by Ronnie Allen
***
Sam stared at her smartphone after she received the call from Withers. Damn it. Another fashion industry murder. Her favorite designer, Meghan Mason, had been shot in plain sight in daylight on Broadway and Sixtieth Street.
What the hell?
She had just let Mrs. Larcon go on a potty break. There was so much more she needed to know. Now she’d have to leave Mrs. Larcon to go to another crime scene.
Crap. Just when I was building a rapport. Her thoughts came to a halt. Fashion industry icons murdered.
Her first case in her first two days in homicide just became a serial case by their mere association.
Oh my God, Dara. This is big.
Nick stuck his head in the conference room. “Sam.”
She turned toward the door abruptly. “I know. He called me.”
“We’re staying here. Withers is going. It’ll take him at least an hour this time of day. Personnel is on the scene. Just don’t tell Mrs. Larcon about it.”
“I won’t.”
Too late. Mrs. Larcon burst into the room in tears. She nearly toppled over Nick, who was in the doorway. “Oh, my God, Detectives. Meghan Mason was shot and killed an hour ago. Pictures are all over Facebook, already. Look!”
With Nick leaning over her shoulder, Sam scrolled down through the posts, showing the barricades set up, on lookers, Meghan’s body covered with a white tarp, her two daughters hysterical, the animal caricatures a block away with cops. It was the thrill New Yorkers either craved, or ignored. There was no happy medium. There must have been hundreds of people on the Facebook screens. That precinct would be working overtime, for sure, before they turned over everything to her.
Mrs. Larcon hadn’t stopped crying. Her mascara ran down her face, her eyes reddened. She sat at the conference table, hyperventilating with her head in her hand. Sam wondered if she had cried this much over her husband’s murder. Probably not. Nick sat down next to her.
“Where’s Adam?” Mrs. Larcon asked.
A red flag. Usually under such a stressful situation someone would say, “Where’s my son?” rather than something so impersonal. Would Adam know anything about this?
“He’s in the other conference room, Mrs. Larcon. Pissed off that I made him miss his appointment. Now I have more to speak with him about, so I’ll leave you two ladies alone.”
Sam waited until Nick closed the door behind him. Sam leaned in toward the Merry Widow. “Mrs. Larcon, I can see how upset you are. Do you need a moment?”
Mrs. Larcon dabbed her bottom lashes with a tissue. “Detective, what does this mean? Two murders in two days, of people who were in the same industry? I’ve watched enough TV to know this isn’t good. Serial killers? Is that what you call them?”
Sam responded with a weak smile. “Yes, and you can probably help us. What do you know about the business relationship between Meghan and your husband? Think about their commonalities, people they both know.”
“They were very good friends. Strictly platonic.” Mrs. Larcon relaxed, as if she was more comfortable talking about Meghan than her daughter.
Sam saw her body language change when she had asked her about AriellaRose. Taut, sitting straight up, as if to exert her personal power and, then she had immediately asked to go to the ladies’ room.
“Steven told me their specific conversations. She liked to bounce her design ideas off him. Like the outfit we’re both wearing. She drove herself crazy, trying to figure out the shape of the studding, which direction they should go. Which would flatter a woman’s curves. They never discussed anything of a personal nature. Steven was never the type to air dirty laundry.”
“Um, that’s strange, Mrs. Larcon. There have been many tweets where he talks about other designers.”
“Oh, that?” She poo-pooed it with a callous hand motion. “That’s business, my dear. Don’t tell me you believe what you read in the media. All that was a publicity stunt. Agreed upon by them all and staged. Even when he ripped apart my rehab. And it was very effective, too. Sales increased by the negative tweets and remained longitudinal with the mundane ones. We have analysts on board who deal with all of this.”
“Interesting. Do you know how often Steven and Meghan would see each other, where they’d meet?”
