Lethal Affair

by Noelle Hart

  Kim shifted in his chair. “Does that mean we're suspects?”

  “Not necessarily. But possibly.”

  “Yeah, like that's a straight answer.”

  Lyle cautioned Kim with a hand on his shoulder. “Look Detective, Gina was Dino's vet, but more than that, she was a friend. There's no one here who would want to harm her.”

  “Our working theory so far is that she interrupted a burglar,” Crane informed. “The cage your dog occupied was broken into. It looks like the perpetrator was planning on abducting one or more of the animals and got interrupted by Miss Kirby. The brutality of the attack tells us that whoever did this has no qualms about taking human life. It was overkill, whether intentional or not. We found a raincoat and plastic overshoes abandoned nearby so the break-in was premeditated. The evidence found on the scene is indicative of what went down.”

  “What kind of evidence?” asked Will.

  Crane decided to test the waters. “The murder weapon was a pair of gardening shears. Don't you find it interesting that Lillian McFarley was beaten to death with garden gloves, and now a second victim has been taken down with garden shears?”

  He gauged their reactions. Everyone looked shocked.

  “I'll need to know all of your staff's whereabouts last evening,” Crane told Will.

  Will stood up. “You can interview them one by one, but for us life goes on and I've got a restaurant to run. Let's let everyone get back to work, then I'd like a word with you in my office.”

  Upstairs, Will invited Crane to sit in one of the two arm chairs by the window while he took the other.

  “I'll cut to the chase. Drew Hammond has been following Kylie consistently. Yesterday afternoon he followed us to my construction site in Langford. While we were there an accident injured one of my men right after Hammond was spotted outside by one of my crew. I can't prove it, but I know Hammond was responsible.”

  “So noted. What are you suggesting?”

  Will liked Ethan Crane. He sensed the man chased down justice rather than cut glorified notches into his belt. “Maybe Hammond is just some sick puppy mooning over what he can't have. Maybe he'll get tired of following Kylie around and accept the fact that she doesn't want anything to do with him.”

  “But?”

  “That incident at the job site was intent to cause harm. I think Hammond is capable of a lot worse. Merits taking a hard look at, his lifestyle, his comings and goings. Hell, anything and everything.”

  “Already doing it.”

  That surprised him. “What have you found out?”

  “So far nothing that points a direct finger. Since we're on the subject, I checked you out too. As far as I can tell you're an upright citizen with solid roots in the community. On the surface, so is Hammond. But in his case I dug a little further and came up with some interesting facts. The guy's a loner, has no close friends and doesn't socialize at the gym or in bars. His father is a hot shot at his game and junior toes the line, and well. I got hold of some of his ex's and surprise, surprise, all three of them dumped him for the very same reason Kylie Lambert did.”

  “He didn't get any of them pregnant, did he?”

  “Thankfully for them, no. Seems to be the differentiating factor. I wonder, if she hadn't gotten pregnant, would he be moving on to someone else right now?”

  “What are the reasons the women gave for dumping him?”

  “One was very specific. She told me he played too rough with her during sex and produced a knife. To liven things up he told her, but she wasn't buying it. She bolted.”

  “Can't blame her. So Hammond likes knives.”

  “Possibly fists too, wrapped in garden gloves.”

  Will's frown was intense. “Garden shears are a kind of knife. Does Hammond do any gardening?”

  “Well now, funny you should ask.” Crane's eyes bore into Will's own, their soulful depths glistening with keen perception. “Mrs. Olivia Hammond is an avid gardener. I'm planning on paying her a visit this very afternoon. Got some choice questions for her.”

  *

  Stanley Hammond picked up the newspaper and read the headline aloud. “Village Murders Days Apart!”

  He slammed the paper back down on his desk and eyeballed his son who sat slumped in a chair. They were in Drew's office. The fact that Stanley had lowered himself to come down here instead of summoning Drew to the penthouse demonstrated his level of agitation.

  “Where were you last night?” he asked. “I called your apartment and your cell phone at least ten times.”

