Black Jack

by Diane Capri

  She followed the single set of Poulton’s footprints in the snow. Easier than breaking her own trail, and it could help to preserve any potential evidence that might be out there. Even so, each step meant lifting her foot in a high parade march all the way to the sidewalk and then up to the entrance.

  The front door was open behind a full glass storm door. When she stepped up onto the stoop, a flashlight turned on inside. Smithers punched off the headlights. She glanced back toward the big SUV, but it had blended into the blackness.

  “I’m FBI Special Agent Houston Brice. Thanks for coming on such short notice.” He wore paper booties, a paper cap, and gloves. She couldn’t see his face yet. “Sorry for the radio silence. We wanted you to have fresh eyes.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Smithers said. Of course, I’d have been more prepared if you’d told me anything at all.” She stomped the snow off her boots and swiped her clothes to remove as much moisture as she could.

  “Sorry. Following orders, myself. You’ll understand in a minute,” Brice said.

  “No problem.” She leaned against the siding to slip her feet into the paper booties. Her hair was already captured in a low chignon on the back of her neck. She slipped the paper cap over her head and pulled the gloves on as she walked across the threshold.

  Inside, she pulled the flashlight out of her pocket and flipped the on switch. Then she waited for her eyes to adjust. The first thing she noticed was the cold. Probably well below thirty degrees in here. The temperature outside had been in the teens or lower.

  “No heat?”

  “The forced air heating system is gas. But it takes electricity to operate the blower.” He shrugged. “There’s no electricity in here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Turned off by the electric company. The house is unoccupied. Listed for sale. We’re running that down now.”

  She nodded. “I hope they’ve done something about the pipes to avoid freezing, then.”

  Brice replied, “The house will be a mess if they didn’t, and it’s a pretty nice house.”

  “How old is this place? Thirty, forty years?” Her guess was based on the size of the lot and the location. Property on the Hudson River, even sixty miles from Manhattan, wasn’t cheap. Lots as big as this one were divided up and sold by developers looking for big bucks these days.

  “Probably at least thirty years, for sure. But it’s been renovated more recently.” He stood to one side and aimed his flashlight around a large, open floor plan. “Older homes weren’t designed like this. And the kitchen looks like one of those cooking shows on television where all the high-end stuff is built in. Even has a big wine cooler. Like they have in the fancy restaurants. I’m guessing someone paid a few hundred grand to renovate. Maybe more.”

  She moved further into the house. After the cold and the open floor plan, the next thing she noticed was nothing. Literally nothing. As in no furniture at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Friday, January 28

  4:45 p.m.

  Garrison, New York

  In the huge space, sounds echoed across the hardwood floors and bounced from flat walls.

  Heavy blackout drapes covered the windows. Otherwise, the room would have been colder and absolutely cavernous, because she’d have been surrounded by the vast darkness outside as well.

  So far, her fresh eyes hadn’t seen anything at all, useful or useless.

  Brice said, “We’re running short on time. You’ll have a lot of questions. We all do. But for now, please just make your observations, and we can talk more after we’re done here. Understood?”

  “No problem. So far, I don’t see anything to ask questions about, other than why you dragged me out here.”

  “Follow me. This is a crime scene, so be careful not to disturb anything.” He turned and walked toward the back of the house, flashlight pointed at the floor.

  Kim followed behind him, using her flashlight to check things out as they walked.

  The hallway was wider than most. Seven feet at least. Doorways opened off the left and right sides. She pointed her flashlight beam inside each room, briefly. All were empty of furnishings, except window coverings of various types.

  At the end of the hallway, a double door was ajar. Brice pushed it open and walked inside.

  “This must have been the master suite, I suppose,” Kim said, as she followed Brice past a massive walk-in closet larger than the bedroom in her Detroit apartment.

  “That’s what it looks like. For a woman with a lot of shoes.” He kept walking deeper into the huge suite, also empty of furniture, with heavy drapes on the windows.

  “This whole suite was probably an addition to the original house,” Kim said. “City property tax records would reflect that, I assume? Adding square footage to any existing structure increases property taxes where I’m from.”

  She followed him through another double doorway that led to an enormous master bathroom, about twenty feet square. He stood near the center while she got a sense of the place.

  Everything in the room was white. Walls, floor, ceiling, doors, cabinetry, countertops. All white. The tile was Carrera marble. The fixtures were gold.

  Across the room from the double door entrance, the entire width was devoted to an oversized shower enclosed in glass. Plenty of space for an orgy inside. Maybe even fit a few spectators. On each of the three walls of the shower, a showerhead the approximate size of a dinner plate protruded. Gold, of course.

  When she’d had a moment to scan the room, Brice moved aside.

  “Ah,” Kim said when she saw what must have been the reason they were here.

  A white claw-footed porcelain bathtub with gold fixtures occupied center stage in the middle of the room. The oval tub was deeper and longer than standard. The fixtures were mounted on the side instead of either end. With a pillow affixed to the head of the tub, a man taller than Michael Jordan could stretch out inside and sink up to his neck in a bubble bath.

