Death on the D-List

by Nancy Grace

  Hailey was talking so fast, in a kind of stream-of-consciousness train of thought, that Kolker didn’t dare interrupt. He was writing down what she said as fast as he could. A lot of it he’d already thought of . . . but not all of it.

  “Any similarities at all about the crime scenes themselves?”

  “Well, Stockton was killed in the pool house of an out-of-town movie star and Love was shot in her SUV behind a yoga studio down in Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “I mean the forensic findings.”

  “Other than the caliber, single shot to the head, close range. Both are contact wounds; we found some tiny particles, maroon tinted, apparently part of the gunshot residue, in both of them.”

  “Hmm. Wonder what that is. And of course, there’s the obvious question . . . other than both being on TV, what do they have in common? Same grocery store? Same gym? Same doctor? Same plastic surgeon? Boyfriends, exes, grocery store delivery boys, florist deliveries, mailmen, carpet cleaners, maintenance, air and heating workers . . . You know . . . anybody and everybody that may have been in and out of their apartments.”

  Hailey was looking out the window, thinking as she spun it all off. “Also . . . any wacky New Age religion or meetings the two had been to? It’s probably going to be more basic than that, but you never know.” Turning her head back, she watched Kolker scribbling into his notebook.

  Just as she was about to broach the likely murder weapon, Kolker’s police band radio interrupted the two of them with static.

  “Kolker, Kolker, please respond. What’s your 54?” The question was followed by another blast of static.

  Instinctively, Kolker stood up to speak into the handheld police radio.

  “Kolker here. Location, Midtown Manhattan. Repeat, Midtown.”

  “Lieutenant Kolker, proceed to West Side. Proceed to West Side. Columbus and Sixty-seventh Street. Repeat, Columbus Avenue and Sixty-seventh Street.”

  “Copy that. What’s up, Dispatch?”

  “You got another one, Kolker, pretty sure. Fallon Malone. Shot dead, single bullet to the head, in her apartment. Crime Scene Investigators there already. Won’t touch a thing, waiting on you to get there.”

  “En route.”

  Kolker looked down at Hailey. “Want to do a ride-along?”

  “Sure. I haven’t been in a cop car since you arrested me.”

  He knew she said it jokingly, but he couldn’t muster a comeback. The guilt over Hailey’s arrest was still raw.

  Hailey picked up her jacket and hat, both hanging just inside the entrance hall closet. Walking out the door, Kolker said, “I know that name . . . Fallon Malone . . . Fallon Malone . . .”

  “Kolker . . . are you kidding me? From the Vette scene?” She spoke over her shoulder toward his general vicinity as she turned toward the door to lock the two deadbolts with keys.

  They stepped onto the elevator and headed down, and the name Susannah Kolker was not mentioned again . . . nor was Hailey’s arrest. Both would hurt too much.

  Chapter 28

  AFTER BADGING THEIR WAY THROUGH A FLEET OF DOORMEN AND WALKING through a rarified lobby complete with colossal floral arrangements on inlaid wood tables and huge black-and-white marble-squared floors, Hailey and Kolker made their way up the elevators to the penthouse where Fallon Malone kept her New York apartment.

  Winding through the maze of crime-scene techs reminded Hailey of the hundreds of similar scenes she’d visited as a felony prosecutor. It all seemed so familiar . . . second nature to her.

  The front door to Fallon Malone’s apartment was wide open, but flanked by burly uniformed officers. Kolker didn’t need to badge them by flashing his gold detective’s shield; they recognized him.

  “Lieutenant.” One of them spoke a greeting, somber under the circumstances.

  “Morning, Rourke. All the crime lab staff here?”

  “Yep. Got here about twenty minutes ago. We held them off for you to take a look first. They’re in there, though.”

  Stepping over the threshold, Kolker called over his shoulder, “She’s with me, Rourke.”

  “Roger that, Lieutenant.”