  Drew raised his head. The glower in his eyes had Stanley taking a step back. “Are you inferring something, Dad? Are you saying I had anything to do with...” he waved his hand in the direction of the newspaper, “...that?”

  “Did you?”

  “No, of course not! Why would I?”

  Stanley stared deeply into Drew's eyes. And saw. His emotions ran wild with the knowledge because he knew what Drew was capable of, what he'd become capable of. One particular emotion rose to override the others. Pity. He felt overwhelming pity for the boy. He'd had his suspicions and taken action. The tracking device he'd had hidden under Drew's car had placed him five blocks from last night's murder. Too close for comfort.

  Something in Drew had shifted. The areas of concern he'd generated in his adolescence had spawned something greater, something far more dangerous in adulthood. Stanley had never stopped keeping a watchful eye on Drew. Just as Drew had battled the demon that seemed intent upon surfacing, Stanley had come to terms with his own, the one that had caused him to raise his hand to his wife and force her into acquiescence. One that he deeply regretted ever having allowed to come out, reverting him to a primitive oaf.

  The depth of his own violent nature had been roped in and contained until it no longer lived inside of him.

  It had taken up residence in Drew instead. Ten-fold apparently. According to the papers, the murdered woman had been slashed with garden shears. He was sure they'd stopped the Sunday night presses for that one, he thought bitterly, and wondered if Olivia had seen the news yet. He didn't pay much attention to things like gardening equipment, but now he wanted an inventory of her tools. Her gloves.

  Stanley hadn't risen to such corporate heights without acumen. His shrewd business practices had been a testament to his sheer will and uncanny intellect. No one would ever call him weak, but Drew was his Aquilles heel.

  He'd had great plans for Drew. So when he'd brought home Kylie Lambert, a nobody, a woman without a strong familial bloodline that would benefit his own, announcing his plans to marry her, he'd reacted the only way he could have. Defensively.

  Now he would continue to defend his own.

  He sat next to Drew and in a rare physical contact took his son's hand. Drew looked up sharply. Stanley was looking at the teeth marks clearly evident across the knuckles. It solidified what he already knew.

  Stanley spoke quietly. “Son, I know you were at the vet's clinic last night. No, don't pull away.” He tightened his grip on Drew's hand. “This cannot continue. Whatever your reasons are for doing this, they must be addressed. You need help.”

  “No!” Drew jerked his hand free and glared. “I haven't done anything. It's not me, Dad. It's not me!”

  “Drew, do you remember that time when you were nine years old and... oh God, if I hadn't stopped you... what you almost did to that raccoon. I should have gotten you help then. But I failed you. Drew, I want to help you now.”

  Furious, Drew got to his feet. “What are you saying, that I belong on the funny farm? That there's something wrong with me?”

  Stanley rose, not willing to give Drew an advantage. His tone remained soft, cajoling. “Maybe it isn't a part of yourself that you recognize. But by God, Drew, whatever it is, it's going to be the end of you if you allow it to take control.”

  Pity. It was right there on his father's face. He actually felt sorry for him.

  A switch in his brain flipped and suddenly Drew's bravado fad
ed. Fear stepped in. “Are you going to turn me in to the cops?”

  “Turn you in? You're my son! The police have already been here once. I've got a feeling they'll be back. Are you going to be able to face them, to defend yourself?”

  “I... I don't know. Dad, you're confusing me.” He crumbled, sobbing, shocking Stanley who had never seen his son exhibit any other emotion than defiance.

  His father's heart melted. Stanley knew what he had to do. Drew would disappear and he would cover his son's tracks. He'd get him the best psychiatric care money could buy.

  “Drew, calm down. I have a plan.”

  *

  Olivia was half corked. It was only four pm. She chuckled to herself and poured herself another drink.

  Ligaya entered the sun room where Olivia had sequestered herself after reading the morning papers and discovering that her garden shears had gone the way of her garden gloves.

