by Leslie Wolfe
“Who? Ellis and Paul?” Holt asked, still chewing.
“No, Paul Steele and his wife. As for Mrs. Celeste Bennett MacPherson, we haven’t met her yet, but she probably makes three.”
“Why Mrs. Steele? You haven’t met her yet.”
“I’m not sure,” I replied, wondering the same thing myself, moments after I’d offered her name in an unfiltered, spontaneous thought. “My gut is telling me Paul Steele didn’t marry a ninny, and there was something going on between the two of them, between Crystal and Paul. A secret worth at least half a million dollars to Paul Steele, maybe more to the missus. The only thing is, if Paul had ordered Crystal dead, why waste half a mil on her? Why risk being seen with her moments before she died?”
“Agreed,” Holt said, unscrewing the water bottle. He drank a few gulps, emptying it after I’d declined his offer. He screwed the cap back on and put it in the cup holder. “Let’s go see Mrs. Bennett MacPherson first, then we’ll pick up Roxanne.”
“Pick her up? Why?”
“I think it’s time we turned up the heat. She might remember more if she’s—”
His phone started ringing through the SUV’s media center, displaying the name of our commanding officer, Captain Morales.
“Captain,” Holt said, the moment he accepted the call with a tap on the screen.
“Holt,” the captain’s voice came across loudly, “is Baxter there with you?”
“I’m here, Captain,” I replied, frowning a little.
“Great, that saves me a second phone call. Is it true you banged on Paul Steele’s door this morning?”
“Yes,” I replied cautiously. I’d been expecting some whiplash from that but not nearly so soon. “Anything wrong?”
“The governor called,” Morales said. “He said this was a delicate matter, and he would personally appreciate if you treaded lightly.”
“You mean, back off?” I asked, looking for a straight answer. My British background still had me at a disadvantage when reading between the lines of my boss’s orders. I grew up in a country where people were direct, blunt almost to a fault, not at all concerned with the feathers they’d ruffle, especially in boss-to-employee communication. But I found that to be quite different in the states, where everyone seemed so preoccupied with not offending anyone, that communication was ambiguous if not indecipherable, albeit politically correct and mostly not usable in court.
“No, I mean work it with kid gloves, but follow the evidence nevertheless. And lay off that DNA request, unless you can’t close the case without it. I won’t be signing off on that warrant request for now.”
I exchanged a quick glance with Holt, his frustration just as visible as mine. “Yes, Captain, understood.”
“Call me with updates,” he said, hanging up before I could acknowledge the order.
“And that’s a bloody load of bollocks,” I muttered.
“It’s just politics,” Holt said reassuringly, as if I were a child who needed to be appeased. The thought made me smile.
I didn’t reply; I rested my head against the window, feeling a bit tired after last night’s adventures. I needed to catch up on sleep, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Even if we hit the jackpot with Crystal’s murder, I still had the hairy issue of the IAB investigation into Holt and the missing kilo of cocaine. That entire situation was a dark cloud that followed me everywhere I went. It wasn’t as if the IAB wanted the missing cocaine found and the thief apprehended; no, they’d just made up their minds that Holt was guilty, and I wasn’t sure that proving them wrong was going to help either of us a single bit.
Holt pulled into a visitor parking spot at BeneFoods headquarters. Three identical, high-rise buildings placed at different angles surged at least twenty stories against the blue sky, flanking a courtyard where employees gathered around picnic tables shielded from the sun by colorful sail canopies. I stopped for a moment, hesitating between the three buildings, but then I noticed a Bentley limousine pulled up at the curb in front of the middle tower.
Reception informed us that Mrs. Bennett was playing tennis on the rooftop of the building. I’d noticed during the exchange with the receptionist, and later the executive assistant, that although we’d referred to Ellis MacPherson’s wife as Mrs. Bennett MacPherson, her full legal name, everyone else called her Mrs. Bennett. Maybe there were reasons for Ellis MacPherson’s indifference with being found out by the missus.