  The first thing that struck Hailey was the sheer size of Fallon Malone’s apartment. It looked as if two full floors had been gutted to make a spectacular front entrance, vaulted clear up to at least forty feet, painted stark white. A huge open doorway straight ahead was at least twelve feet high, easily fifteen feet wide, and opened into a den. To the right of the entrance was another open doorway leading to the dining room. Inside was an over-the-top white marble sculptured table, ten white upholstered chairs situated around it, and a fantastic abstract art sculpture, pure white, as its centerpiece. Hailey couldn’t make out a specific form, but it looked expensive.

  Up the entrance hall’s winding spiral staircase, the harsh white walls bore only one embellishment, a canvas bearing the likeness of Fallon Malone, but painted in bright neon colors. Looked like a Steve Penley. Must have cost thousands to have that commissioned.

  The Penley was the only injection of color in the entire apartment, so far as Hailey could see from the entrance. Like the walls, the floors were matching white marble. A faux (Hailey hoped) white bearskin rug covered the living-room floor and was topped by a clear glass table sitting on thick gold legs. A black-and-white book of art deco photographs was the only thing on it, aside from a white ceramic ashtray.

  Taking it one room at a time, they made their way through the living room, then to an adjoining room where a group of uniformed and plainclothes officers were waiting. A tech handed both Hailey and Kolker scrub gowns and footies to put over their shoes before they went in.

  “She was always claiming she had stalkers, but no one took it seriously. There was never a note, a threat, anything. I think she just wanted to look as if her fans were mad about her, and when she heard other stars had stalkers, she just had to have one of her very own. Like a pet.” The tech kept talking.

  Hailey stopped in her tracks. “Fallon Malone had a stalker?”

  “Probably not. But I read about it a few months ago in Snoop.”

  “Good to know.” Kolker scribbled a note in his notebook and reached for the footies. “Where’s the coroner’s people?”

  “On their way. Don’t want us to touch anything.”

  “Good.”

  Both Hailey and Kolker put on the blue paper gowns and footwear over their street clothes and carefully entered. Also painted stark white; the den, however, featured a deep red sofa with a matching furry red rug and red accent pieces.

  The walls were covered in framed magazine covers from all over the world. Fallon graced each one. On one she was in full riding gear, standing beside a chestnut-brown stallion; another showed her lounging on a beige satin sofa, and many of the others were head-and-shoulder shots. There were dozens of them, the shots taken over the years. And she was absolutely gorgeous and provocatively posed in all of them.

  Hailey suddenly noticed that all the conversation among the cops who had gathered at the entryway to her gym just beyond the den had ceased. No one said a word. It was the same atmosphere as at a funeral home viewing, hushed silence. When Hailey entered the exercise room, she understood why.

  The gym was state-of-the-art, featuring an advanced set of cardio machines you’d only see at the country’s best spas and exercise clubs. Custom-built cabinets, all white of course, housed a series of weights and barbells, exercise balls, and yoga equipment. The walls, like those in the den, were covered with framed magazine covers, each one with Malone on the front, but in this room, all the covers were from women’s health and fitness magazines.

  The room also featured two large flat-screen plasma TVs. Both were still on. One had a Lifetime movie playing, and the other was running QVC home shopping. Lifetime was on mute. The QVC model was showing her hands, one of which bore a sparkling fake diamond cluster and matching bracelet.

  There was an exercise bike, a treadmill, and in the center of the row, a behemoth of an ell
iptical. And there was the cause of the hushed silence, even among hardened veteran cops and detectives.

  There she was. In stark contrast to the stunning photos of her lining the walls, so beautiful, so perfect looking, was Fallon Malone, lying skewed across the machine, clearly in the middle of a workout at the time of her murder. She was wearing metallic-silver lycra tights with a T-shirt covered by a baggy navy sweatshirt. She wore white socks and seemingly brand-new white Nike Airs.

  Her body was prone, but twisted across the machine. Her feet were still in the vicinity of the machine’s foot pedals, but her body had fallen over, apparently slamming into the machine’s front piece before falling to the right side. She actually appeared to be staring with the one eye still left intact, unblinking, up toward the QVC hand model.

