like he’d just thought better of giving Giulia another insult disguised as a grudging compliment. His charming sales smile reappeared. “It was so long ago, but—hey, just a second.”
He jumped up and went to the artistic glass-and-chrome shelves on either side of the TV. From one at waist level, he took out an oversized crimson book and flipped through it.
“Here you go. This is our varsity team picture. I’m holding up the right side of the trophy. That’s Colby in the back row, behind me.”
Giulia studied the faces in the photo. The face of the future Colby Petit, Esq. peeked out from behind Roger Fitch’s shoulder. His “Say Cheese!” smile foreshadowed the smile that appeared at exactly the moment to win a reluctant jury. His eyes looked at Fitch holding the trophy, not at the camera.
“I see.” She handed the book back to him. “Thank you.” She segued into a quick summary of Jonathan Stallone’s early-morning interview and a longer one of Shirley Travers’ vitriol and lunch meetup.
Roger whistled. “Whoa. I forgot about her. Lori sure proved she had what upper management wanted with that deal.”
Next to Giulia, Zane shifted on his couch cushion, but kept quiet.
“That’s an interesting way to describe it,” she said.
“Oh, come on. You’ve been in business. It’s like rugby. Trample the weak and leap over the dead. Travers was weak.”
“Shirley Travers welcomed Ms. Gil as a new employee and trained her to do the job she was hired for.”
“Yeah, and Lori outstripped Travers in less than a year. Lori would’ve been an idiot not to turn that to her advantage, and Madre Cassandra sure didn’t raise an idiot.” He pointed to Zane. “You. You’re younger than your boss here. By default you should have a better grasp on current methods and practices. In the proper order of things, if she doesn’t scramble to keep ahead of you, you’re going to replace her within a year or two. That’s business. Travers didn’t keep her ears open. Never rest, you—Zane, right? Stay hungry. That’s why Lori was a success.”
Giulia chose her next words with care. “The police reports contain no evidence of a motive for Ms. Gil’s death. They posit some theories, but that’s all we have after a year: Theories.” She crossed her arms over her knees, the gesture bringing her closer to Fitch. “What do you believe was the motive for Ms. Gil’s murder?”
Fitch didn’t miss a beat. “Revenge. What else could it be? Sure, her killer took our credit cards, but that was opportunity at hand. If the killer’d been serious about cleaning us out, he—or she—wouldn’t have stopped at Lori. He’d have taken care of me while I was sleeping it off ten feet from Lori’s body.”
Taking the cue, Giulia stood. “I know we haven’t yet discussed Cassandra Gil’s interview, but I’d like to walk through the murder scene.”
Fitch stared up at her for a moment, then shrugged and stood. “Why not? Come on, Zane. I’ll give both of you the Hollywood Horrors tour of Apartment 212.”
Twenty-Four
He led them through an open door into a bedroom that still showed traces of a feminine decorating scheme. The bedspread, a forest green shadow-stripe, layered a seafoam dust ruffle under an actual ruffle. The duvets matched the dust ruffle, and that was it for anything feminine. Sales and software books filled the headboard book niches. The room was just narrow enough with the king-sized bed to allow no space for nightstands. A 36-inch TV took up the top of the chest of drawers on the left side of the bed. If there had ever been a dresser for Loriela on the outside wall, a gas fireplace now filled a third of that space, with seascape watercolors on both sides. Good ones, too—Giulia’s friend Sister Bart had taught Giulia what a talented painter’s work should look like.
On the other side of the TV, the glass balcony door offered a view of the solid brick wall of a refurbished 1940s cinema across thirty feet of bushes and grass studded with patches of old snow.
“Lori slept on the side n
ear the balcony. Her dresser used to be against that wall. I put in the fireplace last September. That night, when we got home from the bar, we finished celebrating my birthday and passed out more than fell asleep. You know how it is when you’ve had a few too many.”
“Once or twice,” Giulia said, figuring he’d accept this even from the prude he’d said she was. She was also prepared to step on Zane’s foot, but Zane picked up her cue.
“I don’t know why she woke up. The way I pieced it together when I was sitting in jail for the two days after, the guy—or girl—made some kind of noise that got through to Lori right about the time she woke up to pee. Something like that, where she’d be coming out of how heavy we were both sleeping.”
