by Leslie Wolfe
She sat back on the battle-scarred chair and looked Michowsky in the eye.
“Listen, I didn’t mean to piss you off, or anyone else for that matter,” she explained. “When I said on the phone that Palm Beach was crawling, I said that in the context of warrants being issued, which is county justice, and lab tests being completed, which is not you either. Or anyone else here. Honestly, if you wouldn’t be in such a goddamned hurry to feel insulted, you’d use that detective brain of yours to derive that all I said was meant to help us, not offend anyone. Well, maybe except for county justice and the lab, but they weren’t here, now were they?”
He looked at her without saying a word, but the tension in his facial features seemed to slowly dissipate, replaced by sadness and weariness.
“Can we just bury the hatchet, Michowsky?” she asked “We’re both better than this.”
He ran his hand through his buzz-cut hair.
“One condition,” he said, “that you tell me why you want to interrogate the ex-boyfriend, when you so strongly believe it’s a serial killer murdering these girls. Is the ex a real suspect?”
“He could be,” she replied thoughtfully, “in the scenario that all the other prior murders were rehearsals, experimentations for the perfect kill, and that Sonya was the killer’s object of rage. Although I doubt that, I have to cover all my bases; but I really want to know what he saw in the recent times they’ve been together. Maybe she was being stalked, and he noticed it. Maybe he can give us something, anything we can use.”
Michowsky made an inviting gesture with his hand, and Tess followed him to Interview Room One. Through the one-sided mirror, they watched Fradella interview the ex-boyfriend for a while, asking all the routine questions, and receiving more or less vanilla answers, as bland and useless as they could get.
She checked her notes to refresh her memory. The ex-boyfriend, Anthony Gibbons, was a few years older than Sonya; he’d just turned 26. He sat on the uncomfortable, metallic chair in the interview room, like he was seated on a fine leather recliner. He leaned back and had crossed his legs man-style, bringing his left ankle on top of his right knee and keeping his left hand casually thrown over his left shin. He was comfortable, attractive, and aggressively sexy in a young Tom Cruise kind of way, and arrogant, of course. Seeing in the file photo how beautiful Sonya was, the two must have made a striking couple.
She could smell the money on him, in his attitude, his posture, his facial expression. Detective Todd Fradella wasn’t in control of the interview; Anthony Gibbons was. But, of course, Tess was planning to keep that observation to herself. No more china shops.
“I want to go in,” she told Michowsky.
“Knock yourself out. But be careful. This guy’s loaded. I’m surprised there isn’t an army of hotshot lawyers here with him already.”
She entered the interview room and nodded briefly in Todd’s direction. Then she flashed her badge quickly, mainly just for show, in Gibbons’s face.
“Special Agent Winnett, FBI,” she said coldly.
She pulled the spare chair from the corner of the room, its legs screeching across the concrete floor, and sat across the table, staring Gibbons down. He held her gaze, unperturbed.
“So, just how emasculated did you feel when she dumped you, Anthony? Or is it Tony?”
That threw him off just a little. For a split second, she saw a flicker of fear, but then he recomposed, crazy fast.
“What? No… she didn’t dump me. Even if she did, I don’t really care. There’s plenty of—”
“Just stop before saying the word pussy, all right? It pisses me off.”
“Whoa… I was going to say opportunity, but hey,” he said, smirking arrogantly.
Damn. The guy was cool under pressure. Tess decided to change tactics.
“Then what really happened? Why did you two break up?”
He shifted in his seat, just slightly.
“It wasn’t working out. We were arguing all the time. She was so damn cerebral; it drove me crazy. I wanted to have fun… life is short, right? She’d turn down a night out for a good book, or for some stupid conference she’d watch over the Internet.”
“You two fought?”
“Like adult intellectuals. None of us was throwing things or scratching the other one’s eyes out, if that’s what you’re asking. We had arguments, conflicts of principle.”
