In bare feet, I padded across the hall to the Florida room. The bank of windows overlooking the Gulf were still open, and I stood in the dark letting the ocean air waft over me. Salty and cool, it carried a hint of winter and the sound of lapping water. Gentle unless storm-driven, the Gulf’s surf rarely pounded to shore. Tonight, its soft soughing rhythm was as soothing as a lullaby.
I breathed deeply of the air and, a trifle calmer, turned from the windows to snap on the wall switch. Islands of shaded lamp light chased away the shadows. The oversized chairs looked so inviting I sat in one, tucked my feet under my legs and leaned back.
I didn’t have long to wait. Though I couldn’t make out his words, a few minutes later, I heard Rossi speaking to the agents in the kitchen. The rest of the house was silent. Marian and the committee members had probably gone home. I wanted to leave too, go to Surfside, get under the comforter and block out the world and all its ugly realities.
No such luck. A few heavy footsteps and Rossi strode into the Florida room accompanied by Officer Hughes, her hand on Ted Wolff’s arm.
Rossi yanked a straight-backed wooden chair away from the wall. Hughes walked her prisoner over to it, and he sat, somewhat uncomfortably, with his hands cuffed behind his back. Hands on hips, holster only inches from her fingertips, Hughes stood at the ready behind him.
All business, Rossi nodded a greeting at me. “Mr. Wolff is here to tell us what he knows about tonight’s events...and what led up to them. Your role is to tell us if his story corroborates what you overheard. Understood?”
I nodded.
“Good.” Legs apart, shoulders back, Rossi assumed what I recognized as his interrogation posture. He looked implacable as stone. And as warm. “I’m going to read your Miranda rights,” he said to Ted. “That and your testimony will be recorded. Understood?”
Ted responded with a sullen, “Whatever.”
To my amazement, Rossi removed a handheld recorder from his jacket pocket and turned it on. Ah. No more notepad and pencil stub. He had gone high tech.
After reciting the vitals, he placed the recorder on the coffee table and said, “Ted Wolff, what do you know about the death of Hugo Navarre?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you know about the contraband drugs Mrs. Deva Dunne found in the kitchen island?”
Ted looked down at the scuffed toes of his shoes.
Silence.
“You hear the question?”
Ted’s head shot up, and he thrust out his chin. “I don’t know anything.”
“Who’s your supplier?”
More silence.
“Fine,” Rossi said, throwing his hands in the air. “You have nothing to say to me then I have nothing to say to you. No more questions. Officer Hughes, take Mr. Wolff in and book him. Murder one.”
He snatched the recorder off the coffee table and went to turn it off.
“Okay, okay,” Ted said. “I know about the drugs, but that’s all.”
Rossi returned the recorder to the table. “What do you mean that’s all? Where did they come from? Who supplied them?
“Hugo handled that end. He was the one with the connections. Not me. I just carried out his orders.”
“Oh?” was all Rossi said, in a voice that had the power to freeze ice. “So you know about the drugs, but nothing about Hugo Navarre’s death? Is that what you’re claiming?”
“Right. I had nothing to do with Hugo’s death.”
“Then why did Mrs. Vega tell Mrs. Dunne that you killed him?”
“She lied.”
“Why? She knew about the drugs too. Were you holding out on her?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Absolutely. You’re allowed one call. As soon as we get you to the station.” Rossi turned his attention to me. “Does Mr. Wolff’s statement agree with what you overheard?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Tell us what you heard, exactly?”
“He—”
Rossi interrupted. “Are you referring to Mr. Wolff?”
“Yes, I am. Mr. Wolff had a gun in his hand and was threatening to shoot me. When I said I didn’t think he’d pull the trigger, that he was bluffing, his exact response was, ‘You don’t believe me? Neither did Hugo. His mistake.’ A few minutes later...before...before she died...Beatriz told me that when the drugs went missing, Ted forced Hugo to tell him where he’d hidden them. Then he shot him. She was terrified she’d be his next victim.”
