To Coach a Killer

by Victoria Laurie

  Chanel’s voice, trembling with emotion and barely above a whisper, said, “Yes, hello, I’m at four-two-seven-one Gull’s Point Ridge. There’s been . . . there’s been . . . he’s been . . . murdered.”

  My mind hitched on her last word, and I abandoned my purse to finally, really look at Gilley’s posture. I realized too late that he wasn’t so much waving his arm out in front of him, as he was pointing to something behind me. That’s when I craned my neck to look over my shoulder and saw a man, lying on his back, and previously hidden from our view by the couch. A pool of blood encircled his head, and the rest . . . well, let’s just say that the rest was simply too gruesome to describe.

  After swallowing hard, I grabbed Gilley by the arm. He straightened, and finally spat out, “Duh . . . duh . . . dead! He’s dead!”

  Meanwhile Chanel had stopped speaking to the dispatcher and was instead in a state of shock. Something about where she was looking made me also glance in that direction, and I realized that she was no longer staring at the man on the floor, but at something above the fireplace. Still holding on to Gilley’s arm, I took a few steps toward Chanel so I could see what she was staring at. And that’s when I saw that a large mirror, hanging above the fireplace, had something written on it. Across the mirror, in beautiful, loopy script written in hot pink lipstick, were the words:

  My gaze went from the cryptic message to the man on the floor, who’d obviously pissed off either a lover or a wife, and that’s when my breath really caught.

  Even with the distracting gaping hole in his forehead, I still recognized the man from when I’d seen him at the Suttons’ gallery. He’d been there with Maks which is how I knew that the man lying dead on the floor was Basayev.

  I then looked around the gorgeous digs with fresh perspective. The furnishings, the artwork, the kitchen—all of it had a heavy, masculine feel. It suited a crime boss.

  And then my gaze landed on Chanel. She was still staring dully into space, her face pale, her body stiff and trembling, and the phone still clutched in her hand. I could hear the 911 dispatcher attempting to get her attention. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Are you there? Ma’am, first responders are on the way. Can you speak to me?”

  I went into motion, grabbing Chanel by the arm with my free hand while shouting, “Dispatch, send help!” And then I hurried all of us out the door.

  * * *

  Shepherd was one of the last to arrive. It disappointed me to see him showing up so late, and I can’t exactly say why, but it almost felt like he’d let me down by turning up thirty minutes after the first patrol officer had arrived.

  By then I’d already given my statement, as had Gilley, as had Chanel. We’d been told to wait to speak to the detective, which was why the three of us remained at the scene. I stood near the two of them while Gilley hugged himself and Chanel mirrored his posture. The cold of the evening was beginning to settle in, and while I too shivered under my sweater, I refused to adopt any other posture than irritated impatience, which was why my arms were merely crossed.

  Meanwhile a team of patrol officers, crime scene techs, and the medical examiner moved about with calm efficiency, giving the grisly scene a somewhat distorted perspective.

  I watched Shepherd closely as he headed first to the patrol officer, who spoke to him at length. Not once did he turn in our direction, even though the officer pointed toward us three times. That told me that Shepherd knew that I was here and was decisively not looking at me. And that made me angry.

  Shepherd nodded at the responding officer after a lengthy exchange, and then a man in a dark windbreaker with the acronym M.E. on the back approached. He joined Shepherd and the responding officer, who nodded to both men, then walked away, leaving the medical examiner and Shepherd to talk.

  Shepherd took out a small notebook, and the M.E. did most of the talking while Shepherd simply nodded and scribbled, and then the M.E. took something out of his pocket and held it up so Shepherd could see.

  I squinted and saw that the object was a gold necklace with what appeared to be a charm dangling from it. Shepherd reached into his own pocket and extracted one black glove, which he quickly donned, and then he took the necklace and placed it into a plastic evidence bag, which he’d also pulled out of his pocket.

  As the M.E. continued, Shepherd pocketed the charm. You didn’t have to be a trained detective to come to the conclusion that the necklace had been worn by the woman who’d scrawled the sinister message on the mirror before murdering Basayev.

