“Stains exaggerate the actual amount of blood loss,” he said. “With a blow to her face like that, it’s possible she had a nosebleed and was too disoriented to notice. I didn’t see any dried blood in her nose, but she’s very pale. It would be prudent to do a scan and make sure there’s no internal hemorrhaging. And since you said she was drugged, we really should do a toxicology test to see what was used.”
“I’m fine!” Abigail shouted. “I’m not having any scans or blood tests. I just need to sleep. I’m going back to bed.” She turned and headed for her room.
“I’m afraid we can’t force her,” the doctor said. “Stay with her tonight so you can keep an eye on her. Wake her every hour or so. If she vomits, gets dizzy, passes out, or exhibits any unusual symptoms, take her directly to A & E.”
“A & E?” Nicole said.
“That’s the accident and emergency department at hospital. I’ll be back in the morning to re-evaluate her condition.”
By the time Nicole turned in, it was 2:30 a.m. She spent the night on a lounge chair in the girl’s room.
In the morning Abigail was up first. Nicole woke when she heard the girl putting in another call to Sami.
Someone answered, and Abigail said, “Sami?” Then her expression clouded. “Who is this?” She listened a while. “Has something happened to Sami?” She went quiet while the other party talked. “Why do you want to know that? I’m not telling you.” She hung up.
“Who was that?” Nicole said.
Abigail stared at her. “He said he was with the police. He wanted to know where I am so he can come over to ask me questions about Sami.”
The ringing began again.
“Give me the phone,” Nicole said. “I know how to handle this.” When Abigail handed her the cell, Nicole gave her name. “How can I help you?”
“This is Detective Chief Inspector Alex Norton of the Metropolitan Police. I’d like to speak to Miss Abigail Fletcher. It’s regarding Sami Malouf.”
“Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“I’m not at liberty to give you that information. I’d like to interview Miss Fletcher. Is she there?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Please give me your location. My partner and I need to speak to her in person.”
Nicole hesitated briefly before providing the name of the hotel.
“Ask for me at the desk,” she said. “They’ll direct you to the room.”
“Thank you.” Norton hung up.
Nicole picked up the hotel phone and called the desk. “Two police officers are on their way to see us. Will you please check their credentials before sending them up?”
“Yes, madam,” the clerk said, as though checking police credentials was something he did every day.
By the time Nicole was done with the call, the girl was inspecting the skirt and blouse she’d worn the day before.
“How can I wear these? They’re all wrinkled. I guess my coat will cover them up.”
“You can’t wear your coat, remember? It’s got bloodstains on it. But I have a long cardigan that might fit you.”
Nicole went into her room, pulled a bright blue sweater from the bureau, and brought it to Abigail. The girl snatched it away and scooped her skirt and blouse from the floor where she’d tossed them. She headed into the bathroom and slammed the door after her.
Only a moment passed before Abigail screamed, opened the door, and stuck her head out.
“My eye is swollen shut! It’s gross-looking, like a huge purple zit. I can’t go out looking like this.”
Leaving the clothes on the bathroom floor, she climbed back into bed.
Barely holding on to her patience, Nicole got her sunglasses from her purse and handed them to Abigail. The girl took them, and after examining them, put them on, got out of bed, and looked in the mirror. From her expression, it was clear she liked the effect. They did make her look glamorous, like an old-time movie star. She took her clothes back into the bathroom and emerged a half-hour later. She’d arranged her hair so it covered the part of her black eye not hidden by the sunglasses. The loaned sweater, which reached well below Nicole’s knees, was hip-length on Abigail. On the girl’s willowy body, it looked chic, and its periwinkle blue perked up her outfit.
There was a loud knock on the door. Nicole fastened the chain lock, which she’d neglected to engage the previous night.
“Who is it?” she said.
“Police,” came a man’s voice. “I’m here to speak to Miss Fletcher.”
Nicole undid the chain lock and opened the door. Two men—presumably, plain-clothes cops—were standing in the hall. The older of the pair was dressed formally, in suit and tie. He appeared to be in his late fifties, tall with ramrod-straight posture. He had a square jaw and bushy eyebrows that were dark, although his hair was mostly gray.
Nicole pegged him as the type of man she always had trouble relating to. Somehow they made her feel as if nothing she could possibly say would interest them.
Norton glanced at her dismissively before looking at Abigail, then gazing around the living room, taking in the luxurious décor.
The younger man had a much more casual vibe. He was good-looking, with wavy dark hair and a hint of well-trimmed beard along his jawline. His hands were in the pockets of his black chinos. A red sweater was visible under his gray windbreaker.
The older man stepped forward. “I’m DCI Alex Norton. We spoke on the phone. My partner here is DC Rick Kirby. May we come in?”
Nicole didn’t answer because the question was moot. The two men had already stepped across the threshold.
“Which of you is Abigail Fletcher?” Norton said.
Abigail looked around nervously. Nicole had the feeling she would have bolted if the detectives hadn’t been standing in the doorway.
Nicole put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “May I ask what it is you want to talk to her about?”
“The murder of Sami Malouf.”
Abigail cried out and her knees buckled. Nicole and Kirby each caught an arm to keep the girl from falling, then helped her to a chair.