“She was lying,” Ted burst in. “She’s the one who killed Hugo.”
“After a lifetime of nonviolence, she kills a man in cold blood?” Rossi said. “A man she thought of as a son?”
Ted snorted. “That son stuff was an act. He was her meal ticket. Her way back to Colombia. She planned to live like a queen down there. Then her cut went missing. Hugo hid it on her. He’s the only one who knew about that altar.”
“So how did you find out?”
“Beatriz told me. She was on to Hugo.”
“What made her suspect Navarre?”
“She found a bag of the stuff in his bedroom and figured if he got his hands on that much, he knew about the rest. She forced the truth out of him. Then she shot him. She needed me to help her move the stuff.” Ted clenched his jaw as if daring anyone to contradict his story. “Simple as that.” Without moving his head, he glanced over at me out of the corner of his eyes. “Some sweet old lady, huh?”
I jumped off my chair. “No! You and Hugo killed José. And then you, not Beatriz, shot Hugo. She found that bag of cocaine after Hugo’s death, not before. She was packing up his things to send home and came across it. That’s when she put the pieces together.”
“That what she told you? Ha! She found that bag two days before she killed him.”
Fists clenched, I took a step closer to him. The liar. I wanted to leap at his throat.
“Easy, Mrs. Dunne,” Rossi said. “Easy.”
Heeding his warning, I fell back onto my seat, heart throbbing. For an instant, Ted’s story had made me crazy, but a moment later common sense flooded back and with it sanity returned. On her deathbed—the hard kitchen floor—Beatriz had confessed what she knew. In her final moments on earth, no longer afraid of anyone or anything, she had found her courage and told the truth. I’d testify to that in any court in the land.
Ted shifted in his seat. “Okay, I’m cooperating, right? How about taking off the cuffs? My arms are going dead.”
“Not a chance,” Rossi said. “We’re not through here yet. You ever heard of a Marcel Léger? The guy who broke into the Galleria, mugged Mrs. Dunne and Mrs. Vega?”
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s funny. He knows you.” Rossi shifted his weight, rising on the balls of his feet, then settling back into his wide-legged stance. “He said you killed José Vega. Would swear to it in a court of law.”
Ted lurched forward in his seat. “That’s a lie!”
Hughes put a restraining hand on his shoulder and reached for her holster, but he slumped back into his seat, shoulders sagging. “I never put a finger on Vega. Marcel’s lying.”
“Everybody but you, that it?” Rossi said.
Ted lowered his head, staring at the sisal rug as if fascinated with its texture.
“We’ve got you on assault with a deadly weapon,” Rossi said. “Attempted kidnapping. Drug trafficking. Want murder one added to the list?”
No answer.
“Naples is a tourist town. The taxpayers don’t like having their shiny image scuffed up with drug busts. They hate murder even more. You want a break? Now’s the time to get one.”
“I’ve got nothing more to say to you.”
Rossi stepped closer to Ted’s chair. “You want to stop talking, you’re within yo
ur rights. But I got more to say.” He grabbed a side chair, set it in front of Ted and straddled it. “The night José Vega took a leap off the mall balcony, the security cameras were down. Isn’t that right?”
A reluctant nod.
“Happened a couple of times in the previous month too. Correct?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t know anything about mall security.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why were your fingerprints all over the motherboard? The one that controls the video security system?”
“How do I know? Maybe I looked at it once. Out of curiosity.”
“Yeah, I can understand that. Electricity interests you. Nothing wrong with that. I heard you went to MIT. Majored in electrical engineering. Nearly finished too.” Rossi shook his head. “A shame you didn’t.”
“You’re telling me! I’m a damned sales clerk. An installer. I should be a professional, an eng—” As if realizing he had gone too far, Ted stopped. “I told you I want a lawyer.”
“We’ll see that you get one. Call Batano in here,” Rossi said to Hughes. “Then take Mr. Wolff to the station and book him. Murder one. After that, let him make his call.”