  The current occupant of the tub was significantly shorter than Michael Jordan and definitely not enjoying a bubble bath.

  Directly in the bather’s line of sight at the foot of the tub was a floor-to-ceiling window. Like the other windows in the house, this one was covered by blackout drapes. But in daylight, the window likely offered an amazing view of the lawn and the river beyond it.

  Unfortunately, the woman wasn’t looking at the view. Her eyes were closed and probably had been at the time of death. From the looks of the body, she hadn’t seen anything in quite a while.

  Kim walked closer to the tub, careful not to disturb any trace evidence.

  “What is that green liquid she’s lying in?” She asked. “Hard to tell, but it looks thicker than water, even with additives like they use in spas.”

  “I promise to answer all of your questions,” Brice said. “But first, tell me what you see here.”

  “A thin, blonde woman. Fine boned. Blue eyes, I’d guess, given the fair hair. The skin looks bad now, but when she was alive, it might have been pale and translucent. Probably taller than average, although it’s hard to say since I can’t see her feet. Maybe thirty-five-ish, give or take. Again, hard to say, but she doesn’t look ten years younger or older. Obviously dead for a while. Sitting in a tub less than half full of thick green liquid. The light isn’t good enough to determine whether there’s a skin on the surface. A pile of clothes on the floor beside the foot of the tub, probably hers.”

  “What else?”

  “The room is spotless. No green liquid splashed anywhere I can see with this flashlight. No empty containers that might have held the green liquid before it was added to the tub, assuming it’s not water that flowed from the tap. No indication of how the green stuff got here or why the original containers are gone.”

  “Got a guess on time, manner, and cause of death?”

  “Seriously? I’m not a coroner, and I haven’t touched the body.” When he said nothing more, Kim shrugged and played along. “The manner
of death is obvious. Homicide. Could be a very brilliant suicide, but unless there’s a lethal dose of self-administered drugs in her system, I’d say murder. First-degree intent to kill. No clue on the exact time, but she’s been here awhile. Very little visible decomposition, probably due to how cold it is in here. A mortuary refrigerator would be warmer, and those can store bodies for months.”

  “Cause of death?”

  Kim shook her head. “She looks peaceful. No empty pill bottles or blood mixed with the green to suggest self-mutilation. No visible trauma to the head and neck, although when the full body is examined, the coroner may find something on autopsy.”

  Brice nodded. “You’ve never seen or heard of anything like this before?”

  “I don’t do much actual homicide investigation. Usually not necessary,” Kim replied. “My cases tend to involve pretty obvious murders. You know, gang executions, organized crime hits, terrorist bombings, kidnap for ransom goes bad. Stuff like that. How about you? Seen this before?”

  He ignored the question. “What about the green liquid? Know what it is? Or does it remind you of anything?”

  “I’m not much of a green person. I like FBI blue. But this looks like army green to me.” She tilted her head toward the river. “With West Point over there, army green paint makes sense.”

  Brice nodded and reached into his pocket to answer his vibrating cell phone. “Yeah…. Okay… Thanks.” He disconnected the call and dropped the phone back into his pocket. “Come on. We have to go.”

  “Why? We just got started.”

  “We’ll come back later. One of the neighbors has reported a burglary in progress here. They must’ve driven past and seen the vehicles in the driveway. We don’t want to be here when the locals arrive.”

  “Why not? Maybe they can get the electricity on, and we can help process all of this. There’s at least a full night’s work ahead. We’re all on the same side, aren’t we? Truth, justice, and the American Way and all that?”

  “I’ll explain on the road. Come on. We’ll be back. But for now, we’re leaving.” He turned and hurried toward the front exit before she could ask him where they were going.

  She fished her phone out of her pocket and shot a quick video around the bathroom and then a few stills of the body in the tub and the pile of clothes. She took one last, long look to be sure she hadn’t missed anything obvious. Or left anything behind.

  She slipped her phone out of sight and hurried to catch up with Brice.

  He stood on the outside stoop holding a large evidence bag into which he’d dropped his booties, cap, and gloves. He handed the bag to her to do the same while he locked the front door.

  They hurried to the SUV. She hustled around to the passenger side while he started the engine. Smithers and Poulton were already gone. Brice grabbed a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and backed the SUV down the driveway, careful to stay within the ruts. At the road, he headed away from town.

  Kim heard sirens in the distance, coming closer. Before the flashing lights approaching the house became visible, Brice pushed the heavy SUV fast enough to reach a big curve in the road and ducked out of sight of the first responders.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Friday, January 28

  5:30 p.m.

  Newburgh, New York

  The twisty two-lane wasn’t any better on the way out than it had been on the way in, but Brice pushed the big vehicle north as hard as he dared. He wasn’t the man Smithers was, in several respects, including driving ability. The back end fishtailed a couple of times and slid onto the shoulder more than once, but he kept moving in the right direction.

  Kim said, “Leaving the scene of a homicide is a felony in every jurisdiction.”

  He didn’t reply. His grip on the wheel never relaxed. White lines appeared around his nose and mouth, attesting to his level of concentration.

