“But not at the moment Grecco was shot.” Captain Sutter wasn’t asking a question.
“Bad timing, I guess.”
“You think?” Bear glanced at Captain Sutter but said to André, “Did you see anyone up there?”
André thought for a moment. He frowned. “No, but I heard someone at the other end of the main hallway. I was in the east wing looking at some antiques in the hall. When I heard the commotion downstairs, I ran down the servant’s stairs.”
“Why use the servant stairs?” Bear asked.
“They were closer.”
I said, “Makes sense.”
“And you didn’t see anyone?” Captain Sutter asked. “And you claim to have heard someone?”
“Claim?” André started to rise again but Captain Sutter’s eyes stopped him. His face tightened and his chin rose. “I did hear something, Captain. A door closed, I think, and someone was walking in the hall.”
I said, “Bear, Rita may have seen him but it doesn’t prove anything. There’s two hundred people here. A lot of them weren’t in the ballroom when Grecco was killed.”
The lounge doors swung open and Angel pushed her way past the uniformed deputy at the door. She strode up to us and confronted Captain Sutter.
“You’ve got to be kidding me! André had nothing to do with this.”
“Angela, please.” Bear patted the air. “Go back to your guests and let us do our jobs.”
“Then do them. Go find the killer because he’s not in this room.”
Bear glanced at Captain Sutter and the telegraph starting tapping away between them again. His mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed—Captain Sutter’s temples did the rumba.
“So, Professor Cartier,” Captain Sutter leaned forward with an edge to her voice. “Anything we need to know? Anything at all?”
I always had a hard time reading the good Captain. Maybe it was because she played her cards close or because she was a chameleon. Or, maybe it was because she was a woman who could out-cop any of us on the detective squad. Right now, though, it was easy to read her—she was not convinced—guilt or innocence—about André Cartier. None of us were.
None but Angel.
I said to Angel, “It’ll be all right, Angel. I’ll look after André. I promise.”
“You can’t keep that promise,” she said. When Captain Sutter glanced at her, she said to André. “Tell them, André. Tell them everything.”
“I don’t know anything, Captain, nothing at all.”
“All right then,” Captain Sutter tapped the bar. “Tell us about Stephanos and Bonnie Grecco.”
“I just met the Greccos tonight. I’ve never heard of them, although Stephanos claims to be from the Washington circuit.”
“DC is a big city.” Captain Sutter’s voice was curt and direct. “Do you know everyone?”
André bristled. “Of course not, Captain. But I do know most in the philanthropic circuit. He claims to be an antique aficionado. I do many fundraisers throughout the year, and I’ve never come across him.”
“What about Bonnie Grecco?”
André looked at Angel. “I was just introduced to Bonnie Grecco tonight.”
“Oh, come now, Captain. Please.” Angel stepped forward. “You cannot think he had anything to do with all this. I was up on the second floor tonight, too. Does being there make me a suspect?”
“I don’t know, does it?” Their eyes met and Captain Sutter shrugged. “I’m sorry. But, you weren’t up near the balcony room seconds before the shot was fired. He was.”
“No, I wasn’t,” André said. “I was on the other end of the house.”
“You see? He wasn’t there. And, you don’t know who else might have been up there. Do you?”
“A murderer won’t admit to being there, now will he?”
I said, “Easy, Angel. I’m with you on André, but the captain is just—”
“Doing her job.” Angel folded her arms and stared daggers at the floor. “I understand.”
André Cartier was a lot of things. He was a professor of history with two doctorates—American History and Anthropology. He was a big shot with the Washington Smithsonian. More importantly, though, he was Angel’s uncle and he’d raised her since she was very young. A tragic accident took both her parents when she was a teenager. He’d helped her through the loss of her mom and dad, and then twenty-one years later, the loss of her husband—me. Now, after more than two decades of mentoring, the roles were reversed.
“Bear, Captain, listen to me.” André held up his hands. “I have never seen this gun before. I assure you it is not mine. I did not kill Stephanos Grecco. I have not killed anyone in years.”
