by Nancy Gideon
The wide hall was empty in the late afternoon hour. The only sound was the hum of a vacuum cleaner and the contagious thump of salsa music turned up loud enough for the maid to hear it over her sweeper. Nick went straight to his suite, sagging briefly against the door as it locked behind him.
A man had died...
He jerked off his tie and let it drop to the plush carpeting without a second thought. He paid housekeeping well to pick up after him. He was an important man with his mind on better things than worrying about hanging up his jacket before the expensive summer-weight wool wrinkled.
He slipped out of his coat and shoes, padding in his socks and shirtsleeves into the spacious bathroom. Stoppering the sink, he began running cold water, scooping it into the well of his palms and submerging his face into the icy reservoir.
And then he happened to glance up at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes making contact over the cup of his fingers. His gaze looked old and empty.
He looked closer, brows knitting in concentration.
There, just below his left ear, smeared along his jaw line was a smudge of Thomas Grover's blood.
He had only a second of rumbled warning, just enough time to lean over the porcelain bowl before all that unsettled bourbon came roaring up in a scorching diatribe.
The taste of success.
* * * *
It was late.
Instead of stretching out beneath the canopy upstairs, lost to reminiscing, Rae sat stiff and still on the living room sofa. She'd been perched there for the past four hours watching the first patrolman on the scene, followed by EMTs, investigators and finally the coroner arrive and disappear into the back room. Bette sat beside her, sniffing occasionally as the powerful sedatives she'd been given finally kicked in enough to quiet her hysterical sobs. The invited guests had been interviewed by the uninvited ones, and now the former were gone. The quietly efficient hired staff took away the food no one had a taste for and were quickly collecting the padded folding chairs onto their rolling rack.
The gurney rolling from the front door toward the study woke Rae to action.
As she started to stand, Bette clutched at her.
"I'll be right back,” Rae soothed, patting the desperate hands until their grip lessened. “I want to ask some questions."
Leaving Bette to her woeful sniffling, Rae strode down the hall, winding her way through the retreating detectives until faced with the zippered bag being wheeled out by the stony-faced coroner's crew.
Her eyes teared up briefly as her fingertips trailed along the heavy gage plastic, then her resolve firmed to a hardened purpose. She pushed through the gaggle of crime scene staff and into the study.
Even without the sight of Thomas Grover slumped back in his chair with the top of his head missing, the grisly scene made Rae pause. The glass trophy case doors would need a good cleaning, and the center one would need to be replaced.
"Ma'am, you shouldn't be in here,” came a gentle, cautioning voice from beside her.
She glanced at the young officer whose finger-raked rock star blond hair and neon-colored silk shirt featuring a comic book hero contrasted with the badge suspended from a cord around his neck. His gaze was steeped in regret. A newcomer still capable of empathy.
"This is a crime scene,” said another older man, obviously the one in charge from the way he elbowed his way over. “You'll disturb evidence."
"Not any more than the chorus line that's paraded through here in the last couple of hours.” She reached into her handbag and displayed her own shield. “Any conclusions yet?"
"Death by his own hand. That was pretty much what was written on the wall."
"Detective Palmer,” the younger man interjected quietly. “Ms. Borden is a friend of the family, so go a little easy."
Palmer brushed off his concern with a gruff, “I know who she is. I served with her father and with the deceased. I don't think Ms. Borden will be unduly shocked by anything I have to say, will you?"
The man had known her father. A small world. She was too focused to react with any surprise.
"Nothing I haven't heard before,” came her weary reply. “You're saying suicide?"
"He just buried his only daughter. His wife states he's been on edge and not himself for weeks. The weapon was in his hand, and he was alone. All the other guests have been interviewed and their whereabouts verified."
Something clicked in her memory. “What about those two men?"
"Which two men?"
"I noticed them in the hall just before I went upstairs, and I saw a limo leaving right after I heard ... the shot."
"You think they were with the victim?"
"I don't know. One was carrying a briefcase."
"Kind of a bad time to be conducting business."
Rae didn't argue.
"We didn't find an appointment calendar,” the younger officer put in.
Rae returned to the living room, the two detectives trailing after her. She knelt down beside the grieving wife and stepmother.
"Bette, where did Tom keep his appointment book?"
She looked blank for a moment then said, “He kept all his business on the computer."
"Do you remember if he'd been scheduled to meet with someone today? I mean before Ginny's death?"
Her expression puckered slightly, then brightened. “Those lawyers. I think those lawyers were supposed to come. Thomas was upset because he'd tried to call and cancel and couldn't get hold of them."
Lawyers?
Rae returned to the study and bent over the computer, pausing before touching the keyboard.
"It's been dusted,” the younger man told her. “His were the only prints."
Rae brought up the main screen, trying to ignore the pattern of red dots peppering the monitor. She opened his day planner and read aloud.
"Meeker, Murray & Zanlos. Are those lawyers?"
"Only the biggest firm in the D.C. area,” the rumpled blond told her as if she should know that already.
"You need to check and see if they own a dark silver limo. If they do, they may have been the last to see Thomas Grover alive."