“You wanted to party all the time, huh? What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an entrepreneur. I start businesses, then I sell them. For loads.”
“I see. Where did you two like to hang out?”
“That’s just it. I’d have to drag her out, most of the time. She occasionally liked to dance, so it would be one of those hip clubs in Miami Beach, but mostly she wanted something more low key, like dining out and then a walk on the beach, some boring crap like that.”
“What did you want to do?”
“Clubs. I love the action,” he replied, and as he spoke his face lit up and a smile broke through.
Ah… he liked to showcase himself in the middle of hordes of hot women, all stripping him naked with their eyes. A narcissist in the making, if not already there. But a killer? Tess didn’t get that vibe.
“Tell me how you broke up. Who initiated the separation, and who was left behind, crying?”
“No one, really. Some five or six weeks ago we got into an argument again, then I told her it wasn’t working out for me. She said it wasn’t for her either, and we went our own ways from there. The following day I went by to pick up my stuff and brought hers, what she had left at my place. Every now and then we’d cross paths, we’d say hi, no hard feelings. I started dating other people, and so did she.”
“So all peaceful and nice, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“How long have you been together?”
“Um, maybe six months or so?”
“I see.”
He wasn’t lying, that was clear. His body language supported every word he said. He was relaxed, calm, although annoyingly arrogant, but that’s not illegal. His story matched Sonya’s actions. Only a week or two after the breakup, she was out clubbing with her girlfriends and making out with the creep. Strange how every story ended up in that focal point, starring the creep, her strongest lead.
Did Sonya go out after that night with the creep, three weeks ago, before the night she was abducted? Between February 28 and March 22, what did she do? Where did she go? When were the damn financials going to come in? She needed to see if she’d gone out after that night, and where. With whom. Maybe there was a paper trail to that creep or to something. Someone.
“When you were going out with Sonya, did you notice anyone following you?” Tess asked, getting ready to end the interview.
“Like who?”
“Anyone being weird around her, anyone hitting on her and not taking no for an answer, someone like that?”
“No… I haven’t noticed anyone, and she never mentioned anything either.” He rubbed his square chin thoughtfully, then he continued, his voice tinted with sadness. “We weren’t a fit, but I cared for Sonya. At first, when you had me brought here, and when I saw you’re FBI, I thought maybe someone had made a ransom call, or you have more information in her disappearance. But now… she’s Dawn Girl, isn’t she? I’ve seen the news coverage. That was Sonya?”
“The name hasn’t been released to the media yet,” Tess replied. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Chapter Eighteen
Girlfriends
Tess left the interview room and closed the door behind her. She went straight into the observation room, where Michowsky took a small stool near the one-sided mirror, watching. Her half-empty coffee mug was right where she’d left it, on the small table near that mirror, its content colder and staler by about 30 minutes. In that particular case, not much of a loss; that coffee didn’t have any taste to begin with. Impervious, she guzzled almost all of it, thirstily.
“We’r
e letting him go, I presume,” Michowsky asked.
“Yeah. He’s not involved.” She read some notes in the file. “I see here his alibi checked out for the time Sonya went missing, and I didn’t hear anything today worth further looking into.”
Michowsky knocked twice on the one-sided mirror using his wedding band, the sharp, metallic sound loud enough to get his partner’s attention. Tess watched how Fradella thanked Tony Gibbons and escorted him out.
“We need to speak to the girlfriends, ASAP. I think there’s value in pursuing the creep angle. How soon can we do it? Can we do it now?”
“You want both of them together? Or one at a time?”
“Both together is fine.”
“All right,” he said, a wicked little smile tugging at his lip. “You’re all set. Interview Two.”
“They’re here?” Tess asked, surprised. “Detective Michowsky, I’m impressed!”
“We’re not completely useless, us county cops,” he quipped, with a hint of the earlier disappointment. “We sometimes even think for ourselves.”