“What?” Captain Sutter cocked her head. “Excuse me?”
“Viet Nam, Captain.” André frowned. “I was in the war.”
“So you can handle a weapon?” she asked.
“Of course I can. But it’s been years.”
“Interesting.”
“And Bonnie?” Bear asked. “You never heard of her either, right?”
“No, Detective. I have not heard of Bonnie Grecco before this evening.”
I reached out and touched André’s shoulder, trying to get inside his head. Sometimes, touching objects or people gave me a kind of clairvoyance. Sometimes, a touch showed me what the living couldn’t—lost memories, lost lives, even secreted truths buried deep. Often, the simple touch showed me things they didn’t want others to know, too.
And sometimes, touching didn’t give diddly.
This was one of those times.
André was full of irritation and angst and it started bubbling out. His eyes were tired; his face taunt and defensive. His posture recoiled and was ready for flight. But, I guess if the roles were reversed and the cops suspected me a killer, I’d be worried, too.
Yet, André’s gruffness wasn’t quite it. It was something else. Something … hidden. He said he’d just met Bonnie and Stephanos tonight. Yet, when he said her name, he seemed, well, odd, perhaps evasive, maybe even worried. When Bear mentioned her name to him for the first time, André’s emotions pegged my spookmeter into the danger-danger zone. Can a dance and champagne do all that in one night?
Yes, of course it could. How else could anyone explain how the gorgeous and talented Dr. Angela Hill-Tucker was married to me? She once used champagne and dancing to lure me in. Then, I allowed her to fall in love with me.
“Angel, there’s something about Bonnie troubling André. Troubling him bad,” I said. “But I still think André is innocent.”
“Of course he’s innocent.” She glanced at Bear. “You believe he is, Bear, right?”
He nodded. “We still have to follow the evidence, Angela.”
I said, “Anyone could have put the gun under the bedroom mattress. We have to finish interviewing all the guests and see who else was upstairs at the time of the shooting.”
She repeated me and added, “I’ll speak with my guests and try to calm them a little longer. But they need to go home.”
“Yeah, okay Angela.” Captain Sutter looked at André. “Professor, mind if we run a gunshot residue test on you?”
“Not at all. Please go right ahead. Do whatever you must.”
“Good. And we’d like to check your car, too.” Captain Sutter threw a thumb over her shoulder at a deputy standing there. “Right now.”
“Of course. Since I don’t think ‘no’ will stop you.”
“It won’t.” She put her hand out. “Your car keys please.”
“One moment.” André dug into his tuxedo pocket and handed her a slip of paper. “Here is my coat check. The keys are in the inside pocket of my raincoat.”
Captain Sutter went to a deputy in the doorway, handed him the coat check, and gave him instructions. A moment later, the deputy returned with a long black raincoat and handed it to André.
As André slipped his arm into the coat, something fell out onto the floor.
“You dropped something.’ Captai
n Sutter bent down and retrieved a black driving glove.
“No, I don’t think so.” André looked at it. “It’s not mine. I didn’t bring gloves.”
Captain Sutter turned the glove over, then handed it to the deputy. She rubbed her fingers together and smelled them. “Deputy, have the techs check this.”
The deputy walked off.
“Captain?” André asked. “Check for what?”
“Later,” she said, gesturing toward the door. “After you.”
We followed André to a new Mercedes convertible parked inside the mansion entrance in a long row of other expensive automobiles. Captain Sutter issued orders to the deputies waiting there and turned to André. “Very nice car, Professor. I didn’t know academia paid so well.”
“It doesn’t,” André sneered. “But being the leading authority on Civil War studies and a historical adviser to the White House does. I’ve written three books in the past two years alone. If you must know.”
“She didn’t mean anything, André,” Angel said. “Captain, please, can we—”
“Captain Sutter,” one of the deputies called, shining his flashlight toward us. “We’ve got something.”
They do?
On the passenger side of the car, a deputy knelt down, searching the front seats and floor. Captain Sutter leaned inside over his shoulder, looking at what the deputy pointed out between the seats.
