by Tracy Kiely
fourteen
Every New Yorker knows that when you don’t need a cab, twenty available ones will pass your way. It’s when you desperately need one that they suddenly become scarce. However, when you desperately need one and you are traveling with a 120-pound Bullmastiff, you might as well be standing in the middle of the street covered in blood and holding a knife. Fortunately, Nigel managed to flag one down and convince him that Skippy was an excellent tipper before he could take off. Unfortunately, by the time we got to Dan’s weekend apartment, the police had already arrived and secured the scene.
I looked for Harper amid the crowd of curious bystanders, police, and paramedics, but didn’t see her. However, I did see someone else I knew: my ex-partner Marcy Garcia.
“Marcy!” I called out as I made my way over to the petite brunette. At the sound of my voice, she spun around. Seeing me, she smiled and made her way over, her smile growing wider when she saw Nigel and Skippy.
“Nic!” she said, giving me a quick hug, “what are you doing here? I didn’t even know you were in town.”
I waited until Marcy had said hello to Nigel and Skippy before explaining our presence. “A friend of mine’s play opened on Broadway last night,” I explained. “So Nigel and I …”
Marcy’s eyes narrowed as soon as she heard me say Broadway. “Stop right there,” she said holding up her hand. “You being here wouldn’t have anything to do with the reason I’m here, now would it?”
I gave a small smile. “Well, that all depends. Any chance you’re not here because of a deceased theater critic?”
Marcy blew out an annoyed breath. “Dammit, Nic. How do you know Dan Trados?”
“I went to school with his wife, Harper,” I explained. “She’s the one who called me, actually. We were supposed to meet for brunch this morning. Speaking of which, any idea where she is? I’d like to talk to her.”
Marcy nodded. “She’s talking with my partner now. And speaking of him, he’s a good guy, but he’s strictly by the book.”
“So? I was strictly by the book,” I said.
Marcy made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a scoff. “Um, A, you never were by the book,” she said. “B, you’re no longer on the force, and C, you never were by the book.”
“You already said that,” I pointed out.
Marcy nodded. “I’m aware of that. Some things bear repeating.”
“I just want to talk to her, Marcy. She’s an old friend, and she called me.”
Marcy closed her eyes and sighed. “Fine. As long as all you do is talk to her. I don’t want a repeat of what happened with Nigel’s family last year.”
Last year, Nigel’s Aunt Olive had asked for my help with a missing person case. Actually, she didn’t ask for my help; she demanded it. Aunt Olive is not a woman who leaves anything to chance. The missing person was her son-in-law, Leo. Unfortunately, Leo was one of those men who are better off left missing. Against my better judgment, I agreed to find him. That little adventure resulted in the discovery of three murders and a firm desire to avoid Martini family gatherings for a while.
“Hey!” Nigel now said with feigned indignation. “They’re Nic’s family now, too, even if only by marriage.”
I stared at him in mock horror and shook my head. “No. No, they’re not. You take that back right now.”
Marcy breathed out her nose. “I don’t care whose family they are. I just don’t want a repeat of last year.”
“But we did solve the case,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but the Captain still sat me down for a very long chat about professional boundaries. I’d really rather not have to go through that again. I don’t think I need to remind you about how painful his chats can be.”
I nodded grimly. “No, I still remember those chats quite well. I promise that the Captain won’t have any reason to be upset.”
“Yeah, well, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ll believe it when I see it,” Marcy said. With a pointed glance at Skippy, she asked, “He won’t contaminate my crime scene will he?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Skippy,” Marcy clarified.
I shook my head. “Oh, no. Don’t worry. He’s been trained to keep his paws to himself.”
Marcy nodded. “Good.”
I lowered my voice. “I was worried for a minute you were talking about Nigel.”
