by Judy M. Kerr
Ferndale said, “Sounds like a plan.”
MC focused on Thomson’s image on the monitor. “We want him on edge. The fraud and money laundering charges are solid. Maybe we share with him that his bestie Mike will be experiencing a similar wardrobe change sometime today, his house of cards is about to collapse, and he can’t do anything to shore up the damage at this point.”
The door in the other room opened, and MC watched as the guard allowed a short black man into the room. The man was dressed in an expensive-looking dark charcoal pinstriped suit with black shirt and black and gray striped tie. A matching pocket square peeked out from the chest pocket of his suit jacket.
He carried a gargantuan leather briefcase. MC had never seen one so huge. “Jesus, what’s he got in his briefcase, the files from the OJ Simpson trial?”
“Meet the great Fletcher Upton,” Ferndale said. “He’s well-known in the criminal defense arena.”
Cam said, “Briefcase resembles a saddlebag from The Wild Wild West.”
“How would you know?” MC asked. “You’re too young to have seen that show.”
“Hell, I used to watch reruns with my grandpa when I was a kid. He was an old westerns junkie. Shall we mosey on into the other room, Miss Emma Valentine, and have a chat with our bad guy?”
Cam had a hand on the door handle as the door was pushed open from the hall and Oldfield entered.
“Whoa there, pardner . . . uh, I mean, good morning, sir.”
MC raised an eyebrow at Cam and swallowed her laughter. “Morning, ASAC Oldfield. We’re about to have a go at Thomson now that his attorney has shown up.”
“Excellent.” Oldfield stepped aside to allow them to pass.
In the interview room MC and Cam took seats across the table from an orange-clad Gavin Thomson.
“Good morning,” Cam said.
“Nothing good about it.” Thomson scowled in MC’s general direction, then concentrated his attention on Cam. “I hope any repartee about to ensue will be handled by you.”
MC refused to take the bait. She opened the file folder containing the photo of the black leather gloves, along with the fingerprint results.
Cam said, “For the record, this session is being recorded. Present are: myself, Inspector Cameron White; Inspector MC McCall; and the subject of our interview, Gavin Thomson and his attorney . . .”
When Cam gazed at the attorney pretending not to know Upton’s name, MC had to stifle a laugh.
Upton unloaded a yellow legal pad and a couple of pens from the bowels of his briefcase. He cleared his throat and straightened the cuffs of his shirt sleeves before responding. “Fletcher Xavier Upton, counsel representing Mister Thomson.”
“Thank you.” MC waited a beat and dove in. “Mister Thomson, would you please run us through your activities on November seventeenth?”
Thomson blew out a huge sigh. “I’ve been through this with you people how many times? Do you have poor memories? I could refer you to a good memory care facility. Perhaps you utilized defective recording devices during the previous interviews? Or is it an issue of overall incompetence?”
Nothing came from Upton regarding Thomson’s rant so MC proceeded. “Tell us what you did on November seventeenth.”
With clear reluctance, Thomson repeated what he’d told MC two days earlier.
MC jotted a few notes, then picked up the manila folder. “And you were driving your own car?”
“Yes.”
“I see. When was the last time you used one of the black SUVs owned by Stennard Global Enterprises?”
“I don’t remember.”
MC quirked an eyebrow at him. “You don’t want to take a minute or two and think about it?”
“Asked and answered inspector. Move it along.” Upton waved a hand in the air. A gold pinky ring on his right hand sported a diamond the size of a grape.
Cam said, “This isn’t a deposition or trial testimony, Mister Upton. We’ll dictate the pace of the interview.”
Thomson said, “I don’t need a minute or two. I’ve answered your question.”
MC asked, “Do you know who drove the Escalades owned by Stennard on November seventeenth?”
“I assume the security people. Len Klein and whoever else he gave the keys to.”
“No one else?”
“Only security personnel or Mike or I were allowed to drive those vehicles. Of course, I can’t confirm or deny Klein didn’t let someone else drive them. What’s your point?”