“Bear, what is it?” Angel called. “What did they find?”
He held up a hand and moved in closer.
I said, “Relax, Angel. It can’t be anything important.”
Bear stood back and turned toward us. His face was stone.
Captain Sutter stood up, too, slipped on a rubber crime scene glove, and took something from the deputy kneeling at the open car door. She looked at Bear and they both walked back to Angel, André, and me.
“Professor Cartier,” her voice was ice. “We found this under your seat. Can you explain it?”
She held a .22 caliber cartridge.
“No, no. Bullets in my car? Don’t be absurd,” André said in a low voice. “This is all a mistake. Someone—”
“Bear, stop this.” Angel took hold of André’s arm. “This is all wrong. You know this is all wrong. Someone is framing him. It has to be someone else.”
Captain Sutter’s radio squawked and she stepped away to talk. When she returned, she was grim and cold. “Professor Cartier, our crime techs found preliminary results of gunshot residue on your driving glove. You do own driving gloves, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. But I told you,” he said, shaking his head, “it is not my glove. Mine are in my car.” He turned and looked over at Angel. “Angela, I cannot explain this. Not now.”
“What are you talking about, André?”
Captain Sutter threw a chin at one of the deputies who burrowed back into the Mercedes. When he emerged, he shook his head.
“No gloves, Captain.”
Bear’s voice was grave. “André, if you can explain any of this, now would be a good time.”
“I cannot. Someone is trying to frame me. You must see it too, right?”
“Maybe.” Captain Sutter glanced at Bear and nodded once.
Bear moved around behind André, took a set of handcuffs from one of the deputies, and clasped them around his wrists.
“I’m sorry, Angela. I am.” Captain Sutter’s voice was all business. “Professor André Cartier, you’re under arrest for the murder of Steph-anos Grecco.”
fifteen
Detective Mike Spence closed his cell phone and walked over to a deputy standing in the kitchen entrance talking with a young girl in a catering uniform.
“Hospital says Cal will be okay, Woods. Bullet missed the bone and went right through. They put him into surgery and they expect he’ll be back to work in a few weeks.”
“Lucky man, Cal Clemens,” Woods said. “I’ll pass the word.”
“Where are we on the count?”
Woods flipped through a notebook. “One hundred-eighty three guests, twenty-two catering staff—not counting us—at the shindig.”
“It’s a gala, Woods. Jeez, a gala.” Spence cracked a smile and took the notebook. “How many are left?”
“Twenty-one guests and two caterers to go. Soon as you say, we’ll release those we’ve interviewed. Just say the word.”
“Word.” Spence flipped a couple pages. “And I want you to match up every interview with the names on the list, okay?”
Woods’ eyebrows rose. “Okay, but we got ’em all. They’ve been corralled in rooms since the killing.”
“Humor me. You know the Cap, she’ll kick my butt if we miss anything. And I don’t want Bear going off on me. Just do it. Then double-check and then you can release ’em.”
Woods shrugged, mumbled something, and walked off.
Spence went into the kitchen where a wide powerful man in a tuxedo was hand-chopping the air at an older man in a chef’s jacket and checkered pants. “Hey, what’s going on? We got a problem?”
The tuxedoed man turned around. He glared at Spence and didn’t answer. He was tall and broad and filled the tuxedo like a heavyweight boxer. He smacked the chef beside the head, cursed in some language foreign to Spence, and started to walk away.
“Whoa there, kemo sabe.” Spence grabbed his arm. “I asked you if you had a problem.”
“Da.” The man yanked his arm free and spat out in a heavy gruff accent, “What you want? This my business, not police business.”
“Oh, yeah?” Spence held tight and looked him over in slow, critical snapshots. “It’s my business because I say it is. So, stop slapping the staff around.”
“Mind your own business. I’m the boss.”
Spence was taken aback. “Hey, buddy, lose the attitude. I’m Detective Spence—Sheriff’s Office. You are?”