While Hughes hit her cell, I sat curled up in the easy chair, hardly daring to breathe. Never before had I seen Rossi interrogate anyone with so much veiled anger.
Only moments later, Batano, a no-nonsense frown on his face, strode into the Florida room. Hughes stepped forward and put a hand on Ted’s arm. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” he said. “Wait.” Though the air wafting in from the shore carried a chill, beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “I never laid a hand on Vega. It was Hugo. He killed him.”
“Why?”
“You have to ask?”
“Yeah, I do,” Rossi replied, deadpan.
“The drugs. What else? Hugo talked Vega into receiving shipments from Colombia. You know, hidden in the antiques? The Galleria was a money pit, and Vega was desperate. Then José got cold feet, wanted to go to the police, tell what he knew.” Ted tried to shrug his shoulders. Hard to do with your hands cuffed behind your back. “We couldn’t talk him out of it. So Hugo made a decision. He’d scare the old man. Put the fear of God into him. Make him keep his mouth shut.”
I didn’t dare interrupt what Ted was spewing, though I was dying to. And then he answered my unasked question.
“Hugo kept the wife out of it. She wouldn’t have gone for what he had in mind. He picked a night when she was home, when he and José were alone in the Galleria. After hours they shared a few drinks in the office. The old man fell asleep. All I did was dismantle the monitors to make the system look faulty. That’s all, I swear.”
Switching to an easy conversational tone, Rossi said, “Here’s the way I see it happening. When you took down the board, you made it possible for Hugo to kill Vega without any witnesses to the act. Then Hugo got greedy and hid the stuff in the altar. You forced him to tell you where it was and killed him.” His mouth curled up in what might have passed for a smile. “But Beatriz had a little surprise waiting for you. She loaned the altar to the Showhouse. That’s when you lost it and threatened to kill her if she didn’t get the goods back.”
“Lies, all lies.”
“Like I said, everyone but you.”
“I never put a finger on Vega. Never touched Navarre, either.”
“That’s for a jury to decide,” Rossi said. “And now one final question, Mr. Wolff.”
“Yeah.”
Rossi stood, and reaching down to the coffee table, he picked up the recorder and hit the off button with a flourish. “When you’re out to kill a man, who the hell ever said you had to touch him?”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Back at Surfside, with the green taffeta in the trash and the duvet up to my chin, I looked across at Rossi. In the boxers I gave him last Valentine’s Day, the ones printed all over with little red hearts, he was doing a fine job of decorating my bedroom. It wasn’t the hearts so much, it was his hard, rugged legs. What they lacked in length, they more than made up in pow appeal.
With a sigh of relief, I leaned back against the pillows. “So, Rossi, we did it again. We found the killers.”
Busy draping his best pair of chinos over my sage-green boudoir chair, he said, “It’s not over yet. Not completely. There are still loose ends to tie up. We don’t know the full extent of Wolff’s involvement in the drug smuggling. Or in the two deaths. Not yet. We haven’t finished with this Marcel character either. No telling where he might lead us once he learns Wolff is under arrest.” He tossed his shirt and tie over the pants and strode to the edge of the bed. “Furthermore, what’s this ‘we’ stuff?”
I tucked the duvet under my arms and sat up straighter. “You know I helped solve the case. If I hadn’t asked for the loan of the altar, I wouldn’t have found all those bags full of drugs. And if I hadn’t hidden them, Hugo might not have tipped his hand. Besides, you have to admit that right from the beginning, the minute I saw the blue stool, I knew José hadn’t committed suicide. Everything jelled after that.” I was playing for comic relief, either that or weep for my lost friends and the evil they knew, but Rossi was on to me, as always, and refused to rise to the bait.
A smug smile lifted his lips. “I stand corrected—if somewhat under-clothed at the moment—you’ve been an enormous help to me and to the entire Naples PD.”