We were immediately escorted upstairs by another executive assistant, who could’ve been Miss Gentry’s twin. Waiting for the modern elevator to climb all the way to the roof, I wondered if there was a special school or training program that taught these girls how to smile, how to act, and how to dress for these jobs, in addition to typing a gazillion words per minute and perfect diction when answering the phone.
The elevator dropped us in a lounge area with large windows overseeing the tennis court. It was surrounded by tall glass panels, to keep the high winds from ruining the game, and equipped with outdoor air conditioners. The assistant had us wait while she went to get Mrs. Bennett, then excused herself and disappeared.
Mrs. Bennett’s tennis partner, a young, good-looking man in his late twenties, stayed behind on the court, practicing his swings in the air, pretending poorly that he didn’t see us, while at the same time showing off his moves, his perfect body.
As Mrs. Bennett approached, I had to admit she was stunning. Per my earlier research, she’d just turned thirty-nine, but looked at least ten years younger. Slim and tan, with a pleasant smile and the reassured demeanor of a woman who’d never wanted for anything in her life, she greeted us warmly.
“Detectives,” she said, extending her hand. “Celeste Bennett,” she introduced herself, as if that was needed.
I liked that about her; she wasn’t blatantly arrogant about her wealth; she was pleasant.
“Thank you for seeing us,” I said, shaking her hand.
“What can I do for you?”
Holt and I looked at each other, hesitant. We needed to break some news to her that normally wreaked havoc in people’s lives. Holt took a small step back, inviting me to take the lead. He was most likely thinking a woman might be the best one to break the news of her husband’s infidelity.
I decided to cut right into it, albeit as delicately as I possibly could.
“We’re investigating the murder of Crystal Tillman,” I said, watching closely for any recognition, any reaction on her face. There was none. Her perfect smile endured, unfazed. “Are you familiar with that name?”
“Yes, I am,” she replied, taking us both by surprise. “She knew my husband.”
Bloody hell, I thought to myself, shooting Holt a quick glance, enough to notice his raised eyebrows.
I cleared my throat quietly and breathed. “Are you aware your husband was having an affair with her?”
She nodded, and her smile waned a little, replaced by sadness, feigned or real, I couldn’t tell. “Yes, I am. He’s devastated by her death, poor darling.”
I felt my jaw drop. “I must confess, I am surprised by your reaction,” I said, wondering if she was truthful about the whole thing or if she was that good an actress. I looked at her intently, noticing every minute detail of her facial expression, of her demeanor. Her shoulders were lowered, her arms folded in front of her body yet relaxed, her fingers steady and calm. Her gaze was direct, forthcoming, seemingly sincere. Despite all that, to me her reactions appeared paradoxical.
Her smile widened somewhat. “I understand how unusual this might seem to you, Detectives. Ellis and I have a different kind of relationship.” She laughed quietly as her eyes turned toward the tennis court, where her partner was stretching his long, muscular legs. “After a few years of marriage, my husband and I recognized that we both have needs the other can’t fulfill. We care deeply for each other; our friendship is the glue that will hold us together ’til death do us part. Such friendship is a rare gift that cannot be wasted, a real partnership for
life. But the passion… Let’s just say I don’t like tennis enough to justify having a tennis pro on speed dial,” she added, lowering her eyelids shyly and blushing under her impeccable makeup.
I looked at Holt again, stifling the smile that threatened to bloom, seeing the disbelief in his eyes. My partner was appalled.
“Do you have children?” I asked.
Her smile widened, touching her azure eyes. “A daughter,” she replied. “She started college this year. Brown,” she added, her voice filled with maternal pride.
“Did you know Crystal Tillman was pregnant with your husband’s child?” I asked, watching for a reaction. And again, nothing.
“Yes,” she replied, “what a tragedy, two lives ended so soon.”
“And you were okay with that?”
“With the pregnancy? It’s not the first time it’s happened,” she replied. “Ellis is great about these things, always so considerate.”