"Thank you, Ms. Borden. We'll take your suggestion under advisement."
"It's Detective Borden."
The young man touched her arm to confide, “I'll check."
She smiled faintly, grateful for his cooperative attitude. The other man just plain had attitude. She looked at Detective Palmer, trying to place him.
"You say you knew my father?"
"Well enough to know he took the same way out. Kind of ironic, don't you think?"
Refusing to be baited, she replied, “I think it's a waste. Will you keep me up to speed on the investigation? As a professional courtesy?"
Palmer had negative stamped on his lowered brow, but the rock star detective asked, “Where can we reach you with any news?"
"I'll be staying here."
The young man put out his hand. “Gabriel McGraw. Nice to meet you."
He had a good, firm grip.
"Under other circumstances,” she concluded.
He nodded. He was just the sort Ginny would have flipped over, she thought sadly.
"Just don't get in the way, Detective Borden,” Palmer warned. “We know how to do our job. We don't need outsiders stepping in to mess up the process."
So much for professional courtesy. She wouldn't mess things up. If she had her way, they'd never even know she was there.
Finally, there was just Bette and ©©her and the remnants of the longest day she could remember. Rae sat beside her, enfolding her easily in her embrace.
"I can't believe this has happened. What am I going to do?"
Funny. Hadn't Thomas Grover said the same thing to her several hours earlier?
"You're going to get some rest, and then I'm going to help you with the arrangements."
Bette gazed at her through welling eyes. “I'm so glad you're here."
Rae would have rather been anywhere else tha
n burying the only two people she loved in the world.
And as Rae tucked the exhausted widow into bed, she asked, “What kind of business was Thomas doing with lawyers?"
Bette sighed. “I'm not sure, dear. I didn't pay very much attention to business matters. I'm not much help, I'm afraid."
Rae smiled tightly. “That's all right."
"But I do know that Ginny introduced them. She was dating one of the lawyers. She was quite secretive about him, and I remember hoping it wasn't because he was married. Ginny didn't always have very good sense about those things."
"No, she didn't."
And no one had been there to protect her against those foolish mistakes. If only she'd been here....
But her being here hadn't kept Thomas from taking his life in despair.
An accident and a suicide.
A murder and a suicide.
A terrible sense of deja vú overwhelmed her.
"Thank you for staying, Rae,” Bette Grover told her with a fragile gratitude. “I couldn't manage on my own."
"You won't have to. I'll take care of everything."
Starting with the lawyer boyfriend.
Chapter
Three
"So that was your vehicle seen leaving the Grover residence?"
"Have I denied it, Officer Stanton? I gave my statement to a Detective Palmer first thing this morning. Didn't you bother to read it?” Kaz Zanlos leaned back in his throne-like chair to regard the investigator with an amused impatience just shy of contempt. Not a great way to inspire trust in the local law enforcement community. Most had no sense of humor.
"We had scheduled a meeting with Thomas Grover several weeks earlier. We were merely keeping an appointment,” Nick interjected with a non-threatening smile followed by just the right amount of regret in his sigh. “We didn't know there'd been a death in the family. No one had called to cancel the meeting. When I suggested we make it another time, Grover insisted we not put it off. It was just a formality. We just needed his signature, and then we left."
"Out the back door?” The officer arched a suspicious brow.
"We didn't want to intrude any further upon the family."
"And after you left?"
"I dropped Mr. Flynn off at his hotel, and I returned here to see the contract properly filed,” Zanlos concluded. He shook his head sadly. “We didn't hear about Grover until that other policeman called this morning. Dreadful business."
"How did he act when you were with him?"
"He'd just come from his daughter's funeral.” Kaz's tone implied, You moron, how do you think he felt? “He was distracted, but I didn't think particularly despondent. Not so that it would alert us to what he meant to do."
"So he signed your contract then blew his brains out. Good thing you were on time, or you would have been out how much money?"
Zanlos's brows lowered like a storm-slated sky. “I do not care for your insinuation, sir. There was nothing good about what happened. We were hoping for a long and prosperous association with Mr. Grover and his company. His death did not in any way please us. Is there anything else, Officer?"
Looking chagrined, the investigator flipped his notebook shut and stood. “No. That's everything I need. Thank you for your time."
Now that the interrogation was over, Kaz became more indulgent with his good will. He stood, waving a magnanimous hand, “It was the least we could do. Has a date been set for the funeral?"
"Tomorrow, I believe."
Kaz tsked. “Two funerals in one week. The poor widow. I must offer my condolences."
Something in the way he offered his sympathies made the hair creep along Nick's arms. He also stood and put out his hand to the policeman, shaking it firmly with a dry, steady grip before showing the man to the door. Once he was turned safely over to Kaz's secretary, Nick released an expressive breath.
"Very nicely played,” Zanlos remarked, well pleased with the situation. “I knew you'd be an asset to this firm."
Not feeling rewarded by the congratulations, Nick offered a thin smile before voicing his misgivings. “Now what? With Grover dead, that leaves a lot of our plans hanging."
What he really needed to know was now that Grover was dead and the business in New Orleans was complete, was there any reason for them to keep him on?