I ignored his superior tone and played right along. “You’re correct, though, Rossi. There are loose ends. That hit on my head—what about that?”
“At this point,” he said, the banter leaving his tone, “I think we can safely assume it was a random mugging, and that Austin McCahey scared away the assailant.”
“Yes, Austin’s my friend, but he’s also another loose end. We haven’t settled his role in all of this.”
“His role was a minor one. It doesn’t factor in.”
“I’m not so sure. When I showed him your photographs of everyone with access to the mall’s third floor, that included a picture of Hugo. If Austin saw José’s murder take place, why didn’t he recognize Hugo from the photograph?”
“Has it occurred to you that he only saw the killer’s back?”
No, it hadn’t occurred to me, but I’d be darned if I’d admit it. “Strange, though, that he only reacted to the picture of Harlan and me.”
“Not so strange. Austin told you all he remembered about José’s killer was his nice shirt. In that picture with you, Harlan was wearing a white dress shirt. My guess is that the night of the killing, Hugo was also. And when Austin saw you standing with someone he thought was the killer, the idea of your being in danger sent him into a frenzy. So accept Mrs. McCahey’s suggestion. Austin’s a man, after all. Hidden in those emotional tangles are deep feelings, and you have inspired a good deal of them.”
I shook my head. “Flattering but unrealistic. After all that’s happened to him recently, I think he was simply overwhelmed by a flood of differing emotions.”
“That too. But you’re being very modest. An endearing trait, by the way.”
“That’s nice of you, Rossi, very nice. But there’s something else. The carnation Austin gave me. The one I showed you. All shriveled and everything. I think he found it at the scene of the crime. What about that?”
Rossi raised the edge of the duvet and slid in beside me. “I don’t think it has any special significance. From time to time, Mrs. Vega wore a flower pinned to her dress, and she was on that third floor every day. It could have been hers.”
“No, it wasn’t hers. It’s the same principle as the blue stool. José would never have given it house room. And Beatriz would never have worn a pink carnation. A carnation isn’t in the same league taste-wise as a hybrid rosebud or a miniature orchid.”
Rossi’s brow furr
owed. “They’re all flowers, right?”
“Right. And wrong. Far more likely it dropped from Oliver Kent’s lapel.”
“That’s possible. It’s also possible Hugo placed it there deliberately. In case the hanging wasn’t ruled a suicide, he may have hoped to implicate Kent.”
“Either way, as you said, it no longer matters, though I’m glad Oliver turned out to be such a nice guy. And I’m glad Beatriz was mistaken about one thing—Raúl Lopez. Something else has been bothering me too. Those pictures you gave me to show Austin didn’t include one of Beatriz. Why not? She was a regular on that third floor. Does that mean she wasn’t a suspect?”
“Right. Not at first. I knew she hadn’t mugged you. She was in her shop when you were assaulted. And I knew she hadn’t killed her husband.” A little smile flirted with Rossi’s lips. “Remember Bob Butterworth?”
“The polygraph expert who quizzed me when my client’s Monet was stolen?”
“He’s the one. She passed his lie detector test with flying colors.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? You knew I was worried about her.”
“As a matter of fact, I was about to tell you, but then Hugo was killed and she was back under my radar screen. So I thought the less said the better. Her confession to you tonight changed everything.” He began caressing my bare shoulder, his touch light as a feather. “Your testimony’s going to be critical in convicting Wolff. I hope you understand that.”
Though I was determined not to tear up at the thought of Beatriz, I couldn’t help it, and hoping Rossi didn’t notice, I swiped a hand across my eyes. His hand moved slowly down my arm. “Of course I understand. I can’t wait to tell a jury what Beatriz told me. First José and then Hugo and then Ted—they all drew her into a death trap. She was the one who was truly blackmailed, not Raúl Lopez.”
I caught my breath. Rossi had found my thigh and was stroking it softly. He leaned in, changing the subject with one of those slow, drugging kisses I’d become addicted to.
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