“What does this have to do with Abigail?” Nicole said.
“Before we proceed,” Norton said, “would you please identify yourself and explain your relationship to Miss Fletcher?”
Nicole gave her name and explained that she was a P.I. hired by Abigail’s parents to bring the girl back to L.A. When she was done, she repeated her question.
“What does this murder have to do with Abigail?”
“We don’t know that it does,” Norton said. “Miss Fletcher was acquainted with the victim. She was caught on CCTV, entering his building around the time of his death. An earlier video showed her having an altercation with him on the street. We found Mister Malouf’s mobile near his body, and called the last number he’d dialed, which was Miss Fletcher’s. We’re hoping she can help us with our inquiries. We also need her fingerprints.”
“Fingerprints?” Nicole said. “Why?”
“To eliminate her as a suspect.”
“Is she a suspect?”
“We are just beginning our investigation,” he said, stiffly. “At this point, everyone is a suspect.”
Abigail was sitting motionless on the chair where they’d seated her. She looked gobsmacked. To Nicole, it was unthinkable that this young girl—spoiled as she was—was capable of murder. But she hardly knew Abigail and had no idea what she was capable of. It was already apparent that she had a bad temper.
“How was he killed?” Nicole said.
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Norton seemed impatient to move on. “We’re here because we need Miss Fletcher to come to the station and answer a few questions.”
“Come to the station?” Nicole said. “Look at her! This poor girl was savagely beaten last night, and she’s under the care of a doctor. He’s supposed to stop by this morning to look at her again. In addition to that, she’s in shock because she just learned that her boyfriend is dead. Why can
’t you question her later when she’s recovered a bit?”
Norton didn’t answer. He was giving the room a closer look. Nicole wondered if he’d even heard her.
He spotted the bloodstained coat draped over the end of the couch and paused.
“Hello,” he said, like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes. “What do we have here?”
Nicole regretted that she’d neglected to fold the coat lining side out after showing it to the doctor.
Norton pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, put them on, and picked up the coat for closer inspection.
“Who does this belong to?”
Nicole hesitated, realizing how this would look. But there was no denying whose coat it was.
“It’s Abigail’s. As I told you, she was attacked last night. Surely you noticed her swollen eye. The doctor thought she might have had a nosebleed.”
Norton reached into the closet for a clean laundry bag—he seemed familiar with the hotel’s amenities—and put the coat inside.
“Follow us downstairs,” he said. “We’ll take you to the station.”
“What about her injuries?”
Norton turned to Abigail. “Are you in need of medical attention? We can take you to hospital before you come to the station.”
“I’m fine,” Abigail said. “I’m not going to the hospital, and I’m not going to any police station, either. We have other plans.”
“I’m afraid you haven’t a choice, Miss Fletcher. In a murder investigation, we have the right to bring you to the station and question you.”
“Then I’m coming, too,” Nicole said. “I was hired by her parents to look after Abigail until she returns to Los Angeles.”
“Our records say Miss Fletcher is a student at King’s College,” Norton said. “British law considers anyone over eighteen an adult. If she’s eighteen—”
“She’s in a special program for high school students,” Nicole said. “She’s only seventeen.”
The detective turned to Abigail. “Is that true, Miss Fletcher?”
She nodded.
“In that case,” Norton said, “it’s necessary for a responsible adult to be present during the interview. That will be you, Miss Graves. Follow us.”
Norton and Kirby helped Abigail up. The two women followed Norton out of the building, while Kirby brought up the rear. Norton was clearly running things, leaving no role for the younger man to play. Nicole wondered how he felt about it. Directly outside the hotel’s front door was a sporty blue sedan. It didn’t look like an unmarked police car except for one thing—it was parked in a no-parking zone.
Once Nicole and Abigail were settled in the backseat and the car took off, Nicole said, “May I place a call to my firm so they can notify Miss Fletcher’s parents what’s happened?”
“Go ahead,” Norton said.
She put in a call to Jerry. He was just as stunned as Nicole by this new development.
“I’ll contact her father and ask him to have his attorney recommend a solicitor. Do you really think she’s a suspect?”
“I have no idea,” Nicole said. “I’ll let you know after they’ve questioned her.”
There was a pause before Jerry went on. “I’m thinking of Mary Ellen.”
“Not a day goes by when I don’t think of her,” Nicole said. “I still have nightmares about what happened.”
She considered the contrast between the two girls. No one could be more different from Mary Ellen than Abigail, with her privileged upbringing and sense of entitlement. Mary Ellen came from nothing and expected nothing, whereas Abigail had everything going for her and was blowing it.
“Think about it,” Jerry said. “Despite the huge socio-economic gap between Mary Ellen Barnes and Abigail Fletcher, the situations are the same. Two teenage girls rebel against the world and get in over their heads. We can’t let this case go south on us. We just can’t.”
“I won’t let it,” she said. “I promise.”
But these words sounded hollow, even to Nicole.
Four
About ten minutes passed before they reached the police station and drove into the parking lot. The building was an undistinguished three-story block of gray stone. Once they were inside, Nicole followed the others into an area where Abigail’s fingerprints were taken. From there, Norton led the group to the elevators. As before, Kirby trailed behind the others.