MC opened the file folder and slid the fingerprint info out. “This, Mister Thomson, is a fingerprint lifted from a dial inside one of the black SUVs.”
“Yeah, so?”
“It’s a match—for yours. This leads me to believe you, sir, had been driving the vehicle recently, as no other prints overlay yours.”
Silence descended on the room. Thomson stared at her, his eyes like rotted chestnuts. “Maybe I did drive it. I don’t remember when, though. I’m sure there are lots of prints inside the company cars. Why don’t you ask Klein about it?”
Upton held up a hand. “May I confer with my client a moment, please? Alone.”
Thomson started to bluster. “I don’t need—”
“Gavin,” Upton said, “please. You pay me a lot of money. Let me do my job.”
“We’ll step out for a minute.” MC gathered up her stuff.
They left the room and joined the others in the observation room, where Andrews had paused the recording and muted the sound to ensure there could be no complaint of Thomson’s rights being violated.
Oldfield stood at the computer, hands in his pants pockets. “Thomson’s not rattled. He definitely prefers to call the shots.”
“But Upton seems to know how to lasso him,” MC said.
After a few minutes, Andrews restarted the recording and MC and Cam re-entered the interrogation room, taking their places across from Thomson and Upton. MC said, “Mister Thomson, do you have anything further to add about driving the SUV?”
Upton said, “My client has given you all the information he has in regards to the vehicle.”
“Fine, let’s move on.” MC slid the photo of the black leather gloves from inside the folder. “Do you recognize these?”
Thomson leaned forward and appeared to study the photo. “Looks like gloves. I’ve—”
Upton put a hand on Thomson’s arm. “You don’t need to elaborate.”
“I sure as hell do. So what if I have several pair of gloves similar to those? So do a million other people.”
Upton made some notes on a pad in front of him.
Thomson leaned back in his chair. “Why are you showing me these gloves, detective?”
“Inspector,” MC said.
“Pardon me?” Thomson asked.
“You said detective. I’m a US Postal Inspector, not a detective.”
Thomson flipped a hand in the air. “Inspector, why do you ask?”
“Do you recognize these gloves?”
“I said I own similar gloves.”
In a stern voice, Upton said, “Say nothing more.” His tone left no doubt he wanted Thomson to close his yap.
MC slid the photo back inside the file. “Ever shoot a gun, Mister Thomson?”
“My client will not answer that question.” Upton sat up straighter, fire in his dark brown eyes.
If Gavin was taken aback by the abrupt change in the tone of questioning, he didn’t reveal it. “Oh, relax, Fletcher.” He turned toward MC. “Not for some time. I’ve hunted, but only a couple times—many years ago.”
“How about handguns?” MC asked.
“Nope, can’t say I’ve ever shot a revolver.”
MC fixed her gaze on Cam, widening her eyes slightly and keeping the uptick in her pulse under control.
Cam remained silent.
“What? What’re you two ogling about?” Thomson demanded.
“Gavin. Be. Quiet,” Upton said. “Any further questions, detectives?”
“Inspec
tors,” MC reminded the lawyer.
“Apologies,” Upton said. “Inspectors, do you have more questions for my client? If not, I’d like to speak with him.”
“I think we’re done for now,” MC said.
She and Cam exited again and joined the others in the next room.
“Revolver. He said revolver,” MC said.
Cam paced in the room. “He sure did. I about let out a whoop in there.”
Ferndale said, “Okay, maybe it wasn’t Stennard. Do we have enough to charge Thomson? Maybe we can get him to spill. We could hit him with first degree murder and conspiracy to commit murder along with the fraud and money laundering charges.”
MC said, “Dammit, I wish we had the murder weapon. We’d have a rock-solid case then.” She scanned through several pages of notes. “We heard two voices, both male, on the final recording on Arty’s phone. Who are they? Thomson? Stennard? Klein? John Doe?”
Cam stopped pacing. “We’ve nailed Thomson. He may think he’s above the law or his fancy criminal defense attorney will get him off, but there’s enough on him to put him away.”
