by Lori Flynn
“Keep this up, and you’re in my will. Clear a shelf for two pristine Brain Bowl trophies.”
“Lucky me, I’ll look forward to it.”
Spazioso lifted his head. “We got something?”
“Two numbers from that burner you found. Take your pick.”
“I’ll call our dead guy.” Spazioso dialed and received a standard business message.
Baker placed the call to Vivian.
“You’ve reached Vivian. How may I help you this lovely afternoon?” purred the throaty voice on the line.
“Hello, Vivian. My name is Detective Dorsett Baker. It’s important I ask you a few questions.”
“So that you know, my accountant informed me I’ve already reached the maximum amount of donations for the year. Give me a call back in January, Detective.”
Undeterred, Baker steadied his voice. “A cell phone with your number in it was found next to the body of a Mr. Howard Welker at the Biltmore Hotel.”
“I’m sorry; did you say the body of?”
“Yes, the body of Howard Welker.”
“I don’t understand what this has to do with me, Detective Baker?” Vivian asked, her breath coming in short bursts.
“All right, Vivian, I was hoping to take care of this over the phone. Instead, I’ll send a squad car, and we can talk at the station. You can plan to stay for a while.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll cooperate,” Vivian swallowed hard. “I run a small, legitimate, escort agency. I arranged for one of my girls to go to the Biltmore and meet Mr. Welker the night of the hurricane. The date went against every one of my rules. There was no Internet to check the guy out, and our car service took the night off. I had a bad feeling, you know? But she insisted. Is Delila ok? She never checked in with me.”
“We don’t know. We need to speak to her.”
“I have her employment application or my version of one. I’ll fax it to you if you email your information. It has her address and picture.”
“Vivian, fax that application to me now, please. Do I need to tell you not to leave town for any reason?”
“I know the drill.”
The zipping of the antiquated fax machine held the detectives’ full attention. Baker and Spazioso shook their heads as the image of Delila Marie Jennings’s angelic face inched its way to the tray.
Baker rubbed the back of his neck. “Blonde and blue, she looks like an innocent kid. Experience tells me to dig deeper. Let’s hope her residence gives us more.”
“What are the chances she’ll answer the door and invite us in for afternoon tea?” Spazioso asked.
“When’ve you known me to leave anything to chance?” Baker picked up the phone. “We’ve got enough facts to establish probable cause for a search warrant. We’ll go prepared.”
*
Neither spoke on the way. They wouldn’t jinx a lead that could break their case. With the absence of a doorman, they rang the bell and then patiently waited for the super. Flashing their warrant, the detectives gained admittance to Delila’s apartment.
“Great view; you can see the whole city from up here.” Spazioso gazed from the picture window while shoving his thick hands into latex gloves.
The men worked the small, neatly kept residence. Baker gave an impatient shrug. “Searching for something to connect the occupant with our victim is like looking for a needle in a stack of needles.”
Spazioso leaned on the kitchen counter and scratched his nose with his forearm. “This place seems more like a hotel room than an apartment. There are no knickknacks or a single magnet on the refrigerator. And chicks I know keep pictures around of everyone they’ve met since junior high—not our girl.”
“I agree it doesn’t look lived in, too clean. Ms. Jennings either has a phenomenal cleaning service or an obsessive-compulsive disorder. Let’s see what we find in the bedroom.”
The rest of the dwelling was much the same: immaculate. Spazioso moved to the closet and studied an array of clothing, along with several pairs of stilettos, encased in clear plastic boxes perched on a shelf.
“Informative,” Spazioso said. “I picked up two important clues from that closet. Our girl has mad style. Those garments are designed by high-end couturiers.”
“How do you know that?”
“My mother’s side of the family’s in the rag business. I told you, been around it my whole life. I have a natural flair for it. Say the word when you’re ready to upgrade your suits. I swear you never listen to me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. And you talk so much, I filter.” Baker winced, annoyed and amused. “What’s the other clue?”
“She has a thing for pink.”
Detective Baker directed his partner to Delila’s bathroom. “Take a look at the wood cabinets along the wall. I noticed, when they’re open, they’re all a foot deep, except one. This one has a fake wall. As long as we’re within the scope of our search warrant, we can find out what Ms. Jennings thought so important to keep hidden.”
“Would this be considered within the scope?”
“We’re in the ballpark. I’d sleep a lot sounder if the wall opened on its own without us breaking anything.” Baker pushed and pried the piece of wood.
“Let me have a crack at it. My Uncle Vinnie’s got this great house out on Long Island where he makes these wooden puzzle boxes. When I was a kid, I’d spend hours in his basement trying to figure them out. I got pretty good at it.” Given time to concentrate, grunt, and murmur under his breath in Italian, Spazioso manipulated the right combination of corners and popped open the door.
“Let’s hope you don’t run out of relatives before we solve this case.” Baker smacked him on the back.
Nestled inside the cabinet, they found four items: a box of contact lenses tinted blue, a bottle of contact lens solution, a blonde wig, and just under two ounces of Joy perfume. Detective Baker pulled the blonde wig from the cabinet and compared it to the picture of Delila Marie Jennings on the employment application.