The interview room was familiar to Nicole, almost identical to the ones used by the L.A.P.D. The only furnishings were a table and four chairs. A black box similar to a VCR sat on one side of the table, a microphone in the middle. Nicole noticed the room lacked the one-way window, a common feature in police interview rooms back home. It allowed cops on the other side to observe a suspect’s behavior during questioning and once he or she was left alone. She figured a video camera must be mounted somewhere, recording the interview and allowing others to observe, but she saw no sign of it.
Norton gestured toward the chairs and the four of them sat, Nicole and Abigail on one side, Norton and Kirby on the other. Almost immediately, Norton was on his feet again.
“Pardon me. I forgot to leave this with evidence.” He held up the hotel laundry bag containing Abigail’s coat. “I’ll be right back.”
As soon as he was gone, Kirby got up. “Can I offer you some coffee? It’s pretty terrible, but I can get you cinnamon buns out of the machine. They’re not too bad.”
Abigail shook her head, but Nicole said, “I’ll have some. I didn’t get breakfast, so the cinnamon bun sounds good—and maybe cream and sugar for the coffee?”
He nodded and headed out the door. Abigail sat silent and expressionless, her mind somewhere else. Nicole put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and spoke softly.
“In a situation like this, it’s best not to volunteer information. Just answer the questions they ask. Don’t tell them anything more.”
Without turning to look at her, Abigail murmured her assent in a disagreeable tone that suggested she’d do as she pleased.
It was only a few minutes before Kirby was back. Kirby placed a cellophane-wrapped pastry in front of Nicole, along with a cup of coffee and several packets of sugar.
“Sorry,” he said, “we’re out of milk, but I brought extra sugar.”
Nicole thanked him, stirred in three packets of sugar, and took a sip before putting the cup down. The coffee was so thick and bitter that adding sugar had been pointless. She tore open the plastic covering the cinnamon bun and took a bite. It was tasteless and cold. She placed it on the table next to the coffee.
Soon Norton was back. He positioned the microphone before pressing a button to turn it on.
“I’m recording this interview for the record, in the investigation of Sami Malouf’s murder.” He then recited his name, the date, and the time.
He handed the microphone to Kirby, who gave his name and title.
Norton gave the mic to Nicole. “State your name and date of birth, please. Then pass this to Miss Fletcher so she can do the same.”
Nicole followed his directions. But instead of taking the microphone, Abigail placed her elbows on the table, put her face in her hands, and began to cry. Norton produced a packet of tissues and slid it across to her. She picked it up, extracted a tissue, and blew her nose.
He waited a few beats before prompting her again. This time she recited her name and birthdate in a quivery voice.
“Before we begin our interview, Miss Fletcher,” Norton said, “the law requires me to advise you of your rights. You do not need to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
Abigail opened her mouth, then closed it and turned to Nicole with a questioning look.
“I don’t think she does,” Nicole said. “And frankly I don’t either. Why are you advising her of her rights? Earlier you said you just wanted to ask her some questions. Now it sounds as
if you’re about to arrest her.”
“This process is required by law.” Norton then turned to Abigail and repeated his right-to-remain-silent caution. “I’m also required to advise you that you’re entitled to have a solicitor present. If you do not have a solicitor, one will be provided free of charge. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Abigail said. “I’m not stupid. But isn’t a solicitor like a lawyer? Why would I want one if I haven’t done anything wrong? Besides, I’m too tired to wait around for someone else to show up. I just want to get this over with.”
“Abigail,” Nicole said. “If the detective is saying you have a right to a solicitor, then you’d better ask for one.” She turned to Norton. “How long will it take for a solicitor to arrive?”
“Not long. Usually about forty-five minutes to a couple hours. Or it could be within minutes.”
“I don’t need one,” Abigail said.
“As the grownup in the room,” Nicole said, “do I have any say in this?”
“Yes, madam. The decision is yours since Miss Fletcher is a minor.”
“Then we’ll wait for a solicitor.”
“What the fuck?” Abigail said. “You’ve got no right—”
“I’m just looking out for your interests, Abigail. Trust me.”
Abigail threw her a dirty look and gave a grunt of disgust.
Norton got out his phone to request a solicitor. Then he got up, asked Kirby to take charge, and left the room.
Abigail spent the next hour acting like a three-year-old, rhythmically kicking a leg of Nicole’s chair, pacing, and requesting a number of bathroom breaks. She demanded a can of cola and had a seventeen-year-old’s version of a tantrum when Kirby returned with a paper cup of water.
“The soda machine is out of order, I’m afraid,” he said.
When he attempted to hand Abigail the water, she knocked the cup out of his hand. Its contents spilled, mostly on the floor, but also on Kirby’s shoes and pant legs.
At last the door opened and Norton was back with a young man who he introduced as Aldo Biaggi. Biaggi was tall and fair. He had a boyish appearance and looked even younger than Abigail. Despite his foreign-sounding name, he spoke like the typical Brit. He asked Norton and Kirby to leave so he could confer with his client and Nicole.
The Entitled Page 4