  Her mouth was completely gone, now only a gaping hole. Hailey could see her entire mouth cavity, all the way back to her wisdom teeth. A blood-spatter pattern began there on the elliptical, spraying across the machine’s front digital display of time, speed, and heart rate, and further. Hailey walked toward the wall bearing the TV screens.

  “Kolker, here’s some pinpoint spatter.” She pointed to it with her right hand, fingers spread out like a fan.

  Kolker walked over to see. Hailey continued, “You’ll get the angle and trajectory from this, given her height when on top of the elliptical, and the machine’s distance from the wall. Better bring in the blood expert, too, in addition to CSI. So he or she won’t be testifying only from pictures at trial. They’ll have actually been here. The defense won’t be able to say that.”

  “Good idea. I’d have just used CSI.”

  “They know their stuff, but just to impress the jury. The spatter expert needs to string it. You know, secure a string wherever we believe the shot was fired and pull it taut along the trajectory path, ending where the bullet would have landed.” Kolker made notes.

  Kolker turned back toward Fallon. It was a gruesome sight. Hailey went with him and came to his side just in time to see his jaw clench. For a moment, she thought he might tear up. The room went quiet.

  “Let’s keep the techs out.” Hailey said it quietly, breaking the silence in the room. “And look around on the floor before anybody else steps in here.”

  “Okay. Guys, hold up just a moment. We’ll check the floor first.”

  The CSI crew hung back in the den. Hailey and Kolker got down on their hands and knees, each at an opposite corner, and started examining the floor. The room was silent once again, except for the soothing tones of the QVC anchors interacting with callers and each other. A good fifteen minutes passed as Hailey, touching nothing, searched around and under the gym equipment as best she could.

  “Tooth.” She called it out, squatted in front of the elliptical, only a foot or so away from where Fallon lay.

  “By the way, you’re an official police consultant now,” Kolker said as he continued to inch across the floor. “Okay? Otherwise, I couldn’t have a civilian here on the scene.”

  Hailey was busy scouring the floor.

  Kolker was on his knees, making notes about the tooth Hailey spotted. Photos would be taken of the entire room in the state in which it was found, and then photos made with numbered markers beside each and every piece of evidence they uncovered. He then came over to where Hailey was now on the floor, flat on her stomach again, still looking under the elliptical.

  She looked up from the floor to see Kolker staring at the QVC screen.

  “What? You’re going to buy CZ diamonds off QVC?”

  “No. We got our bullet.”

  Taking both her hands, Kolker pulled Hailey up to a standing position.

  “Wow. Clean,” Hailey remarked.

  The bullet had torn a small, neat hole just below the equipment bolting the plasma TV screen to the wall, where it could easily have been missed. They both stood for a moment, looking back and forth from the elliptical to the bullet lodged in the wall.

  “Trajectory path right from the door, directly behind the victim, through her head and into the wall.”

  “Yep, she probably never even saw him.”

  “I just wonder who the hell could make it through the lobby and up here into Fallon Malone’s apartment.”

  “Somebody who knew what they were doing. Nobody saw a thing, not the doormen, building maintenance crew . . . nobody. No sign of forced entry; it had to be somebody who knew how to get in unnoticed,” Kolker responded.

  “Or somebody she knew. Somehow. I’m not saying they were bosom buddies, but it was somebody that knew her, all right.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Plus, the mode of death. There’s no sign of robbery or argument. She’s fully dressed, so probably no sex assault. That leaves some pretty defined motives . . . anger, jealousy, revenge, hate . . . or, of course, murder for hire. But that’s a long shot. Usually just happens in the movies. And . . . from the looks of it, the killer’s a do-it-yourselfer . . . no accomplice, just one shooter. Only one person entered here, I’d put money on it . . .”

  “I didn’t know you were a gambler, but I agree with you.” Kolker was still examining the floor for evidence.

  “I was about to say I’d put money on it if I were a gambler. Which I’m not. I don’t even play the lottery. I don’t trust politicians to run anything.”

  “I figured.” They both broke into laughter.