“Ah… you had to bring it up again,” Tess laughed. On an impulse, she patted him on the arm, in a gesture of gratitude and camaraderie. Then she froze and withdrew. The long forgotten familiarity of the gesture, the physical contact with another human being, albeit furtive and inconsequential, all that normality she had lost more than 10 years before, had reappeared for a second, then vanished again. She wasn’t ready for it. Not yet.
She cleared her throat, suddenly dry and choked for some reason, and took the last gulp of coffee she had left. She abandoned the empty mug on a small service table, in passing to the observation room adjacent to Interview Two. Michowsky followed her and closed the door behind them.
“These are, um,” he checked the file, “Ashely King, 23, note the weird spelling with the “e” before the “l,” and Carmen Pozzan, 22. They were with Sonya at the club, the night she met the individual we call the creep. Ashely is the blonde.”
“She called,” Tess intervened. “Sonya called him the creep, not us. Frame of reference is important.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Hey, I need one more favor, and it’s big.”
“Shoot,” Michowsky replied, frowning a little.
“Get those slow-as-molasses people from county justice to step on it with the damn paperwork,” she asked, barely containing a smile. If he’d brought it up again, so could she. “We need Sonya’s financial records today. As soon as they come in, please ask Fradella to go over them with the fine comb and all that.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Uh… just a hunch at this point. But we still have to look at them, right?”
“Winnett, what the hell?” he insisted.
“What?”
“Share, for Chrissake.”
“All right, okay. I’m thinking, what if the creep was so creepy she didn’t even dare to get out of the house after that night? For a while? What if he scared her so badly, or whatever happened was so dreadful she couldn’t even tell her friends? If that’s what went on, her spending patterns would show it. We’re talking about a young girl with means, remember? They shop, they have 10-dollar, iced cappuccinos every day, they eat out, buy cosmetics and jewelry at least once a week, and last, but not least, they go clubbing with friends. Let’s see if her spending patterns before February 28 changed after she met the creep. He might have left his mark.”
“Okay. It’s definitely worth looking into. You got some insight, you know?”
“Yeah… I’ve been told.”
“Can I throw in your name with the judge, to speed things up?”
“Mine is more or less worthless these days, unfortunately. Use SAC Pearson’s, he’s my boss. He’s still solid currency.”
“You got it,” Michowsky replied, then hustled out of the room.
Tess half-sat on the three-legged stool in front of the one-way mirror and studied the two young women. A shred of bitter sadness clouded her mind a little, as she took in the details of their appearance. The two girls were beautiful, dazzling young creatures, a pleasure to look at. Young and full of life, of optimism, of that invincibility that crowns youthful existences until the first disaster of their lives reminds them of their frailty, of their innate vulnerability, and forever shrouds them in fear. She used to be like that, just like them. Maybe not as beautiful, but fresh and joyful and unharmed. Maybe not as rich, well, not even close. Buried in student loans and barely making ends meet, yet she had felt invincible, like she was going to be young and carefree forever. Until one night, one dark night more than 10 years ago.
Tess shook her head vigorously, pushing the unwanted memory back to the dark, haunted abyss it had emerged from. She turned her full attention back to the girls. They were somewhat tense, probably uncomfortable to be waiting in a police interrogation room. Interview room, the cops called it, but that didn’t fool anyone.
Ashely wore low-cut skinny jeans and a skimpy top, revealing her belly button and a strip of flat, tan abdomen. Long earrings were sometimes visible behind curtains of long, sleek, shiny blonde hair. Her makeup was a little too much for that time of day, but nevertheless classy, not trashy. Just a tad of eyeliner and some discreet eye shadow, pink lipstick, and a hint of blush. She was the one sitting, her shoulders forward, tense, frowning, clasping her hands.