  If there was one thing Olivia could do, it was add. Add up the facts and there could only be one conclusion. Although for the life of her she couldn't figure out what that poor veterinarian had to do with Drew. A part of her rebelled against the probability, made lame excuses, played ping-pong with her intellect. It was too much of a coincidence to ignore.

  But she'd damn well try.

  She took a long pull from her vodka and tonic and raised inquisitive eyes to Ligaya.

  “Policeman here to see you, Ma'am.”

  Why didn't that surprise her? She'd been expecting this visitor. Maybe for years now.

  “Show him in,” she said magnanimously.

  Detective Crane was ushered in. Glancing at his identification, Olivia indicated a chair which he took. “To what do I owe this visit, Detective?” Like she didn't already know.

  “You have lovely gardens, Mrs. Hammond. Do you have a hand in them, or do you hire a service?”

  “Is that an official question or are you thinking of putting in a garden yourself?”

  Crane saw that she was having herself a little party. No slurring yet, but not far off. No surprise there, he'd done his homework on her too. Surprising what neighbors knew.

  “My wife gardens. She's got a little plot out back of our house. Hard on her knees though.”

  “Yes, it can be. May I offer you a drink, Detective? Coffee, lemonade, a soda?”

  “I'm fine,” he told her. “Mrs. Hammond, have you seen the morning papers?”

  The booze hadn't numbed her quite enough; her stomach clutched and churned. Here we go. “Yes, I have. Was there something in them I should be aware of?”

  “The murders in the Village. Mrs. Hammond, you don't seem all that rattled about the fact that you have a homicide detective sitting in your home asking you questions. You strike me as an intelligent woman, but I get a feeling you're going to play footsie with me. Why don't we just skip over that part and get down to the bottom line?”

  Olivia's lips compressed and she sobered somewhat. She turned her head toward the hallway. “Ligaya,” she called out, “I know you're there, dear. Please bring me a strong black coffee at once.”

  I knew she was no dummy. “I'm here because of your son. But I think you already know that. It's come to my attention that he brought a young lady to your place of residence for dinner two weeks ago last Saturday, is that correct? A Miss Kylie Lambert?”

  Olivia accepted the steaming mug Ligaya handed her, took a tentative sip. “You have your facts right, Detective. So you probably already know that the dinner did not go well.”

  “You witnessed your son slap Miss Lambert in the face?”

  She contemplated the question, sipped more coffee. “Should I be calling a lawyer, Detective?”

  “This is an informal interview. It's your privilege if you feel it's necessary.”

  On a long sigh, “Yes. I saw him slap her. They were in his car and she got out, took off running.”

  “Is your son prone to such physical outbursts?”

  “Now really, Detective, I must say that these are highly provocative questions. You can't possibly expect me, Drew's mother, to hand you personal observations on a silver platter.”

  Crane thought he might prefer her half drunk. She was far too clever to be duped or coerced. “Let me level with you, Mrs. Hammond. Two women have been brutally murdered. Young women with most of their lives ahead of them. The Village area of this fine city is on edge. It's a serious situation that requires serious action. Kylie Lambert seems to be at the epicenter of this thing with your son Drew being the only common denominator.”

  She sipped more coffee, her hand trembling.

  “Alright Detective, I'll bite. How is Kylie Lambert at the heart of your investigation, and how does Drew fit into the picture?”

  “Ma'am, you may not be aware of this but your son has been stalking Miss Lambert for some time now. Harassing her at her place of work and in other public areas. We have reason to believe the first victim, Lillian McFarley, was a mistake, that the real target was Jolene Sparta, Kylie's roommate.”

  Olivia's heart did the two-step but her face remained impassive. “Go on,” she said cautiously.

  “The second victim, Gina Kirby, was treating a dog brought in by Will Delaney, who has befriended Kylie Lambert. They had the dog with them when they were stalked by your son. The dog was interred in the clinic overnight. Our forensics team believes that Miss Kirby interrupted an intruder who was intent upon harming the dog. It's not much of a stretch to put it together.”