“If for nothing else,” Oldfield said, “for the fraud and money laundering. I can work with AUSA Long on other charges.”
“I want him to go down for Arty.” MC paced. “I don’t know, though. We hear on the recording one guy takes the gun away from the other.”
Ferndale said, “Correct. And?”
MC said, “And the guy who took the gun killed Arty. Executed him. He then tells the other person to ‘clean up the mess,’ to which the other guy says ‘You got it boss.’ Boss.” She stopped midstride.
The others stared at her silently.
MC said, “Stennard is the boss. I think Stennard is the person who shot Arty.” She didn’t disguise the vehemence in her voice.
Oldfield said, “But Thomson is also a boss. And we have a pretty strong case against him with the evidence and his wife’s statement. We’ll confer with the US Attorney’s office on what additional charges to file against both Thomson and Stennard.”
“Now what?” MC asked the group.
Oldfield said, “Now you four head out and bring Stennard in, and we’ll see what his story is. I’ve instructed Agents Young and Trinh to meet you at Stennard’s house. Thomson will be charged today on the fraud and money laundering, and the US Attorney will probably go for a no bail request based on flight risk.”
Ferndale said, “We should ultimately have enough to also charge Thomson in Arty’s murder. Maybe the prosecutor will offer him something if he cooperates.”
MC and Cam rolled up in the circular driveway right behind the black Chevrolet Suburban driven by Agents Walt Andrews and Sebastian Ferndale.
A twin SUV was already parked. Agents Alexis Trinh and Teri Young exited the front vehicle.
MC heard the crunch of snow and ice as the women moved toward the other two teams. She felt an icy finger trace a trail down her spine.
Anticipation.
She gazed around the silent snowy vista. The nearest neighbor seemed like miles away in this haven of affluence. She began to wonder if Stennard was even home because there hadn’t been any movement from inside the palace on the lake.
Ferndale took lead and said, “Young and Trinh you take the back. McCall and White you follow us in the front and take the upper level. Andrews and I will take the main level.”
“Copy that,” MC said.
Young’s blond tightly harnassed ponytail swayed as she and Trinh took off around the side toward the rear of the house.
Andrews, MC, and Cam lined up behind Ferndale at the front.
Ferndale’s bass voice shattered the cold quiet, “Michael Stennard! Open up. FBI.” Barry White couldn’t have issued a more intense-sounding command.
MC’s heart hammered in time with Ferndale’s thumping fist. Her eyes were laser-focused on the door, ears straining to pick up any hint of sound.
The sharp taste of adrenaline at the back of her throat.
No response from within.
Then Ferndale turned the knob and they were inside Stennard’s apparently unlocked home.
MC and Cam climbed the staircase leading from the foyer to the second level and quickly cleared all the rooms except for the back one facing the lake.
The door stood ajar.
MC nudged it with her foot and brought her gun up as the door swung inward to the left.
Michael Stennard sat in what appeared to be his home office, behind a dust-covered wood desk commensurate in size and extravagance to the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office.
She took in the open laptop, a sheet of white paper with text filling about two thirds of the page, and the man sitting in a leather executive chair holding a nine-millimeter handgun.
“Mister Stennard. Drop the gun.” MC stepped to the right and sensed Cam behind to her left.
No one else was in the room.
Stennard stared down at the gun in his hand as if bewildered by its presence.
MC kept her weapon trained on Stennard. “Drop the gun. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Stennard stood slowly, arm at his side, gun dangling from his right hand.
Cam moved behind MC to her right and sidled toward Stennard.
MC said, “Mister Stennard drop the weapon. We don’t want to shoot you.”
Stennard faced MC as he came alongside his desk, seemingly unaware of Cam creeping toward him. “It’s over. All. Over.”
“Yes,” MC said. “We need to take you in. Put the gun down. Slide it toward me.”
To MC’s utter surprise Stennard placed the handgun on the desktop and slid it toward the front corner.