“We’ll get these things to the lab,” Baker said. “See what they get from them. Let’s hope the forensic evidence pans out. It looks like our suspect’s as much of a façade as this apartment.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Baker & Spazioso
Dorsett Baker adjusted his shades as he slammed the door of his sedan. The case had dragged to the end of his last nerve, causing him to grab his jacket and partner and drive to the Biltmore. He wanted a powwow with the manager in charge the night the hurricane hit, and he wasn’t leaving until he got it.
Spazioso picked up his stride, falling in beside Baker. “The lab is still working on the three tread marks we thought worth looking at from the hotel parking garage. It isn’t gated or metered, and management claims they didn’t know their surveillance cameras weren’t in working order.”
The detectives entered the lobby and made their way to the highly-polished desk in the center. They studied those mulling around behind it. As the color drained from the face of a lanky man with chestnut hair pushed behind his ears, it erased all doubt they’d found him.
“Mr. Hodge? We’re Detectives’ Baker and Spazioso. Hotel records state you were the manager on duty the night of the hurricane. We’ve a few questions to clear up. Is there somewhere more private where we can talk?”
The manager led the way to a small conference room. “So, what can I help you folks with?”
“Tell us what you know about the Endocrinologist Convention the weekend of the hurricane, Mr. Hodge,” Detective Baker said.
“Management has fully cooperated. We faxed your department a list of everyone who attended.” His answer came fast. He kept his eyes glued to the massive man sitting across from him.
“I have that list right here. I can’t seem to locate Howard Welker’s name. Perhaps you’ll have better luck.” Baker let the list slide over the table.
The hotel manager slumped deep in his seat. He wiped the sweat from his pasty face and ignored the paper
before him. “Look, I’ll tell you what I know. But I need you to cut me a break here. My brother-in-law got me this job, and my wife will kick my ass if I lose it. I’m already on the couch.”
“Start talking, Hodge.”
“There’s not much to tell. Welker slipped me some money to let him into the convention. The bills are choking me. He said his sales were down because of the economy. I guess he was struggling like the rest of us. No big deal. What’s one more blow-hard intellectual?”
“His sales were down? This was an endocrinologist convention. Did you think to check Mr. Welker’s credentials before you took his money?”
“I didn’t see the need. Besides, we were crazy busy with everyone trying to check-in before the storm got any worse. Then we lost the power and the generator.”
“How much did he give you?” Spazioso asked.
“Five yards.” Mr. Hodge lowered his head.
The detectives stood. “There’s one more thing,” Baker said. “Where can we find the bartender working that night?”
“I’ll have him call you. He should be back in about a week and a half. Because of the downtime caused by the generator, he took a side job on a cruise ship to Alaska.”
*
The black sedan took on a tomb-like feel during the return to the station. Spazioso stared at the windshield. Baker shook his head and moved his lips as he went over the evidence that could connect his dots and solve the case.
“Are you thinking about Mr. Hodge?” Spazioso asked when he could no longer bear the silence.
“No, what he said about Welker. If he was so far down on his luck, how did he have five hundred dollars to give away?”
They entered the squad room, shoulders rounded. Before they’d settled in, Baker spotted a Post-it note stuck in the middle of his monitor that read: Ren—Lab. It prompted them to sprint across the courtyard to the large brick building housing the crime lab. Experience told them their case would run cold without the immeasurable work done there.
“Come on in, boys, we have a lot to talk about,” Ren, the tall, slight, dark-haired woman beckoned them from the doorway.
“What do you have?”
“Staff at the Biltmore turned in a switchblade. Management decided to replace the blood-soaked carpet, and when they moved the bed, there it was. It’s a TR-4, one of the best all-around automatics; solid.”
“Open or closed?” Spazioso asked.
“Closed, and the blade was spotless. Carpet guy carted it around in his back pocket during the install so no clear prints other than his and the staff member he gave it to.”
“Could’ve got lost in a struggle,” Baker said, rubbing his neck.
“Just what I thought,” Ren agreed. "We’ll start over here. We’ve been working on the tread marks from the parking garage. It’s a bit of a long shot, but we were able to find one marking that stood out. It’s from a late-model Ferrari, and according to the DMV, there’s only six registered within several hundred miles. I should have the list narrowed down for you by tonight.
“The hair found at the scene, you already know, is from a human hair wig,” Ren continued. "You can do anything to it you can do to your own hair: perm, style, set, or change the color. This one’s been dyed blonde. It wasn’t cheap, but any information from the manufacturer’s been removed, so it’s a dead end.
“The contact lenses, sorry to say, were new and never worn so no DNA. They aren’t prescription, just tinted blue. She could’ve purchased them anywhere. I have a list of vendors who carry that particular brand, but there’s always the Internet. The solution is over-the-counter buffered saline. What have you found?” Ren asked as they walked.
“Not much. Is your gut talking to you, Ren?” Baker narrowed his eyes.