  “Oh I don't know about that, Detective. It sounds like a pretty far stretch to me. After all, running into someone with their dog in a public...”

  “Excuse me Ma'am, but he didn't merely run into them. He followed them in his vehicle, spied on them. He may also be responsible for causing an accident in which a workman was injured. That constitutes stalking, Mrs. Hammond, an illicit occupation.” He paused for effect. “I need a piece of the puzzle filled in, and for that, I need your cooperation.”

  She knew what was coming next and thank heaven she'd sobered up, and fast. She was Drew's mother for God's sake! If he couldn't depend on her to protect him, then who?

  “What is it, Detective?”

  He leaned forward and pierced her eyes with his. “Are you missing a pair of garden gloves and a pair of garden shears?”

  It felt like quicksand, the slow, sludge-like sinking in her gut. Not used to lying, she was surprised at the ease of it. “Why no, I'm not. I was out just this morning trimming my rose bushes and found my garden basket to be quite in order.”

  Crane sat back. He'd been expecting a lie and really couldn't begrudge her for it. Now his work would be that much harder. The shears, like the gloves, had been a common variety that could be bought in at least a dozen places around the city. In his gut he knew they'd be wasting a lot of man power tracking down their origin.

  The shears had been wiped cleaned and oiled before becoming a murder weapon. Had Olivia done that, or had it been Drew? Cleaning the shears had not only erased fingerprints but had taken out the plant material visible to the naked eye, although the lab was going over them now for trace material.

  “When is the last time you saw your son, Mrs. Hammond?”

  “That would be Saturday afternoon.”

  “You're saying that since then, you've checked your gardening supplies and have found nothing missing.”

  “Yes.”

  “You'll go on record saying that?”

  She frowned. “You said this is an informal interview. I think it's either time for you to go, or I should call our lawyer.”

  Crane nodded. He rose and held out his hand. “Thank you for your time. I'll see myself out.”

  After he'd gone Olivia stood shakily and walked to a side cupboard. Extracting a small flask, she poured a generous portion of whiskey into what remained of her coffee.

  *

  Because he wanted a woman's take on Drew Hammond, Crane took his best female detective, Stacie Hoyle, with him to Drew's office. Upon arrival they were to
ld he'd already left for the day. Stanley Hammond, however, was available.

  Seated in his corner penthouse office, both Crane and Hoyle soaked in the masculine opulence. Stanley seemed formidable in his dark navy custom suit, his silver hair military short, wire-framed glasses glinting in the afternoon light. Behind them his pale blue eyes darted from one of them to the other, taking their measure.

  “Mr. Hammond, I've just come from your home where I spoke with your wife. I asked her about her gardening supplies. Do you have any idea why I did that?”

  Now there's an original tactic. But he wasn't easily thrown. “Why don't you fill me in?”

  Crane did just that, running through the same statement that he'd given Olivia Hammond, watching each tiny widening of Hammond's pupils, each facial twitch, the tightening of lips. The agitation was there, lying just beneath the surface. Like father, like son?

  “Your wife told me she isn't missing any gardening tools. But when I asked her if she'd make an official statement she cried lawyer. Why do you suppose she did that? Is she protecting your son, Mr. Hammond?”

  Bully for her, he thought. “What mother wouldn't protect her son? I imagine she got a little spooked with you putting Drew in the hot seat over these murders. I read the papers so I know one of them took place last night. Just so you know, I was with Drew last night. I met him at his apartment and we ate in.”

  Stacie Hoyle's senses were finely honed. Liars often gave themselves away by looking however briefly to the left; not an actual science but usually accurate. This guy looked Crane straight in the eye, dead on. Some people were natural born liars.

  Crane suspected it too. He'd been too forthcoming with an alibi for Drew, had in fact given the information without being asked for it. That alone smacked of fabrication.

  “Who cooked?” Hoyle asked, speaking up for the first time.

  Stanley regarded her. He had little tolerance for women in the work place, never mind on the force. Her inane question seemed to prove that she had a weak, female mind. Who cared who cooked! Really.