  My guess was that there’d been a little bit of a struggle between Basayev and either his lover or his wife, and perhaps during the struggle Basayev had yanked the necklace free, while she’d gotten off one fatal shot. No doubt Shepherd would attempt to trace the woman through the necklace.

  After the M.E. finished filling Shepherd in, the pair headed toward the front door and disappeared inside.

  I sighed heavily and it truly took everything I had not to go marching inside and give Shepherd a piece of my mind. After all, we’d been standing outside in the increasing cold for over thirty minutes and hadn’t even been allowed to wait in Chanel’s car where we could warm up.

  “Where’s he going?” Gilley asked, his teeth chattering as Shepherd followed the M.E. inside and out of sight. I knew what he meant. He wanted Shepherd to come talk to us so that we could get the hell out of there. Neither he nor I had worn a coat, and poor Chanel had nothing more to cover her thin self than a light raincoat over her dress.

  “This is ridiculous,” I snapped after another fifteen minutes when Shepherd hadn’t appeared or called for us to meet him inside. “Come on,” I said to Chanel and Gilley while I turned to walk toward Chanel’s car.

  “Where’re you going?” she asked.

  “To warm up in your car.”

  “We were told to wait here.”

  I turned back to her. “We were advised,” I said. “Only advised. We’re not under arrest, we’re witnesses, and as such, we can go where we please. And if the East Hampton P.D. has a problem with that, then they may take it up with my attorney.”

  Gilley’s expression transformed from one of misery to relief and he leapt to his feet to follow after me, but Chanel remained seated on the boulder she’d been sharing with Gilley. “Hold on,” she said, and reached into her purse. She withdrew a set of keys and tossed them to me. “You two warm up. I’m going to stay put.”

  I nodded to her, took the keys, and we moved to Chanel’s car. Sliding into the driver’s side while Gilley got into the passenger seat, I started the engine and the Mercedes quickly warmed up. We waited silently, watching the first responders busy themselves collecting evidence, brushing for fingerprints, and foraging for any clue they could find. After fifteen more minutes with no sign of Shepherd, I fished around once again in my purse, hunting for my phone, and this time I easily found it zipped into a side pocket. Once it was free of the pocket, I began to tap and swipe at the screen.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Gil asked.

  “Making arrangements.”

  “For pizza?” he said hopefully. And that’s when I heard his stomach rumble.

  “No. But great suggestion.” I closed the app I’d been tapping on and moved to another. After I was finished, I set the phone back in the pocket of my purse and concentrated on breathing deeply to calm my mounting anger.

  Meanwhile my gaze flickered to Chanel again and again. She was shivering all over, and yet no one paid her any attention. I thought about going to her to try and insert some reason into her frightened mind, but I had a feeling any lecture I gave would fall on deaf ears. If she wasn’t willing to disobey orders when she was clearly miserable, I doubted I’d be able to sway her.

  Another eighteen minutes went by, and my phone pinged. I looked at Gilley. “Time to go.”

  “What? Time to go? Where?”

  I turned off the engine and got out of the car. Gilley followed after me. I moved to Chanel and handed her the keys. She looked at me in bewilderment, as i
f confused by why I’d left her car.

  “I called for a limo. We’re heading home,” I told her. “The car is two minutes away.”

  “You are? But they told us to wait to speak to the detective.”

  “You wait, dear. Gilley and I are leaving. But do tell Detective Shepherd that if he wants to speak to me, he knows where to find me.”

  With that I turned on my heel and began to head down the drive in the direction of approaching headlights. A patrol officer, set up at the base of the drive, held his hand up to stop the car, but I called out to him. “He’s here for us.”

  The officer turned to me as I approached. “Did the detective speak to you?”

  I merely smiled and said, “Several times.”

  The officer looked skeptical. “He say you could go?”

  I glared at him with the full volume of my practiced, successful-businesswoman authority, and snapped, “Would I be leaving if he hadn’t?”