“Steven’s office was in Chelsea and Meghan’s office uptown on Broadway. He would meet her at a Bistro on Broadway. Maybe he would see her a couple of times a month. People always took photos. They were always in business attire with their attaches by their side. Believe me, if there was any socializing, it would be on social media. Actually, Steven didn’t do any socializing. So before you ask. He never had an affair. Totally devoted to me. Our sex life was...how can I say it?...sizzling. Oh, but I will tell you before I forget. Speak with Meghan’s ex-husband. She divorced the abuser when the girls were little. It was the first year we launched our cosmetic division. We usually don’t divulge information, but she’s gone. May she rest in peace. And I would consider him the prime suspect, if I were you.”
“Thank you. We will definitely speak with him. But regarding yourself, Mrs. Larcon, this is so different than what you told Detective Valatutti and Doctor Khaos when they came to your home.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you told them, that after his meetings, Steven went to different clubs and you didn’t care enough to question him. That doesn’t sound like a warm and fuzzy marriage, if you ask me.”
“Oh, I was under the stress of just finding out my husband had been murdered. You’ve got to understand that. And I always knew that Steven would come home to me, eventually. And when he did, he came home ready to make me a very happy woman. If you get my gist.”
Um, what happened to ‘we have an open marriage’? Sam put that on the back burner for now. “Yes. I most certainly do. Tell me now about AriellaRose.”
A shut down with a smirk. “What do you need to know?”
“Let’s start with your pregnancy.”
“Ooh, that is going far back. The twins were very much wanted. I was a smoker back then. Stupidly. I haven’t touched a cigarette in ten years. AriellaRose blames me for her asthma. So do the doctors, in all honesty. They were lying on a nerve, so I spent the last trimester in bed. Adam was fine. He was the bigger, stronger twin. But they were both premies. Adam was four and a half pounds, AriellaRose, three and a half. Not that underweight.” Sam must have shot her a glare of disapproval that Mrs. Larcon caught. “I know what you’re thinking, Detective, they only spent a month in the NIC unit,” she added, dismissively.
Sam didn’t push her, but she didn’t like this woman.
Remain objective, Sam. She felt the imaginary twang of Dara in her stomach. “What was their childhood like?”
“Privileged, spoiled rotten by Steven. They got everything they ever wanted. That was the problem. Don’t know why they resorted to drugs. I have already told the two gentlemen, and I use that term loosely with that doctor. Ugh, not the type I’d go to bed with.” Sam rolled her lips together to hide a smile. “What about you, dear?” Mrs. Larcon asked. “I don’t see a marriage band on either of you. Would you romance him?”
Sam laughed. “Romance him?”
“You know. Have sex.”
“Uh, I know what you mean, Mrs. Larcon. Inter-precinct relationships are frowned upon. So, uh, no, and we just met yesterday.”
“That is not true, dear, if you’re discreet.”
“Excuse me?”
“I read somewhere that two New York City employees could have consensual relationships where they work, even in their place of employment if it’s after hours, with no children around. It was a law passed in 2012. So you’re safe.”
Sam couldn’t contain her giggle. “How did you know that one?”
“I read the paper every day. Okay, so tell me. Is he available? I saw the way my Valerie looked at him. She was consuming his groin with her eyes. That’s what she always does. Jumps into bed with any man, if he’s rich enough. Doubt if
he is, on a civil servant’s salary. Adam, I don’t have to worry about. He’s dating a lovely girl from a lovely family. Calinda is her name. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. I’d love, love, love to have her as a daughter-in-law. Now AriellaRose, I am sure she’s still a virgin. Poor thing. But I could see you and that doctor together.”
Oh my God! She’s worse than my mother. Sam felt her cheeks flush. “Uh, Mrs. Larcon, even though talking about the prospect of Doctor Khaos in bed is more fun at the moment, I need to know more about AriellaRose. She seems shy.”
“One more thing about that before we go on. I noticed he definitely has eyes for you, by the way.”
“And you know that how?”
“When he stood up and I saw where Valerie’s gaze settled, he was looking at you. He may have wanted to intimidate Adam, but believe me, dear, it was your reaction he studied.”