I frowned, thinking whether I should tell her the considerate Ellis had planned to keep Crystal’s baby and play Daddy, unlike other times when he’d dealt away with the problem, throwing money at the pregnant mistresses until they went away.
“Mrs. Bennett,” Holt said, “do you know—”
“Call me Celeste, please,” she invited, giving Holt an appreciative look.
“Um, Celeste,” he said, his voice a little strangled. “Do you know if Crystal had any enemies, or anything—”
The elevator doors whooshed open and chimed, and an older woman stepped out. I recognized her; I’d seen her photo on many magazine covers, and just as many times on television, being interviewed at charity events and the Governor’s Ball.
The old Mrs. Bennett.
She was Nevada royalty more than anyone else. Her father had created BeneFoods in 1939, when war was looming, bringing cheaper food options to struggling neighborhoods. As a young girl, she’d worked side by side with her father to turn the already successful stores into the network of supermarkets they are today. When her father died, she took over the company with talent and ambition, making it into a giant. Rumor had it she was semiretired, still involved in many executive decisions, although she’d taken the company public fifteen years ago and Celeste was the president and CEO.
Elegant and distinguished in a cream-colored pantsuit with a burgundy, chiffon blouse, she made me wish I’d look as good as she did when I’d get to her age; only a few wrinkles hinted to that number, which I believed was about seventy. I was in awe, feeling small in the presence of such legendary greatness.
“There you are, my dear,” she said, smiling at us as if she were greeting us at some formal event. “You’re needed downstairs, in the boardroom. They have some kind of emergency.”
We thanked Celeste and parted ways, not seeing a reason to hold her back with more questions. I’d seen nothing to cause a single concern. Ellis MacPherson had all the reasons not to be worried about his wife’s reaction to his affair.
Our strongest lead had just dissolved in thin, perfectly conditioned, Nevada air.
“Are you buying it?” Holt asked the moment we climbed inside his Ford.
“Could be true,” I replied, although I failed to comprehend it. I was the jealous type myself, more likely to scratch the other woman’s eyes out for just looking at my man. I couldn’t see myself accepting an open marriage, but not everyone was like me. “There was no emotional response, no pain markers, no stress,” I said, summarizing my earlier observations.
“Do you think it was rehearsed?”
“Great question, but no, I don’t think so. If you feel strongly enough about your husband’s affair to put a contract out on his mistress, that passion won’t disappear in a few days, just by rehearsing your responses. Your body needs more time to adjust, to learn the new reality, to process the rejection, the hurt.”
The phone rang, and I saw Fletcher’s name on the display. I let Holt answer.
“Hey guys,” he said in a cheerful tone. “There’s a surprise in your inbox.”
Holt pulled over as I opened my email and looked at the images attached to Fletcher’s message. It showed Paul and Roxanne climbing in the same elevator together, holding hands and undressing each other with their eyes.
“Whoa,” Holt reacted.
“She lied,” I snapped. “When she said she didn’t recognize him in those video screenshots, the little bitch lied.”
“There’s more,” Fletcher said. “Play the video,” he instructed, and I executed, holding my breath.
The video, grainy and distant, yet clear enough for us to recognize the players, showed Roxanne talking with Ellis in front of the high-limit gaming room cashier’s desk. The conversation was intense, judging by the firm grip Ellis seemed to have on Roxanne’s arm, her unsuccessful attempts to free herself, and their overall body language. Just like with other surveillance videos, there was no sound.
“I think I know what that’s about,” Holt said. “If Ellis suspects Roxanne of killing Crystal, and we know he does, he must be confronting her. What’s the time code on that video?”
“Last night, well, technically today, one-thirty in the morning,” Fletcher replied.
“What did she do after that conversation?” I asked, seeing that the video ended with Ellis leaving.
“She climbed into Paul Steele’s limo and drove off,” Fletcher said.
