by Lori Flynn
Her eyes were slow to adjust in the dark. She trusted the generator would be running soon. Silhouettes of her dogs soothed her. Buckley slept close by. The yellow Lab’s muscled body sprawled on his spacious bed, cradling Lily, her Beagle, with his sturdy paw. Webster, her bushy black and white Sheltie mix, warmed the bottom of her bed.
Getting out of bed could jog my memory. She swung her legs to the floor. The pain piercing her side took her breath away, holding her in place. When it eased, she employed walls and furniture as guides, mindful of her steps. The generator finally roared to life, flooding the room with a low glow, as Olivia faced a full-length mirror.
Her image made her gasp. Shoving her nightgown to the floor, she focused first on the bruises stretching from her ribcage to her back. A contusion, red and swelling, circled her neck, while abrasions marked her arms and legs. Her lip was split, and when she touched it, she noticed her fingernails, perfectly manicured the day before for the Gala, were broken and jagged. What was more and, worse, in her nailbeds was what looked like skin and had the metallic smell of blood.
“What the hell happened to me?” Her sobs shook her shoulders. “Not again,” she seethed as her anger built. Whatever she’d explained away in the past, to smooth things over, wouldn’t work for her now. “Why does this keep happening? Can’t someone help me?”
Her breaths came in short bursts. Lifting a crystal paperweight from the dresser near her hand, she hurled it at the mirror, causing her dogs to scatter. When she faced the fractured remains, peering back was one grey eye and one blue.
Swallowing the urge to scream, Olivia swiped the contact from her eye and staggered to the bathroom. She examined the blue-tinted lens before she flushed it, with the contents of her stomach. Curled on the shower floor, the scalding water couldn’t wash away the bruises or pain, only the floral perfume taking root in her hair and threatening to make her vomit again.
She forced herself to stand and lathered vigorously, grazing the smooth chain around her neck. Her knees weakened thinking of Ben’s face when he’d put it there. Was it only last night? It seemed the diamond necklace survived whatever she almost hadn’t.
Olivia reeled from her discoveries. I need to pull myself together. I’m gonna stay up here till I work out a story that’ll withstand a barrage of questions or until I heal, whatever comes first. A knock at the door left her breathless.
“It’s Maria. I wouldn’t bother you, with last night so late. Ben’s here.”
Olivia’s head dropped to her hands. Shit!
“Are you awake?”
The doorknob turned and then stopped. “I’m up. I’ll come down when I’m dressed.” With her back to the door, Olivia listened for Maria’s footsteps. She then rifled through her closet, on a desperate search for something to wear that would conceal her injuries.
After deciding on a long sleeve, high-neck gauze blouse and jeans, she noticed the gold clutch purse she’d carried to the gala, partially hidden, out of place. Pulling it free forced her back. Its corner is covered in dried blood. Who does it belong to?
The acrid odor made her gag as she grabbed the plastic liner from the trash can and dropped the clutch inside. Rolling it in a bulky sweater, she tucked it away on the top shelf, out of sight.
Olivia arranged her dark hair to cover her neck and shoulders. Her hands shook, working against her, as she applied make-up hoping to camouflage her bruised, swelling face. Wincing, she straightened and opened the door.
The dim light produced by the generator assisted her down the staircase. Ben and the Garcias huddled by the small kitchen TV slowed her progress.
“Good news.” Christian’s eyes stayed glued to the screen. “Ophelia’s finally lost her punch and is moving away.”
“Do you believe today’s paper was delivered, even with the hurricane?” Maria asked. “We were looking at the beautiful pictures of you from the gala.”
Olivia skirted by them, her head down, and waved off Maria. “I need coffee. I’ll get it myself.”
“Did you know half the street lights are gone?” Ben said. “I don’t mean not working. I mean gone, as in missing.” He stepped back when Olivia turned to face him.
“Calm down, Ben. I fell down the stairs. It was dark because of the power outage. I’m fine,” Olivia wheezed before he could demand an explanation.