Hearing this, Nigel playfully smacked my rear end. I turned back to Marcy. “See what I mean?” I said.
fifteen
Dan’s “grubby weekend office” was located in a gleaming tower smack in the middle of the Theater District. Marcy led us past the concierge and to a row of elevators. From there we rode in silence to the tenth floor. Dan’s apartment was at the end of the carpeted hallway. I took a quick look around, noting the hardwood floors, high ceilings, separate kitchen with updated granite countertops and wood cabinets, as well as a private terrace. The décor was high-end and decidedly masculine; the black leather couch, faux fur rugs, and sleek steel tables, while stylish, were far too modern for Harper’s taste. This was no dingy hole-in-the-wall where Dan could find some quite time to complete his reviews. This was an expensive second home made for entertaining. Right now, it was being combed over for evidence by Forensics.
Harper was sitting in the kitchen at a glass table, staring vacantly at her hands; she did not appear to notice our arrival. Her face was pale and splotchy, and her eyes were red and puffy. Across from her, sat a man I guessed to be in his late thirties. He had broad shoulders close-cropped black hair, and the carefully shuttered expression of an experienced detective. Something about the way he tapped on the battered spiral notebook on his lap filled me with unease.
I tugged twice on Marcy’s sleeve and tilted my head questioningly when she looked at me. We’d been together long enough that she didn’t need to ask what I wanted to know. “He’s in the bedroom,” she murmured. “The medical examiner is in there with him now.”
“Any idea what happened?” I asked.
Marcy shrugged before answering. “From the looks of it, it seems to be either a drug overdose or some kind of poison. Either way, it didn’t appear to be a peaceful death.”
“So you don’t think it was suicide?”
Marcy shook her head. “No. For one thing, there wasn’t a note.” Glancing around the apartment, she added, “And I have a feeling that he wasn’t the kind of guy to let his views go unheard.”
“Oh no,” I agreed. “No shyness there. Dinner parties might never be the same.”
Marcy glanced over at Harper. “So what was their relationship like?”
I paused. “They had their ups and downs like any couple,” I hedged. Marcy’s slow eyebrow raise indicated what she thought of my answer. “That’s your new partner?” I asked, indicating the man sitting with Harper.
Marcy rolled her eyes at my change of subject but nodded. “Yep. That’s Brian.”
“You like him?”
Marcy shot me a level look. “We have our ups and downs just like any couple,” she said.
“Okay,” I conceded. “Touché. Dan could be a pompous ass at times and I think he cared more about his career than he did Harper.”
Marcy nodded thoughtfully for a moment and then said, “Brian is a good guy. He’s very thorough. He can be a stickler for rules though, which is a new experience for me,” she added archly.
“Is Harper a suspect?” I asked suddenly.
Marcy blew out a sharp breath through her nose. “It’s too early to start talking about that, Nic,” she said.
I shot her a meaningful look. “Come on, Marcy,” I pressed. “It’s me. You and I knew within two minutes if we thought someone was a suspect. What’s the story?”
Marcy gave a reluctant shrug. “Well, if it turns out that he was poisoned, then she’s … well, let’s just say she’d be a person o
f interest.”
“Shit, Marcy,” I said. “Dan wasn’t the most likable man, but I know Harper. She’s not a killer.”
“Well, then she has nothing to worry about,” Marcy replied cryptically.
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s very reassuring. What about Brian, though?”
“What about him?”
“Does he think Harper is a killer?”
As if he heard me, Brian blinked up at me and frowned. After murmuring something to Harper, he got up from the table and crossed over to where we all stood.
“Who are you and why are you here?” he asked.
“I like a man who gets to the point,” Nigel said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Nigel Martini and this is my wife, Nic. We’re friends of Harper’s.”
“Mrs. Trados called them when she discovered her husband,” Marcy explained quickly, her voice low. In a slightly louder voice, she then added, “Nic, Nigel, this is my partner, Detective Brian Johnson.”
Brian gave Nigel and me a perfunctory handshake before turning his attention back to Marcy. “I haven’t finished talking to Mrs. Trados yet,” he said in a low voice. “Perhaps her friends can wait outside until we’re done. I really don’t think—” Brian suddenly stopped and looked down. Skippy had planted himself at Brian’s feet and was now repeatedly and enthusiastically smacking his paw on the man’s thigh.