  “You know, we shouldn’t be laughing over Fallon Malone’s body. Doesn’t she have a family? They’re going to be devastated.”

  “I know, Hailey. But I see so much evil in the world, it feels good to laugh at something.”

  “I know, sometimes we’d end up laughing at anything while we were waiting on a verdict. You know, the courtroom staff, the court reporter, the sheriffs, the cops who work the case hanging around for the verdict. I guess that’s what they mean by gallows humor. You can get so overwhelmed with it all, sometimes you just laugh at anything.”

  The two got quiet again, looking down at the body. Fallon Malone’s beautiful face was nearly gone, blasted out of her head with a single bullet from behind.

  Even if she could talk, she likely couldn’t name her killer.

  She never saw it coming. He shot from behind.

  “Hailey, you said you don’t trust politicians. I have a question for you. Could you ever trust anybody? Anybody at all?”

  Hailey looked up at Kolker, taken aback. It was an intensely personal question. Since Will’s murder, it wasn’t so much she didn’t trust anyone . . . She just couldn’t risk getting close again. To anyone. Losing love again, be it friend or lover, was just too much for her to even consider.

  Instead of lashing out at him with a biting or sarcastic comeback, like she normally did whenever someone brought up anything that touched on her and Will, she actually smiled. “That’s a good question, Kolker. Tell you the truth, I haven’t even considered trusting anybody for so long, I’ll have to think on it and let you know.”

  The room got quiet again.

  “So guys, ready for CSI techs? Plus, the morgue guy is here. They brought the whiz kid with them.” A uniformed cop broke the silence from the doorway.

  “Who’s that?” Hailey asked. Who else would want to come see a dead body?

  “He’s the rising star over at the Medical Examiner’s Office. Did the initial autopsy on Prentiss Love and then did a second autopsy on Leather Stockton for Suffolk PD. He’s the one who managed to find just enough of a bullet sliver in Prentiss’s brain cavity to get a bullet match, God bless him.” Kolker had heard a lot about this guy. All good.

  “That’s odd. The actual MEs hardly ever come out of the office.” Hailey thought it out loud.

  “Wish more of them would. It couldn’t hurt. We just called him over because he did the report on Prentiss Love and a second autopsy on Leather Stockton. I’m beginning to think he’s starstruck, a little over-enthusiastic. But he’s certainly making a name for himself,” Kolker responded. As a second thought, he threw back o
ver his shoulder, “Send him in now! But make sure he’s got on booties, gown, and gloves.”

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant, I think the kid actually brought his own!”

  Chapter 29

  I’M SO EXCITED. DON’T YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY?”

  “Why?” Hailey asked into the phone, knowing full well Tony Russo would tell her whether she wanted to know or not.

  “We just got exclusive video. A two-year-old smoking pot! Can you believe it? A two-year-old smoking pot! I died and went to heaven! TV heaven!”

  “TV heaven?”

  “Yes! Don’t you get it by now? It’s guaranteed ratings!!! The viewers won’t be able to take their eyes off it! I can’t stop watching it! I’m playing it again right now on my monitor! You should see it! But that’s another conversation. That can wait. Right now, we have to have you on the Fallon Malone show.”

  Hailey said nothing and continued reading the Post.

  “You have to do it! Please? It’ll be flat without you. Nobody on the show will have the guts to challenge Harry or that obnoxious defense attorney, Derek Jacobs. He’s so sleazy.”

  “If he’s so sleazy, then why do you have him on the show?”

  “Sookie makes me. Plus, he just called his own press conference to announce that he’s representing all three victims’ families.”

  “Representing them for what?”

  “He didn’t say. But knowing Derek Jacobs, he’ll find somebody to sue.”

  “I didn’t know the women had children.” Hailey couldn’t believe she’d missed that fact.

  “Oh, none of them do. Jacobs will sue on behalf of parents, aunts and uncles, cousins, grandparents. You know, loss of a family member. Wrongful death. Maybe the yoga studio or the apartment building or the Hamptons mansion should have had better security. I don’t know how he’ll sue . . . but he’ll find a way . . . Trust me!”