“You want to try that again? That looks a hell of a lot more like a right cross.”
She’d subtract years from her life rather than witness the look she’d brought to his face. With no idea of the truth, or why she lied, she continued the charade. His eyes softened seeing she wore the heart necklace.
“I have hundreds of eyewitnesses.” She picked up the newspaper and showed him the pictures. “I went to the gala and drove home. When I heard a loud noise, I got up to investigate and lost my footing on the stairs.”
“You could’ve broken your neck,” Christian said, shaking his head. “And what’s with your voice? See a doctor.”
Ben carefully cupped her chin. “Did you consider a flashlight?”
“You’re right. I should’ve. Take a walk with me. I want to see what Ophelia did.” She extended her hand; he took it.
The wind remained gusty, just under hurricane strength, while angry waves thrashed against the shore. During one squall, Ben swept her, weightless, into his arms. She forced a laugh and squelched the biting pain. Ben caught her cringe when he released her.
“What are you hiding from me, Olivia? How injured are you?” He raised her sleeve and then lowered her high collared blouse and examined her neck. “Do you want to revise your story? Maybe include you were dropped from a plane and then down a flight of stairs?”
“I’ve honestly told you everything I know.”
“I’ll tell you what I know. During pledge week in college, my so-called friends duct taped my hands behind my back and rolled me down the icy steps of the Lincoln Memorial. I didn’t look half as bad as you do now.”
“That must’ve been a horrible experience. Did you have nightmares?”
“I was drunk. I don’t remember much. That’s not my point. Something’s off here, Olivia. I know when I’m not working with all the facts. I’m not stupid. I wade through bullshit every day. It’s part of my job. I expect it. But those are clients—I’m not in love with them.”
The power in his voice shook her. “I don’t know what else to tell you!” She intended to yell back at an equal velocity, but her voice failed her. The tears blinding her eyes and choking her throat seemed to soften him.
“I’ll drop it, but just for now. You should take a nap. You look wiped. I have to get back anyway.”
“I would never hurt you intentionally, Ben. You know that, right?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” He pulled her close and kissed her.
She winced and prayed he didn’t notice.
Chapter Forty-One
Ben
The storm pulled away and left behind a menacing sky. Ben sipped from a bottle of Coke, his stomach sour with the early hour. As soon as there was cell phone service, he used it.
“I’m aware of the time, Gretchen. It’s about Olivia.”
“Go to my office. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll open the service door.”
He drove toward Paws for Love. Other than an occasional police car racing by, sirens wailing, the roads were empty. I can’t sleep, haven’t, not yet.
Ben did as asked and entered through the service door. He found Gretchen in her office, surrounded by an over-sized desk and stacks of paper. She offered him a tight-lipped smile.
“Tell me before you implode.”
“I saw Olivia. She’s hurt, bruised, and scraped. She tried to hide it.”
“What’d she say?”
“Some bullshit about falling down the stairs,” Ben turned away and rubbed the back of his neck.
“If she’s hiding anything, she’s doing it to protect you, not to deceive, but you already know that,” Gretchen said. “Ho
w can I help?”
“I need to see your tapes, to make sure she wasn’t accosted in the parking lot or followed out.”
Gretchen nodded. “I never imagined I’d only need this equipment for surveillance on one employee.” Her words fell away as Ben stared, waiting.
A grainy image appeared on the screen of Olivia as she walked to her car. Palm trees swayed to and fro, bending under the strong winds. She continued her journey to a darkened area of the parking lot. Before she drove away, it looked as though she rested her head on the wheel for several minutes.
“She left here alone,” Ben said. “It looks like she had one of her migraines.”
“I think we all left with a migraine that night. The event was huge.”
“Did Olivia help with the cleanup?” Ben asked.
“I didn’t allow anyone to clean up that night. The hurricane was on our doorstep. I ordered everyone home and the doors locked. Why?”