Carmen had that fiery, passionate Latin vibe seeping through every pore of her perfect skin. She held her head up straight, and her long, wavy, dark hair tied in a loose ponytail revealed a beautiful face. Dressed in fancy shorts and a silk, sleeveless blouse, she paced the room nervously, occasionally tugging at the hemline of her shorts. She was probably sorry she didn’t wear something longer, more fitting for cold, intimidating police interview rooms. Pacing back and forth, Carmen had the proud bearing of a caged lioness; no matter if captive, still noble.
Tess took a sticky note and scribbled a message for Michowsky to find when he returned. She wrote, “Notice how all the players have means well above average? $$$ is a small, exclusive world.” She pasted the sticky in the middle of the one-sided mirror, then went into the interview room to speak with the two girls.
“Good afternoon,” Tess said, as she entered the room. Ashely sprung to her feet, and Carmen approached from behind the table. “I’m Special Agent Tess Winnett. Please feel free to call me Tess.”
She took a seat, inviting the two girls to follow suit. The girls obeyed, averting Tess’s eyes.
“Thanks for coming in today; it’s really helpful,” she continued. “Why don’t you tell me in detail what went on the night of February 28, when you went clubbing with Sonya?”
The girls look at each other.
“We already spoke with a detective, after she’d gone missing,” Ashely finally said, her voice unsure, hesitant.
“I know you did, a Detective Garcia, right?”
They nodded.
“Please humor me… I’m FBI. Different methods, you know.” Tess spoke lightly with a small smile, encouraging them to ease up a little. “I’d rather hear the story firsthand, than read through Garcia’s notes.”
“Ah, I see,” Ashely said, relaxing her shoulders just a tiny bit. “We went clubbing that night, just the three of us, at the Exhale. She’d broken up with Tony, and—”
“Was she upset?” Tess asked. “After her breakup?”
The girls looked at each other for a split second, then Carmen replied.
“Nah. She was fine. She’d always called Tony her collectible item. She knew it wasn’t going to last. No real passion on either side.” The two girls giggled quietly.
“Collectible?”
“You know, someone who’s like, you know, a fancy scarf, nice to wear on your arm when you go out, but shallow and irrelevant. Not long-term material.”
“Was he cheating on her?”
They looked at each other again and both shrugged, almost exactly at the same time.
“She didn’t t
hink so, but that wasn’t going to last either. Boy toys like Tony always cheat in the end.”
“Was he mad? About the breakup?”
“I don’t think so,” Ashely replied. “He seemed cool with it. He had plenty of girls lined up.”
“Yeah, he did,” Carmen added.
“All right, so tell me about the night you guys went out the time before last. The 28th, last month.”
“We wanted to dance, have a little fun, maybe meet some interesting guys. I was between boyfriends too,” Carmen shared.
“How about you?” Tess asked, looking at Ashely.
“I sort of had someone, but he was out of town on business that night and didn’t join us. Perfect opportunity to go out with the girls, right?”
“Right… so what happened? Who did you meet?”
“We got there early, because we wanted a table, and we got one. It really sucks at these clubs when you want to catch your breath but can’t sit down anywhere. And you’re on heels too,” Ashely chuckled, a quick, almost stifled tension chuckle.
Tess looked at her for a couple of seconds, practically staring. A table at one of those joints was a grand a night, minimum. They don’t seat you at a table unless you get a bottle of booze; obviously, that bottle normally sells for about $950 or more. Not only the girls had cash, they also drew the attention of the entire club by sitting at that table. It was like they’d worn a sign reading, “Look at me, I’m loaded.” That, plus they had plenty of booze on their hands.
“What did you drink?”
“Champagne. We didn’t want that much liquor. It was just the three of us,” Ashely replied.
“Then what happened?”
“We got on the dance floor. The music is awesome there, you know,” Carmen said, making a dancing gesture with both her hands and swinging her shoulders. “Two songs into it, this guy appears out of nowhere, and starts hitting on Sonya.”
“Hitting, how?”
“Dancing in front of her, smiling at her—”
“Making eye contact, you know,” Ashely added. “He was good looking, that guy. She’s always so quick to score attention from interesting men.”