Giulia walked over to what had been Loriela’s side of the bed. “The balcony door has a deadbolt? Yes, I see it does.”
“We used it because we both grew up in crime-filled neighborhoods, but we never expected somebody to climb up that way. Everyplace nowadays is covered by security cameras.” He opened the door and pointed to the left of the balcony. “The one that took all the pictures in Colby’s trial exhibit is up there, a foot above my head.”
Giulia passed him and stepped out onto the pressure-treated wood, weathered to a natural gray. Beads of melted snow lurked in the shaded corner, so it had at least been waterproofed. But Loriela had been strangled, not stabbed, so there’d been no reason to re-treat for bloodstains.
She eyeballed the eight-by-six space fenced in by wrought-iron railings in a simple twist pattern. “Mr. Fitch, did you have to step over Ms. Gil’s body to see if she was still breathing?”
“Yeah. When the phone woke me up and I saw the rain coming in the open door, I sobered up fast. Didn’t see that my tie was missing, but I’d yanked them off her wrists and she untied her ankles after we finished, like always.” He glanced at Giulia, then at Zane. “Well, not always. I don’t want you to think we indulged on a regular basis. We’d made up after a big fight and she wanted to—”
“Mr. Fitch,” Giulia turned her back to him and leaned over the railing to study the landscaping, “I’m interested only in that evening as it pertains to Ms. Gil’s murder. The tie was on the footboard and available to the killer. Your intimate relationship details are not my concern.”
“Yeah. Okay. So there was a little round hole in the door and wet shoe prints on the rug leading out to the kitchen. Lots of rain had soaked into the room from the open door. That’s when I called 9-1-1. Then I found Lori. He’d left her right where you’re standing. I dragged her inside and untied the tie from her neck and tried CPR. I don’t know CPR, but you see it all the time on cop shows, and I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“I see.” She came into the bedroom again. “Where exactly did the wet prints lead?”
“Out here, to the kitchen.” He led them, walking in a shorter stride than usual. “The guy—yeah, I know, or woman—sneaked past me. Grabbed my wallet from the top of my dresser and Lori’s from her purse on the kitchen counter.” He pointed to it. “We didn’t use our computers in the kitchen, so he kept going into the den.”
He stopped at the doorway. “Then he—she—grabbed the laptops as the lightest things to carry, I guess, and went out the same way.” He shook his head. “Bastard jumped poor Lori’s body like a hurdle and took off.”
Giulia walked the killer’s path again, opening the closet door, reaching for a phantom wallet in a nonexistent purse, placing each foot in measured steps along the bed’s footboard and back onto the balcony. The floor plan of the apartment could have been made for thieves as much as for tenants who wanted the illusion of as much space as possible.
“Thank you,” she said to Fitch as she came inside, closing the glass door behind her. “This has been quite helpful.”
“Anything for my cause.” Fitch glanced at Zane again.
Giulia braced herself. “Now, about my interview with Cassandra Gil.”
Twenty-Five
The entrance buzzer sounded.
Fitch glanced at the clock-radio on the headboard. “Damn. Time flies when you’re being interrogated.” He loped into the hall and pressed his own buzzer to unlock the main door.
“Sorry,” he said to Giulia and Zane when they came into the kitchen. “Thought we had more time before lunch. Got a friend coming over.”
Giulia gave him her best customer-service smile. “We only have one last interview to discuss.”
He looked at the door, then back at her. “Yeah, but the company won’t be right for it.”
“Mr, Fitch, you requested this meeting. As you pointed out to me earlier, your trial for murder is ten days away.”
“I know, I know. Who knows it better than me?”
The doorbell rang.
Fitch cursed under his breath and opened the door. A spectacular blonde stood on the threshold: Clingy sweater, pencil skirt, four-inch heels, bright red lipstick, dark blue mascara. Her sparkling blue nails curled around two Styrofoam takeout containers.
“Come on in, Angie.” Fitch took the containers.
“Hey, baby,” Angie said. “I thought it was going to be just the two of us.”
“It is. They were my morning appointment. We’re just finishing up.” He beckoned to Giulia and Zane. “Come into the den. Angie, give me five minutes. You want to grab a couple of beers from the fridge?”