  The cop frowned, but he finally relented with a curt nod. I strode forward without looking back, and heard Gilley quickstep behind me.

  We got to the limo and the driver hurried to put the car in park, jump out, and hold the door open for us. Gilley got in first and I scooted in after him. The limo smelled like pizza and Gilley made a squeaking sound of delight.

  Perched on the seat was a box of pizza from our favorite pan pie place, and Gil wasted no time tucking into a slice. I was hungry, but I was also still angry, and my attention was directed toward the house and Chanel.

  Our limo driver craned his neck and began to back up. The driveway didn’t really allow for a turnaround unless you got closer to the house, and as the drive was filled with cop cars and such, our poor driver was going to have to find a place somewhere on the road to turn around, which would be a task given the length of the limo.

  We made it about ten feet when behind us a pair of headlights lit up the backseat.

  “Damn,” our limo driver muttered.

  I looked behind us, but all I could see were headlights. For a moment, neither car moved, and then, suddenly, the car behind us honked. “Where does he want me to go?” the limo driver snapped.

  The patrolman who’d grilled me about leaving, looked annoyed, and he went to the car where he spoke to the driver. Sighing with impatience, I focused on the house again, and that’s when I saw that Shepherd had come out of the house and was now standing with Chanel. “Drat,” I whispered. Shepherd would no doubt order us out of the limo so that he could question us, and I’d bet he wouldn’t even invite us inside out of the cold, but as I watched Shepherd for any signs that he was interested in where Gilley and I had gotten to, he surprised me when he reached for Chanel’s shoulders and pulled her into a hug. He then cupped the back of her head protectively and rested his cheek on her hair.

  My breath caught as I watched them. I mean, obviously Chanel would know Shepherd—she’d been his ex-wife’s partner, and hugging her after not seeing her in so long was probably not so unusual, but there was something about their embrace.

  Something familiar.

  Something special.

  Something intimate.

  It bothered me.

  Like . . . it bothered me.

  I was jolted away from focusing on the intimacy of their embrace when the patrol officer knocked on the limo’s window and our driver lowered it to speak to him.

  “You’ll have to pull forward and let him pass, then I’ll guide you into a turnaround.”

  “Thanks,” said our driver.

  The limo moved forward at the officer’s direction, and the other car began to pass. My attention shifted to the car passing by, and I sucked in another breath when I realized that Sam was behind the wheel. He turned to look in our direction as he passed, and our eyes met. He did not look happy.

  Our car made a hard left, and I switched my attention back to Shepherd and Chanel.

  The detective still had his arms around her, but he was leading her to his car. They got in as the limo made its three-point turn and began heading out of the drive, headfirst. I turned in my seat and stared out the back window, watching Chanel and Shepherd get into his car.

  “Cat,” Gilley said, and I realized that he’d spoken my name at least once before.

  I sat forward again. “What?”

  Gilley cocked his head. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  Gilley swiveled in his seat, still holding on to his piece of pizza. He looked out the back window too, but he didn’t seem to notice what I had. “Oh, look. Shepherd finally saved Chanel from the cold.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Hopefully, she’ll be able to head home soon. This day has been quite eventful.”

  Gilley shoved a giant bite of pizza into his mouth. “Mofwg-ing gidding.”

  I eyed him crossly. “Really, Gilley. Language.”

  He snorted a laugh with a mouth full of food. “Yoonder-stdwat?”

  I lowered my lids and looked at him dully. “Yes, I understood that. I have tween sons, you know.”

  Gil chewed some more. “Srry.”

  “It’s fine,” I sighed. “Sorry I was so cross. I just want to get home and wait for Shepherd to appear. Because you know he’s going to.”

  Gilley swallowed hard, but instead of commenting he took another giant bite of pizza. I was beginning to regret tagging it onto the limo ride. Still, he nodded while he chewed. At last, when he’d swallowed again, he said, “He’s definitely gonna show up and give us a lecture. Sometimes I think he does that just so he can see you.”