Cam holstered his sidearm and grabbed cuffs. He stepped behind Stennard and reached to bring his arm around.
Stennard lurched forward and grabbed the gun off the desk. He whipped around and put the gun against Cam’s head.
Shit.
“Don’t do this, Stennard,” Cam’s voice came out a bit raspy. He reached for his weapon.
“Don’t.” Stennard jammed the barrel of his nine-millimeter hard against the side of Cam’s head. “Won’t matter if I kill one more at this point.”
MC took in Stennard’s red, wild eyes and figured he was probably hopped up on something. “It will matter. You don’t want to kill a cop. No matter what else you may have done, that will be the end of you.” She kept her voice calm and eyes glued on Stennard.
Just then the four FBI agents filed slowly into the room.
“Aw, fuck me,” Stennard said. He shook his head and pushed Cam away from him, bringing the gun up to his own head.
“No!” MC’s shout stopped Stennard. “Don’t be a coward,” she said, voice steady, commanding.
Stennard’s gaze met hers. He shook his head and dropped the gun.
Cam cuffed him.
MC kicked Stennard’s weapon behind her toward the FBI agents.
Young and Trinh took Stennard from Cam and escorted him from the room. Trinh said, “We’ll take him downtown. Meet you there?”
“Sounds good,” MC said.
She pulled on nitrile gloves and went behind the desk. “I thought the desk was dusty.” She pointed to the white powder coating. “Cocaine. I wonder how much he snorted before we got here.”
“What’s that? A note?” Cam indicated a sheet on the far side of the desk.
MC stepped around the chair and reached for the paper. “Suicide note. He admits to killing Arty. Says he hoped by taking out Arty he’d stop the downfall of his empire. He realized that wasn’t how it’d play out so he decided to end his life.”
“The gun used on Arty was a thirty-eight, right?”
“Yep.”
“He had a nine-millimeter today.”
“We know someone else was present the night Arty was killed. Whoever it was probably has the murder weapon or got rid of it.”
Cam said, “We may never know then.”
“What a clusterfuck.”
Chapter Tw
enty
Friday, January 2
The house sold. The closing was set for the end of January. Another step toward closure.
Dara and Meg begged to help her at the house, but she’d deferred, assuring them not much left called for attention, and she needed to handle it alone. MC could tell Dara was hurt and angry and Meg was worried. She’d not spent time with them since Christmas. Mostly, she didn’t want to deal with the accusation coloring Dara’s eyes when she asked if MC was hungover, or, worse, if she was drunk. Nope. Didn’t need to answer those questions.
The process of cleaning out the home she’d shared with Barb was depressing and not the way MC envisioned beginning 2015.
A random button on the closet floor about undid her. MC remembered when she and Barb had scoured the space last year looking for the dark brown button that had fallen off Barb’s favorite pair of worn corduroy pants. She gritted her teeth to prevent unleashing the torrent of anguish washing through her.
Now. Now she’d found the button. What the hell good was it now?
She tossed the piece of plastic into the trash bag and moved on.
In the kitchen, MC checked all the cabinets and drawers to make sure they were cleared and clean. In the last drawer, next to the sink, she found some rolled-up cloth jammed at the back. She tugged the item free.
MC shook, head to toe, as she unrolled the white apron she’d bought for Barb on some Valentine’s Day past. “Kiss the Cook” was stenciled in red and images of giant red kissing lips dotted the fabric. A slim pebbled-patterned box fell to the floor with a thud.
MC jumped and let the apron drift free.
She scooped up the box and cracked the lid open.
Inside lay a gorgeous pen nestled in white satiny material. She stared at the resin barrel. Shades of brown with hues of amber and gold reflected the light. The colors evoked warmth and love, and MC was certain this was to have been her Christmas gift from Barb.
She recalled a conversation a few months earlier when she’d seen a fountain pen online and expressed her interest in trying out the sophisticated writing tool. Barb must have found this beautiful pen and then hidden it away so MC wouldn’t find it before the holidays.