“It’s just that when Leslie Morgan took a good look at Welker’s body, she found deep contusions on his knees and groin made by something spherical and pointed. If we combine that with the facial injuries and pieces of acrylic nails found around the body, it makes me doubt how much of a victim our Mr. Welker really was. Whoever this girl is, I suspect she may have been fighting for her life.”
Baker rubbed the back of his neck. “The clock’s working against us while we figure it out.”
“I have good news,” Ren said. “It took some doing, but we were able to lift a print from the burner. If your mystery girl’s in the system, we could know who she is by sometime tonight.”
“Could the contusions you found on Welker be caused by a stiletto heel?” Spazioso asked.
“Good call, Detective. Do you know this from firsthand experience?”
Spazioso rolled his eyes as he and Baker exited the building.
“We have a possible sports car and a hopeful fingerprint. Two long shots holding our whole case together,” Baker mumbled under his breath. The walk through the courtyard seemed longer and colder than it did on the way over.
The afternoon drudged on while the detectives re-examined their evidence, hoping to find something they’d missed. A new shift arrived for duty as the sun dropped from the sky. Baker and Spazioso remained.
“You know if I don’t get solid food soon, everything in me will turn to liquid,” Spazioso said. “All I’m asking for is something quick from the diner across the street.”
They took their usual booth in the corner by the window. It had the best view of the street as well as the entrance to the restaurant. Spazioso ordered the chef’s special, Baker a spinach salad. They picked at a warm basket of rolls while they waited. When their food arrived, Spazioso nearly inhaled his, while his partner pushed his salad around the plate, springing to life when his cell phone did.
“Detective Baker,” he answered followed by several affirmative responses before disconnecting.
“What just happened?”
“We just solved our case is what just happened,” Baker answered.
“That’s not the face I normally see when you’ve connected all your precious dots. What gives?”
“Enjoy your dinner, Michael. I’m afraid all hell’s about to break loose.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Gretchen
Gretchen slouched in the worn leather chair behind her desk, her face pulled with strain. She wished the suited men stalking her parking lot since early morning would leave or come in and state their business. If they’re here to get me, they’d better speed it up. I’m not getting any younger.
A crackling sound from the intercom made her jump. “Two men from the sheriff’s office are here,” her assistant said.
“Send them in.” It’s about time. She watched the door as the men entered. Although dissimilar in appearance, they shared an air of confidence dispelling any hope they’d come for a social call.
“I’m Gretchen VonBuron.” She shifted in her chair. “How can I help you boys?”
“Appreciate your time, given the early hour. I’m Detective Baker and this is Detective Spazioso. We need to speak with Olivia Harding. Is she here? We didn’t find her Ferrari in your parking lot.”
Gretchen’s eyes shifted from Baker to Spazioso. Worry clutched tight to her heart. She loved Olivia like a daughter, unconditionally. Why do they want her?
She raised her chin and gave a cool stare. “It took you long enough out there. What’s this about?”
“She’s a person of interest in an investigation, Ms. VonBuron.” Detective Baker pulled out a pen. “The night Hurricane Ophelia hit, you held a fundraiser that Ms. Harding was part of. Is that right?”
“That’s a matter of public record. You don’t need me as a fact-checker. That’s why you have a partner.” Gretchen gave Spazioso a quick wink.
Baker continued, unaffected by Gretchen’s lack of cooperation. “What time did Ms. Harding leave the grounds that evening?”
She focused on the men, ignoring the cabinet behind them which housed the surveillance tapes. “I’m not sure. I left before her. The storm picked up steam, and I felt leery about driving in it. It’s an age thing. It ha
ppens. I have shoes older than you.”
“We’ll head to her residence,” Detective Baker said, working through a slow burn. “Thanks for the help.”
“She won’t be there.” Gretchen stood and rearranged papers on her desk. “She’s visiting some college roommates. But I expect her here for our one o’clock meeting. Come back then.” Her smooth blend of fact with fiction seemed to appease them.
“One more question, Ms. VonBuron,” Detective Spazioso said, holding tight to a paper before her. “Do you know this woman? Her name’s Delila Jennings. That’s her employment application.”
Gretchen’s legs wobbled as she dropped into a chair before her knees buckled. She had held it together, kept her cool, until now, when Spazioso flashed the paper with the picture on the bottom of a blonde, blue-eyed Olivia. It siphoned the air from her lungs, disoriented her.
She expelled a short breath and shook her head. “I don’t. Is she involved in your investigation?”
“We’ll be back at one.” Baker gave her his card. “Tell her I want to talk.”
She lowered her eyes to the standard black on white business card warming her palm as the sedan pulled from her lot. Easy to read letters spelled out HOMICIDE. What the hell? This is why they want her? She had much to take care of before they returned.
*
Two hours later, she decided she had no intention of obstructing justice, just slowing it down. Gretchen placed her cell phone in the desk’s top drawer after her final call. Straightening her shoulders, she grabbed her key ring, kept an even stride so as not to attract attention, and headed to Dr. Hunter’s office.
“Thanks for doing this, for your discretion, Hunter.” She placed her key ring in his hand.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve run a covert mission.”
“Once a Marine, always a Marine. Can I borrow your cell phone?” Gretchen asked.