Tenting his long, elegant hands in front of him, Kaz considered the problem for a moment. “Not necessarily. Control will go to Bette Grover and after two tragic losses, my guess is that she'll welcome some kindly offered guidance from one of her husband's friends. It's the least I can do."
A shudder trickled coldly down Nick's spine, but none of his distaste revealed itself upon his face. The bonus check was in his wallet ... more money than he'd ever had at one time in his entire life. A check of that size could overcome the most distasteful of circumstances. At least that's what he was hoping once this uncharacteristic fit of conscience dissipated.
"Perhaps I'm being optimistic,” Kaz mused, “but why don't you draw up power of attorney papers for Mrs. Grover to sign. No sense she trouble herself over the particulars of her husband's business at a time like this, eh, Nick?"
"Plan ahead, I always say."
Kaz made a thoughtful noise. “I wonder if Grover planned that little surprise for us, or if it was spur of the moment. If he'd wanted to keep his family and his fortune secure, he should have planned a little more carefully."
And then Nick said what had been on his mind since wiping the blood off his face in the car. “The Grover girl's death was just an accident, right?"
Kaz stared up at him through those black, fathomless eyes. His tone was steeped in sincerity. “A tragic yet timely accident. Unless your suddenly delicate sensibilities object, I think the occasion calls for a celebration. What do you say, Nick?"
"I'm just a party animal,” was his dry response.
"I'd heard that about you."
The chill swept through Nick again. His boss's comment could have meant nothing ... or everything.
"Tomorrow night,” Zanlos decided. “After I take the poor Widow Grover out for dinner. Be ready at nine."
Ready, but not so terribly willing anymore, Nick nodded.
* * * *
Noir de Nuit was open from dusk until dawn and open, as well, to anything a patron desired. Situated in the nightlife nexus of Georgetown, its open to the public basement dance club drew the college crowd while its proximity to the peaceful C & O Canal had it rubbing elbows with the sophistication of its members-only clientele gathering in its exclusive rooms upstairs. Elegantly upscale on the surface, with a pale underbelly of excess, it drew the prominent and jaded of D.C. to its flame of discreet decadence, inviting them to beat their wings against the temptation of their choosing. The clientele was exclusive and powerful, and a policy of absolute privacy allowed them to roam and romp to the limits of their imagination and credit account. Music, food, dancing, gambling, women, drugs—all the favorite deadly sins under one tin-punched ceiling, between wood paneled walls if one could afford a membership.
In his present state, the booze appealed to Nick more than any of the other distractions. He left Kaz to a bevy of lovelies at the door and beelined for the wall-to-wall mahogany bar. A couple of bourbons would make this place go down better.
He wasn't sure what it was about the Noir. He was no choirboy, and pleasures of the flesh never provoked him to take the soapbox stance of a zealous Wednesday night deacon. But there was something about this place, these people, that put the hair up on the back of his neck. He recognized many of the politicians who were regulars and didn't care if they preached family values on the front pages then broke them all behind the thick velvet curtains that enveloped the dining nooks into private paradises. It was none of his business if they wanted to be seen with a gorgeous creature on their arm while they drank and lost money on cards and dice. And the women were spectacular. He'd never seen such a stable of stunning females. Each unique, each exquisite, each eager to please. Even
though he wasn't a man of any particular influence or power, the women noticed him as all women noticed him and he probably could have gotten more than his share of on-the-house entertainments.
But the truth of it was, the Noir women gave him the creeps. They were too perfect, too good to be true. Too aggressively sexual and blatant in their appetites. Hungry. Yes. That described them. Hungry as wolves circling through plump fowl seeking whom they could devour. Not him, thank you very much. If he got a yen for companionship, he could tune in a ball game or flirt with a counter girl from the deli down the block. These man-eaters were out of his league, and he didn't mind admitting it.
Until he saw her.
The surprise of it stopped him dead in his tracks.
The woman from the Grover's house. How could he mistake those incredible green eyes?
He hadn't thought her particularly glamorous at their first meeting. At the Grovers's she'd looked like a long night on the Red-Eye. But here, under the muted pseudo-candle glow of the Noir, she sparkled like a jewel reflecting flame.
He hadn't remembered her as being particularly tall. Perhaps it was the dress, a sheath of liquid bronze cut to the navel and slit up to the hip bone, in combination with stiletto heels, or the unashamedly broad shoulders bared and equal to carrying any burden, or the blazing glory of her hair, teased up to the envy of any country singer and highlighted with a dusting of winking glitter. But despite the statuesque build, the eye-popping display of bosom, the legs that went on longer than most new television series and the glam clothes, there was a hint of vulnerability in the pale shade she'd chosen to shape the refined line of her lips, a fragility to the porcelain fairness of her skin even as it soothed over nicely defined muscle. And there was a glint of the dangerous in those constantly moving emerald eyes.
Here was a woman he wanted to know.
She saw him, and he watched her go through the same strange paralysis of the senses. She stared, scarcely breathing, finally moistening those pale pink lips with the tip of her tongue.