Ben strode to the door, then turned and looked at her intently. “Olivia’s nails look like she scratched her way out of hell.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Baker
The Biltmore Hotel bustled with activity. Days earlier, Hurricane Ophelia had left them powerless, with their generator on the fritz, causing guests to flee their uninhabitable rooms in droves. The overwhelmed staff were ill-equipped to properly complete paperwork as to who checked out, had transferred to other area hotels, and who remained unaccounted for.
Detectives Dorsett Baker and Michael Spazioso breezed through the elegant lobby. The manager intercepted them.
“Thank God you’re here,” he said, his hands in the air.
“Is there a problem?” Detective Baker removed his aviator glasses and narrowed his deep brown eyes. At just over six feet, he towered over the skittish man, who looked anemic compared to the dark-skinned investigator.
“There will be. In a few short hours, we’re launching our grand reopening. It won’t be very grand with those crime scene trucks parked smack in the middle of our entrance way.”
“They’re working a homicide. It takes priority over parking problems, but I’ll ask,” Baker said.
“Should we just stick the corpse stinking up your seventh floor on a luggage cart and ring for a bellhop?” Detective Spazioso said, shrugging off the stern look from his partner.
“Where’s Pilar Santiago, the housekeeper who found the body?” Baker asked.
“Pillar is that puddle with the braid sitting over there with Father Fernandez. She’s been sobbing and praying since it happened. I called her priest to stay with her.”
“That’s big of you,” Spazioso said.
The manager lifted a brow. “I thought it might buy a decimal point when she hits us with the lawsuit. Please don’t forget about the trucks. It’d be a pity if you had to come back because I’ve hurled myself off the roof.”
Baker locked eyes with his partner. “Don’t say it,” he muttered as they walked. The housekeeper huddled against the arm of Father Fernandez. “Pilar Santiago, we’re Detectives Baker and Spazioso. We have a few questions. Your manager said you speak English?”
Pilar lifted her head with a sob. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Hotel records state you work in housekeeping and were assigned to the seventh floor. Tell us about this morning. Take your time.” Baker glanced at his watch and folded his arms over his chest.
She nodded and worked her rosary beads between her fingers. “I needed the overtime. They said I could work as many hours as I wanted, with the grand opening tonight. I’d already had three by 9:00.”
“Is that when you got to Room 738?” Spazioso prompted.
Pilar dropped her head and sniffed. “I used my pass-card, pushed open the door like always. Something felt horribly wrong. The smell,” she pinched her nose with her fingers. “There was a man on the floor and blood. I left my cart and ran.”
They thanked and released the shaken woman and boarded the elevator to get a first-hand look at the scene. The putrid stench led them. As they entered the room, they recognized the medical examiner, Leslie Morgan, leaning over the body.
“What brings you out in the field, Leslie?”
"I go where I’m needed, Detective Spazioso. According to the information in his wallet, this is Howard Welker. He’s a medical supply salesman from New York. He lived to the ripe old age of forty-two, and I do mean ripe.
“Preliminary cause of death is blunt force trauma. It looks to me like the back of his head met with the corner of this end table. Like I said, that’s preliminary, don’t hold me to it. The time of death gets a bit trickier, somewhere between forty-eight and seventy-two hours ago.” She adjusted her glasses with her forearm.
“Come on, Leslie. That’s the best you can do?” Detective Baker said.
“It’s like this, Detective. Figuring out the pieces of a case is like solving a complicated math equation. You remember the ‘if two trains leave the station’ kind that gave us all nightmares in middle school. I can’t look at decomposition as a direct clue to timeline without factoring in the elevated heat and humidity levels caused by the collapse of the generator. I’ve been told these rooms could’ve doubled as saunas.”
“Is it possible Mr. Welker had a few too many down at the bar, then came up here, and just lost his balance?” Baker asked.
“Possible, but not probable; it’ll be awhile before toxicology reports are back. We’ve collected sufficient forensic evidence to prove a struggle occurred. I’ve noted multiple scratches and abrasions around his face and eyes. I’m led to believe that gash in the back of his head is too deep to support just a fall. He may have had help.”