Um, this woman is so observant, but she can’t understand her children. And was he? Observing me?
Sam chose to ignore that and move on. “Why does AriellaRose appear to be so shy?”
“I don’t think she’s shy with her friends. She does have some. They met in rehab. With strangers, it’s hard to engage her.”
“She’s twenty-five, right?” A nod. “What does she do for a living?”
“Not much. She did graduate from design school. But Steven would not hire her until she cleaned up, both with the drugs and weight loss. She never looked the part to be in his company. Adam and Valerie fit the persona, but AriellaRose has been a big disappointment. She’s not even as talented as the other two.”
“So how does she live? She has an apartment on the upper east side.”
“Steven owns the apartment. He lets her live there. Rent free and he pays all of the expenses. One thing, for sure, he was a devoted father. Unconditional love. He always preached that.”
***
Frank had just gotten off the phone with Nick about Meghan Mason’s murder. He didn’t know what to think, but he’d rather be with his gangbangers at the gym and investigating Jen’s murder rather than entrenched in the fashion world. He had never felt comfortable in the celebrity arena. He had the feeling that would be consuming his time now, unless he could find a way out. He’d keep that to himself for now.
He re-entered AriellaRose’s hospital room and found her watching a game show. Interesting choice for such a solemn person. At the same time as the canned laughter, she just smirked, not even a glimmer of a smile. She didn’t acknowledge his presence, but stared with tunnel vision at the TV. He stood for a moment as he did when Frankie ignored him, usually when his little guy foresaw an impending lecture. But his wasn’t chemically induced. Frank slipped the remote out of her swollen wrist. The IV had been leaking. He pushed the red button to call for a nurse, then shut the TV, still ignored.
He leaned against the bed on his right thigh, and crossed his arms across his chest. Man, this girl is good at planned ignoring, with a complete disregard for authority.
Still, he had made it a point never to come across as an authoritarian with a patient. In the gym, that was a different story altogether. He tapped her on the shoulder with his index finger.
“I see you. Go away.”
“No can do. Got your toxicology report back. Illicit drugs in your system.”
She sneered into his face, “Big whoopee,” and turned away in a split second.
“Well, it’s even a bigger whoopee than you think.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yeah, it is. High levels of oxycodone, which we found could exacerbate asthma.” She looked at him for the first time. He nodded. “Good. Now that I’ve got your attention. We also found Vicodin. Why two narcotic analgesics?” He pulled the chair over. “AriellaRose, it’s either me you talk to or the police.”
“I have my sources.”
“Obviously. Who?”
“You actually expect me to rat?”
“Nah. You wouldn’t give me a straight answer, anyway. Tell me about your rehab experiences.”
She glared at him.
“Your mother mentioned to me you tried it a few times.”
“They tried it a few times. I didn’t.”
“So you didn’t put in any effort in when you were there.”
She looked away.
“Why not?”
“You are so dense. You know that, Doctor Khaos? I have a sucky life, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“What makes it sucky?”
“You are such a predictable shrink. Stop repeating what I say in a question, just to show me you’re listening.”
He laughed.
“I’ve been shrunk my whole life. Go speak to my mother and listen to her lies. I get it from her.”
“Actually, Detective Wright is with her right now. So why don’t you set me straight on her lies.”
“I don’t know what you guys talk about.”
“Everything. From your early childhood, friends, relatives. Even back to conception.”
“Conception? That would be a good one.”
“How so?”
“She would probably go on and on about how they wanted us and what devoted parents they are. It’s bullshit. You heard the way she introduced me. And don’t tell me you didn’t notice. The air stood still. She’s always that humiliating. She hated the idea of being pregnant so much, she smoked to kill us. I think we were an accident. She’d tell everyone we were lying on a nerve. That’s crap. She’s bulimic and so is Valerie. That’s how they stay so thin. Every time she eats, she complains that the food is laying on her, so she goes into the bathroom to throw up. She sticks her fingers down her throat. By the time she was thirty-five all her teeth had to come out, ’cause the acid from vomiting eroded them. I’m no dummy, Doctor Khaos. Don’t treat me like one.”