“Peter. I am Festival Catering and Entertainment manager.” Peter’s voice was heavy and deep, with a Ukrainian flavor. “When we be free to go? You have cost much money and enough of my time.”
“Oh, we have?” Spence let the man’s arm go and jabbed a pen at his chest. “Sorry our murder investigation has caused such disruption to you and your cook. Now, Peter, let’s try your full name, shall we?”
“Cook? Yanni is executive chef. How stupid to suggest—”
“Your name, mister. While I’m young.”
Peter was much taller than Spence and stared down at him with powerful arms folded and muscles bulging at the tuxedo fabric. 7
“Stick it, Petya.” Spence jabbed the pen again, leaving blue ink marks on Petya’s starched white shirt. He put the pen away. “You can leave as soon as we finish interviewing your people. We got a couple to go.”
“You stupid man.” Petya went to the sink and wet a napkin, dabbing at his shirt. “You’ll pay for shirt, yes? And interviews are all wrong.”
“Why?”
“Roster the lady professor give you is not right. Kravitz scheduled tonight—he not show. So roster is not good. I already explain to other cop.”
Spence lifted his radio, threw a finger in the air for Petya to wait, and walked to the hall. He spoke with Deputy Woods on his radio while keeping an eye on Petya Sergeyevich Chernyshov.
The conversation lasted only a moment.
“Bullshit, Petya. You had twenty-two names on your roster, counting you, and twenty-two warm bodies were checked in by my guys. You replaced Kravitz with someone.”
Petya shrugged. “Yes, that is right. I didn’t say no, did I? I say Kravitz did not come here. He sent Jorge-someone. I was—”
“Where’s Jorge-someone?”
Petya looked at the chef leaning against the sink. The chef shook his head and looked away. Petya said, “We not know. He left. Maybe sick. Maybe other work. Who knows, maybe girlfriend.”
“He just left?” Spence smiled like a snake about to strike. “You lost a guy wearing a white dinner jacket and carrying the lobster bisque? How did you lose him?”
&
nbsp; Petya stared back and shrugged.
“I need an address and phone. And I need it fast.”
“I am sorry. I do not have information you want. I told you, Kravitz send him. We were rushed and I need someone to serve. No papers. I pay cash.”
Spence lifted his radio again and spit out orders to check all the guests and grounds for the missing caterer. He peered at Petya. “I guess since there’s no paperwork you don’t have a description either, right?”
Petya shook his head. “I asked. No one saw him much, you know. No one know him. They say he was Mexican or something. He did not speak but was doing good job. I leave him alone.”
“Sure, right. No one spoke. Paid cash. You run a tight ship here, Petya. I’ll put a BOLO out for a Mexican-or-something in a white jacket doing a great job. Perfect. You’re a big help.”
Petya muttered something and made the chef laugh.
“You got something else to say?” Spence stepped forward. “Listen, Petya, you and me are going to go around pretty soon. You—”
“Detective?” Deputy Woods walked into the kitchen. “A minute, Mike?”
“What for Christ’s sake,” Spence said. “Me and Petya are—”
“Detective, we’re missing two guests.”
Petya spat a coarse laugh. “Oh, so Detective, it is you missing someone? Important someone?”
“Shove it.” Spence whirled around at Woods. “What are you talking about?”
Woods had his notebook out. “One-hundred eighty three guests on the list. One-hundred eighty three checked off on arrival. We’re doing a name-to-interview comparison, but—”
“What—one-eight-three equals one-eighty-three, right?” Spence shrugged. “If you got ’em all—”
“We didn’t.” Woods flipped to a page and handed the pad to Spence. “There were two uninvited guests who weren’t on the list. So we should have one-eighty-five. We only got one-eighty-three now.”
Spence ran over the checkmarks and comments alongside each name. “Who’s missing, Woods? Did you count the stiff?”
“Yeah, I counted him. We got some big shot from DC who refused to sign the guest list and some bodyguard who came in with someone else. Both were vouched in by one of Professor Tucker’s VIPs.”
Dying for the Past Page 6