Spazioso nodded from the far corner of the room. “So, we should start looking for a guy that likes to play scratch and tackle?”
“Look for a woman, Detective Spazioso.” Leslie Morgan pulled off her latex gloves and instructed her assistants to remove the body. With a nod, she headed for the door.
The men paced the hall, waiting for the all-clear.
“Is it time for the ‘how to get along with others’ lecture again?” Baker asked his partner.
“Can I help it if I speak sarcasm as a second language? We can’t all be the department’s youngest lead detective or named after a superstar running back. I do what I can.”
Baker rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. My dad still can’t fathom why the name alone didn’t guarantee me the talent to go pro. Unlike your gigantic family, I’m all he has.”
“Are you kiddin’ me? The name Spazioso translates to ‘spacious’ in Italian. In my family, certain things are expected. The women swear they’re virgins when they marry, and the men become cops, priests, or firemen.” Michael raked his hand through his thick dark hair. “I’ve been six foot six and over two-hundred-and-fifty pounds since puberty. Those puny firemen ladders are not for me, and I haven’t been a candidate for the priesthood since I was an altar-boy.”
The detectives alerted as the elevator doors closed around Howard Welker. Room 738, with its residual rotting odor and russet-stained carpet, was far from welcoming its next guest since the last checked out on a stretcher. Baker shook his head. The dark fingerprint powder discoloring the surfaces of furniture, walls, and doors assured samples were on their way to the lab. When involving hotel rooms, however, results were often compromised.
“What are you thinking?” Spazioso asked his partner as he stared at the stain on the carpet.
“A struggle took place here, and from the list of samples the tech gave us, there’s a good chance that struggle involved a woman. But the bed appears untouched, and there weren’t any fluids to suggest sexual activity.”
Spazioso rubbed the back of his neck. He walked the room as if deep in thought. “Maybe she took the fluids with her.”
Baker gave him a hard stare. “I think whatever happened did so before it got that far. Mr. Welker was a hefty man, yet he’s the one that ended up on the floor.”
“She could be one o
f those bodybuilding chicks. I dated one that could’ve bench-pressed me.”
“They found pieces of acrylic nails and blonde hairs. That doesn’t tell us much. I wonder what Howard Welker danced into up here.”
Baker stopped in mid-stride and stood beside his partner. He watched as he dove to the ground, barely missing the blood stain remaining from the head wound of the victim. He raised a brow while Spazioso reached with his glove-covered hand and aimed behind the leg of the end table, extracting what looked like a cell phone.
“I saw it earlier out of the corner of my eye and just assumed it was the remote for the TV. I’d forgotten all about it until I just saw the actual remote on the dresser. It’s a burner phone covered in blood spatter. We can get it dusted for prints. Hopefully, they’ll pull some numbers from it,” Spazioso said. He dropped the phone into the evidence bag Baker held open. “Forensics will take a while. Try some patience this time.”
Dorsett Baker rolled his eyes. “I’m as patient as I’m gonna get. Maybe we’ll catch a break.”
“I’ll bring the crime lab some cannoli, move things along.” Spazioso patted his partner’s shoulder.
Chapter Forty-Three
Baker & Spazioso
Detective Baker plugged away at his desk despite the commotion in the squad room. Babies wailed, voices rose, even a game of football broke out down the side of the room but didn’t deter him from completing his thoughts. A young officer sprinted by him and called out his name.
“Hey Dorsett, go long,” his deep voice beckoned as he tossed a wad of paper covered with tape in his direction.
“That one never gets old.” He caught and threw back the mock ball while picking up the ringing phone on his desk. “You’ve reached Detective Baker.”
“This is Ren from the crime lab. Don’t start salivating just yet. But I think I may have something useful. The cell phone you brought in is a burner but has two numbers on it: your victim’s and someone named Vivian.”