“I know you’re no dummy. So talk to me like an adult. How severe was your asthma as a child?”
“I almost didn’t make it to be a child. We were premies. Adam came out okay. I came out not breathing. They had to resuscitate me. I’m sorry they did. I’d be better off dead.” A single tear trickled out of the corner of her right eye.
CHAPTER 12
BlackFlower cursed under her breath as she came to a halt in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Richmond Terrace in Staten Island. This area, always heavily trafficked, had multiplied by ten. Delivery trucks had always doubled parked on this two way, four-lane avenue. Now they seemed to be stuck there. Even with her hand out the window, no one had the courtesy to let her slip out of the right lane. Driver’s inched up to deliberately close the gap, to which she retorted with the middle finger salute.
What the fuck?
She’d do the same thing. Courtesy was never high up on her list. Okay, she’d have to wait. She tapped on the steering wheel, looked out the window, and grimaced at the run down apartments above the shops.
Ugh, who’d want to live there?
The fumes alone could kill. Funny how her thoughts always went to killing. Guess because that’s one thing I’m good at.
There had to be an accident. It was after six and she’d miss her appointment for an oil change if she didn’t get there soon. Fuck. The one night Philetano’s was open late. This shop was the only one that had never screwed up. She’d only entrust her Camaro to them. Philetano’s was next to an empty lot and the cars in the right lane usually headed for the service entrance. Now, she couldn’t tell where they were going.
She checked her new short Afro in the rear view mirror and smiled ear to ear. Way better than those long cornbraids. This hairstyle filled out her oval face. She felt attractive. She hadn’t been this happy in a long time. Her cuts were scabbing and she didn’t feel the need to inflict new ones. She had followed Ram’s plans to the T. Only one thing bothered her. Tormented her was more like it. She couldn’t dwell on it or she’d start cutting herself again.
But she did dwell. She would have to make some cuts tonight to take her mind off it.
She had lost her whit
e band. Where, she didn’t know for sure. The symbol of their coven’s solidarity. She’d hoped it was pulled off her wrist when she removed the surgical gown and protective sleeves. She had buried her bag in a garbage dump in Queens. That’s one thing she had learned researching the perfect murder on the internet. Spread out the evidence as far as you could to make it hard or the cops, or something like that.
There was no way to get a replacement of the band. Ram had made only four. They had been warned not to lose them. Ram had made the consequences clear. Flower would have to figure out how to steal one from Cloud or Moon. No. Then they’d get the clout from Steven Larcon’s kill. And it was her kill. Her best to date. She’d rather take the punishment from Ram, than give up the status from that kill.
Cloud had her chance today. And succeeded. Things were looking up and Flower would be very rich, very soon.
Finally, she’d be able to show her dad she succeeded. Maybe, just maybe, he’d now think of her as a daughter, rather than as the druggie who’d made him lose his hundred fifty k a year gig as a corporate lawyer for that pharmaceutical company in Westchester. At least, he didn’t get disbarred.
So what the fuck is he still up my ass about?
She shook her head, pitying her parents’ pathetic lives. Work, work, and more work. They probably didn’t even fuck anymore.
The traffic crawled forward. After stop and go for a good twenty minutes, she saw the police truck, The Lenco Peacekeeper.
What the fuck? SWAT? No, wait a minute, not SWAT. This is New York, not Atlanta, you dimwit. It’s ESU. That’s right, the emergency service unit.
She couldn’t make out what was on the back of their protective gear.
As she edged farther the bold letters DEA accosted her gaze. Holy fucking shit! And it was right in front of Philetano’s car repair shop.
The front gate was down with yellow crime scene tape across it. Police cars, detectives, all gathered in small groups. She watched a DEA agent hand a business owner a sheet of paper and then climb a ladder to remove a surveillance apparatus from the store across the street from the car repair shop’s entrance.