The brazen, perfidious little shite had lied to us about everything.
37
Findings
I was fuming.
It wasn’t like I’d never been lied to before, during an investigation. That’s what all perps do, all the time: they lie. That’s what most witnesses do most of the time, with intent or by omission: they deceive, misrepresent, exaggerate, fudge, or invent. In other words, they lie.
But Roxanne? I’d sensed she was hiding something, but I felt bad for her; I sympathized with her loss, I resonated with her heartbreak.
And she’d played me. With her vulnerable little girl act, with her sobs and her batting eyelashes dripping lacrimal droplets, with her feigned every-bloody-thing.
She’d been shagging this Paul guy, but didn’t recognize him? The hell she didn’t. Her lying arse belonged in jail.
“I want her charged,” I said coldly, as if getting ready to fight Holt over it.
“Yup,” he replied. “You think she’s the doer?”
“She had means, motive, and plenty of opportunity. These girls were practically together twenty-four-seven,” I replied. “But how do you explain the contract killer?”
“I can’t,” Holt replied. “I’ve been thinking about it, while you’ve been busy mumbling incoherent British words that make me doubt I speak the language.”
“And?”
He didn’t get to answer; my phone rang. It was Anne. I took the call on speaker, glad to hear from her.
“Hey,” I said, “I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” she said with a long, bone-tired sigh. “Why don’t you swing by? I’ve got some news for you.”
“Swing by, as in…?”
“The University Medical Center Morgue.”
Holt pulled a tire-squealing one-eighty as soon as he heard the address, then floored it.
“We’re on our way,” I said and ended the call.
I looked at Holt, waiting for him to continue sharing his thoughts, but he drove in silence.
“You were saying?” I prodded.
“I was saying maybe there could be two perps. One killer, and another one who wanted to clean up after the killer. Let’s say, Roxanne poisoned Crystal, but then Paul, assuming he cares about her, paid that muscle to bomb the morgue and burn all the evidence.”
I frowned and pressed my lips together, thinking, trying my best to shoot holes into his theory. It was airtight; it could work. It could explain why we had two entirely different kinds of suspects: people with money, but apparently without motive or opportunity, and Roxanne, who had all those, but no money to hire
a killer.
As far as we knew. Note to self: let’s pore over that girl’s financials, with gusto.
We entered the morgue quickly, practically running. It was starting to get dark outside, on our third day of chasing Crystal’s killer through a maze of entangled leads woven among thick webs of lies and deceit. Statistics said that if a killer wasn’t caught in the first forty-eight hours after the homicide was committed, the chances to clear the case dropped by a factor of five. We needed whatever information Anne could give us.
We needed a miracle.
The makeshift setup she’d organized was functional, albeit every other piece of equipment was temporarily installed on a table on wheels, some even on stretchers borrowed from the Medical Center. Anne looked pale, exhausted, her eyes surrounded by black circles. She didn’t smile when she saw us, but that wasn’t unusual when she was working.
“Why aren’t you in bed?” I asked, knowing how useless my question was.
She swatted my concern away with a hand gesture, then opened a folder and pulled out a report. “The preliminary tox screen was negative. That’s the basic one, screening for most commonly encountered drugs and poisons, alcohol, narcotics.”
“Great,” I mumbled, letting myself drop on a backless lab stool.
“She was negative for any recreational drugs and had only small amounts of alcohol in her bloodstream. She’d had a glass of wine at dinner, but other than that, she was sober.”
“You said you had something?” I asked, instantly regretting my lack of patience. She’d dragged herself out of bed to work, to wrap up Crystal’s postmortem; the least I could do was give her the time she needed.
She shot me a quick, amused glance, then continued. “We have enough blood left to continue testing. I’ve narrowed down a list of alkaloids they should be testing for.”
“What kind of poison is that?” Holt asked.
“Like I mentioned before, a plant extract. There are a few concoctions out there that could kill by stopping the victim’s heart or impairing the respiratory function.”