  “It’s also a violation of FBI policy and procedure. Is that how you do things around here? Pick and choose which homicides you report and which ones you ignore?”

  He said nothing, demonstrating more resolve and dedication to a plan than she’d given him credit for.

  “You’re kidnapping me, Brice. An FBI Special Agent. It’s not likely you’ll get promoted while you’re serving time in federal prison.”

  He shot her a glare, then returned his full attention to the treacherous driving conditions.

  Five miles from the house, he took a chance. He lifted one hand off the wheel and made a short phone call.

  “Get the ball rolling,” he said and hung up. His hand was off the wheel less than a full minute.

  “What’s that about?” Kim asked.

  “We’ve got a lot of legwork to do. I don’t want that body moved until we get someone officially on the scene.” He watched the road and handled the driving, but he was also preoccupied with something else. He wasn’t inclined to discuss the case with her now. She’d begun to wonder whether the woman in the tub was an FBI case at all.

  She pulled out her phone and typed the address of the house into an internet search. The cell signal was weak out here in the countryside, but with a few clicks and a bit of patience, she found the real estate listing. Her connection wasn’t good enough to watch the video tour of the property, but there were still photos on the realtor’s website. She chose a group of interior and exterior shots. They loaded with the speed of an exhausted sloth.

  The real estate photographer had presented the property well. The pictures had been shot in the fall when the lot’s elaborate gardens were in bloom and the trees cooperatively dressed in vibrant autumn colors.

  The back of the property used its riverfront location to full advantage.

  A large patio ran the length of the house, and outdoor furniture gathered around a well-designed fire pit close to the water. The patio featured an outdoor kitchen and dining area sufficient to accommodate eight to ten seated guests. Three seating groups were placed at spacious intervals to allow private conversations.

  None of the photo angles offered a good look at the master bathroom window, but she’d acquired a solid mental image of its location.

  She flipped through the interior photographs. They’d been shot on a clear day when sunshine spilled into the house from the oversized windows in every room. The designer was as talented a genius as the photographer.

  The open floor plan for the common rooms seemed simultaneously massive and cozy. The kitchen was spectacular, as Brice had hinted. But the showpiece was the master suite, which rivaled any modern palace.

  The property, taken as a whole, was ostentatious in the extreme. She lost her cell connection between towers and the website shut down. She’d seen enough for now, anyway.

  What kind of people lived in places like that? Not Army generals, in Kim’s experience. Not the honest ones, anyway. Celebrities and criminals were more likely residents.

  Brice had finally piloted the SUV to the interstate. His concentration remained intense, and he still wasn’t talking.

  About an hour after they’d fled the homicide scene, Brice pulled the big SUV into the almost deserted parking lot of a chain restaurant off I-84 in Newburgh and killed the engine.

  “How about we get a bite to eat, and we can talk. Then we’ll go back to the house. See everything officially. All that good with you?” The light from the restaurant bathed his face in pink and green, accentuating the stress lines she hadn’t noticed in the dark.

  “Last flight back to Detroit from Stewart is already gone.” Kim shrugged. “My time is your time.”

  They went inside, washed up, and Brice requested a quiet table in the back. The hostess didn’t even crack a smile, although every table in the place was pretty quiet at the moment. The restaurant was almost deserted.

  The waitress brought water and plastic menus thick enough to require a curly spine, with pictures of the food on every page. Several of the pages were stuck together. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Black,” Kim replied.
r />   “Same,” Brice said.

  “You got it. Be right back,” she promised, a cheerful smile on her face. Working for tips, and it would be a slow night. She had to make the most of every chance.

  Kim paged through the colorful sandwiches, salads, and various desserts, none of which would look remotely like their pictures if she actually ordered them. She settled on a vegetable omelet and toast to soak up the grease in her stomach after she ate it.

  The waitress returned with a plastic insulated pot of coffee and two brown plastic mugs. She took their orders and hurried to the kitchen.

  “Thanks for your patience. I know you’ve got questions, so fire away,” Brice said with the kind of grin he’d probably practiced in the mirror, trying to look open to anything.

  This was the first chance she’d had to size him up properly, and she did it in half a minute. Average and unremarkable. He was about forty-five. Brown eyes, brown hair, boring haircut. Serviceable suit, white shirt, plain tie. No wedding ring. The kind of guy women passed on the streets of every city in the country and never even noticed. Probably played by the book, followed the rules, and took orders from hot shots without protest.

  Which meant he’d be easier to manipulate, once she knew the right pressure points.

  “First, you catch me up. Then I’ll ask questions if I have any.” Kim sipped the coffee, which tasted way better than she’d feared. “Faster that way.”

  He looked down at the table, frowning, not too pleased with her proposal. Probably wanted to limit what she knew and worried that he’d let something slip that she wouldn’t have known to bring up.

  Perhaps he was a bit smarter than she’d assumed. Good to know.

  “The house is for sale. The family that did the renovations moved out four months ago. He was transferred to the west coast.” He led with the safest thing he could offer since she’d already seen that the house was empty and on the market.