“I’ll expect repayment for my services.” She winked at Fitch.
“You know you’ll get it, baby.” Fitch closed Giulia and Zane into the den with him. “Summarize, okay? Angie isn’t long on patience.”
Giulia drew on her own deep reserves of patience and began with Cassandra’s version of the Christmas week fights that led to the botched restraining order.
“Come on, you didn’t swallow all that after all this time?” Fitch knocked the back of his head against the door. “Everything she says means only one thing: ‘I hate Roger Fitch.’”
A delicate knock at the door. “Roger, the buzzer went off. I pressed it because I know you never bother to ask who it is.”
“I wasn’t expecting anyone else,” he said in a low voice. Then louder, “Thanks, Angie. Be out in a second.”
Giulia said, “It goes without saying that I weigh each interview against the others and against the official documentation.”
“Good. Good.” Fitch shook himself. “We’d better finish this tomorrow. Wait, tomorrow’s Sunday. You go to church or anything like that? What time is good for you?”
The doorbell rang. Fitch opened the door to the den.
“Hey, Roger,” a different female voice said.
“Who are you?” Angie’s voice.
“Oh, shit,” Roger muttered.
“Who are you?” The new voice.
Giulia and Zane slipped into the hall behind Roger.
“Tammy. Hey, doll, what’s up?” Roger’s charm was all but visible in the restaurant-like air. A tall redhead in skintight jeans, spike-heeled boots, and a leather top with the center zipper open to her cleavage stood in the doorway. The aroma of orange-spiced beef rose from the casserole dish in her hands. The spicy scent of General Tso’s chicken wafted from Angie’s unpacked takeout containers on the table.
“Who’s the Barbie doll?” the redhead said.
“Uh, Angie, this is Tammy. Tammy, meet Angie.” Fitch’s smile faltered. “You said you’d be in Philadelphia ’til Monday, Tams.”
“The client canceled. I thought I’d surprise you with homemade Chinese for lunch.” She walked around Fitch and used her casserole to push aside the takeout containers on the table.
The front door buzzer sounded a third time.
The redhead stalked over to the small, square speaker and held the “open door” button down with her thumb. Then she turned to glare at Giulia. “How many more women are you entertaining today?”
“It’s not like that. This is Giulia Driscoll and her assistant, from Driscoll Investigations. They’re working to prove my innocence before the trial starts.”
The redhead defrosted a few degrees. “Nice to meet you. Hope you’re doing a better job than the cops did. I’d like to keep this guy around for several years.”
“Wait a minute, honey.” Angie slipped her arm through Fitch’s. “Where do you get off thinking you have rights to Roger?”
Tammy planted herself in front of Fitch. “Roger, you want to tell blondie here who can’t cook to take a hike?”
Angie blew a kiss at Tammy. “I feel for anyone who has to buy affection with food.”
Tammy inspected her manicure. “Guess you have to buy affection with some other talent.”
Angie’s smile gave her a feral air. “Roger, if you don’t tell this bottled redhead to take a hike, I’ll make her leave minus a few chunks of that henna’d hair.”
The redhead laughed in the blonde’s face. “Please. What are you good for besides hanging on a guy’s arm? Roger appreciates multi-talented women.”
Roger sent one pleading glace at Giulia. Giulia pretended to be in a conversation with Zane.
Roger made a conciliatory gesture.
“Tammy, it’s like this...”
The redhead dropped her superior pose. The blonde clung tighter to Fitch’s arm.
“Tammy, the reason I asked Angie over here when you were going to be out of town is because I wanted to break it to her easy.”
The blonde un-clung. “What?”
The redhead, all superiority again, picked the blonde’s fingers off Fitch’s arm. As though that small physical contact was a starter’s pistol, the blonde shoved the redhead backwards.
The redhead backpedaled one step, pivoted, and slapped the blonde’s face. “Cow.”
“Tams, Angie, come on.” Fitch’s plea lacked sincerity.
“Pig!” The blonde grabbed the redhead’s shoulder and yanked her away from Fitch.
The redhead’s shirt zipper popped a few teeth. The redhead got a handful of the blonde’s sweater. It stretched off her shoulders, revealing black lace bra straps.
Nun Too Soon (A Giulia Driscoll Mystery Book 1) Page 14