  I felt myself blush. “Why do you say that?”

  “Cuz, duh, Cat. He’s totally into you.”

  “Oh, I think he might not be now that he knows Maks is in the picture.”

  “Are you kidding?” Gil said, pausing the next bite of pizza headed to his mouth so that he could stare slack-jawed at me. “That’s only got him even more interested in you.”

  “Come on,” I said.

  But Gilley nodded. “It’s true. You know how these hetero men are. They gotta win their woman and beat their chest and take out their dingle-dangle for a pissing contest in the snow.”

  “Lovely visual.”

  He shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

  Gil went back to gobbling down the pizza while I sat moodily in the backseat, irritated and upset far beyond what I should’ve been. And while Gilley believed that Shepherd was actually even more interested in me than he had been before Maks and I became something of an item, I had my doubts.

  He’d played Cool Hand Luke with me before, but there was something different now. Something about the way he’d showed up to the crime scene and had made an effort not to look at me genuinely bothered me.

  And then he’d also never once looked in our direction as the limo was exiting the scene. I would’ve expected that the hotheaded detective would’ve been livid that we were leaving without speaking to him, but he’d never even once shown that he was remotely interested in what Gilley and I were doing at yet another crime scene. Instead he’d focused all of his attention on Chanel.

  Which again had me wondering about their relationship. I hadn’t realized how close they were.

  With a sigh I decided to put all judgments aside and simply wait for Shepherd to show up at Chez Kitty and give us a piece of his mind. I rolled my eyes when I imagined the tongue-lashing we’d endure, and then I had to roll my eyes again when I realized that I was actually looking forward to it.

  Chapter 13

  I woke up the next morning curled up on Gilley’s couch with an afghan tucked around me. Sitting up abruptly, I realized that a thin stream of daylight was creeping in through the blinds, and this truly put me out of sorts because, for a long, foggy moment, I couldn’t understand how it could be morning when Shepherd hadn’t even come over yet.

  And then I realized that it was morning, and Shepherd had never swung by.

  I felt like I wanted to cry.

  Swiveling sideways, I glanced over
at the clock on the far wall. It read five forty-five. Laying back down on the couch, I pulled the afghan over my head and dabbed at my eyes. The waterworks were a surprise. I hadn’t imagined I’d ever feel so hurt that Detective Steve Shepherd was ignoring me, but the truth was that there was this lingering energy hovering above me that insisted that Steve Shepherd and I were officially dunzos.

  And I couldn’t account for the sudden and drastic change, but something had definitely shifted between us, and his behavior the night before was only an example of how it would be between us from now on . . . namely awkward and uncomfortable.

  So I had myself a good pity party. And by the time I was done, it was going on six-twenty. Dabbing my eyes one final time, I got up, shuffled to the kitchen, and threw a pod into the Keurig.

  While I was waiting for the coffee to brew, I opened up the fridge and extracted a yogurt. Gilley and I had similar palates, and I was over here as much as I was at my house, so it was easy to grocery shop for the both of us and always have something I’d like to eat on hand.

  “Don’t tell me that’s breakfast,” I heard Gilley say.

  I turned to see that he’d shuffled out of his bedroom and was propped against the wall of the hallway, eyeing me with disapproval.

  “I’m not all that hungry.”

  Gilley pushed off from the wall and made his way over to me. Snatching the yogurt out of my hands, he said, “By my count you had less than one piece of pizza last night, so even though you don’t have a big appetite this morning, your body needs a meal, Cat, not a snack.”

  “I might’ve had more pizza if you’d left me some,” I said. I was feeling a little snarky because I was still nursing hurt feelings over Steve’s apparent dismissal of me.

  “Oh, please. I offered you a slice at least every mile on the way home.”

  I sighed and moved over to the Keurig to retrieve my coffee. I didn’t really feel like talking, and I was considering simply taking my mug and heading over to Chez Cat, but then Gilley said, “Shepherd’s a jerk.”

  My chin lifted and I looked at Gil. Waiting to see if he’d expand on that.