“He wants you to shake his paw,” Nigel explained. “Whenever he sees us shake hands, he thinks he needs to as well. We may have been a bit overzealous about that part of his training.”
Brian stared at Nigel and then at Marcy. She gave him a slight shrug. “Uh, okay,” he said, extending his hand down to grip Skippy’s paw. Skippy gave a happy bark.
“I am sorry to barge in on your interview, Detective Johnson,” I said. “And I promise I won’t interfere. But Harper is one of my oldest friends, and I just want to make sure she’s okay.”
Brian started to shake his head. “I appreciate that ma’am, but … wait, did you say your name is Nic Martini? As in Marcy’s old partner?” he asked.
“That’s me, although I prefer ‘ex-partner,’” I said with a smile.
Brian did not return my smile. Instead, he opened his mouth and then abruptly shut it. Turning to Marcy, he jerked his head toward the front hallway and said, “Can I talk to you for a second, Marcy?”
Marcy sighed. “Sure, Brian.”
While the two of them engaged in a rather tense, hushed conversation, I took the opportunity to go over to Harper. She was still sitting at the kitchen table with a blank expression on her face. “Hey, Harper,” I said as I drew near. I pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. Taking one of her hands in mine, I asked, “How’re you doing, honey?”
Harper shook her head and her eyes filled with fresh tears. “He’s gone, Nic. I don’t understand. This doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m so sorry, Harper,” I said, gently squeezing her hand. “Is there anything we can do?”
Harper stared at me blankly. “He’s dead. Dan is dead.”
I nodded slowly and glanced at Nigel. “Any chance one of the paramedics can come inside for a minute?” I asked. “I think she might be in shock.”
Nigel nodded and quickly walked outside. I turned back to Harper. “It’s going to be okay, Harper,” I said. “Why don’t I make you a cup of tea or something?” I stood up and began to rummage through the cabinets until I found what I was looking for. “Do you want Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Black, or Green?” I asked reading from the various boxes.
Harper stared at me in confusion. “What?”
“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll pick one.” Grabbing the kettle, I then flipped on the faucet. As I did, I noticed two wineglasses on the dish rack next to the sink. They’d been rinsed, but on the rim of one a faint smear of lipstick remained. I filled the kettle and set it on the burner. While I waited for the water to come to a boil, Nigel returned with one of the paramedics. He was a burly man, with a nose that looked as if it had been broken one too many times and black hair that was pulled back into a tight ponytail. He crossed over to where Harper sat and knelt down in front of her.
“Mrs. Trados?” he asked, his voice gentle. “My name is Steven. I’m just going to check and see how you’re doing, if that’s okay?”
Harper raised her eyes to his and nodded dumbly. After giving her a reassuring smile, Steven placed a wool blanket around her shoulders and began to check her vitals. As Steven made various reassuring sounds, I made Harper’s tea, adding several spoonfuls of sugar and a dollop of cream. Handing her the mug, I said, “Here, Harper, drink this.”
Harper looked down at her hands as if surprised to find them holding the mug. “Tea?” she repeated.
“Yes, honey. It’s tea. Why don’t you take a sip,” I said quietly. I glanced up at Nigel. His eyebrows were pulled together in worry. Skippy moved to sit next to me. He gently laid his head in Harper’s lap.
“Dan hates tea,” Harper said, staring at the mug.
“Your friend is right,” Steven chimed in. “A hot cup of tea can help with shock.”
Harper raised her eyes to his. “No. Dan hates tea,” she repeated stubbornly.
“That’s okay,” he said in a practiced soothing tone. “Not everyone is a tea person.”
Harper suddenly slammed the mug down on the table. “He didn’t want me here,” she said, glaring at the mug. “I’ve never been here.”
Steven glanced at me, his broad face serious. “I think it might be best if we take her to the hospital for observation,” he said in a low voice.
I stared at Harper a beat and then said, “I’m not sure that’s going to be necessary. I think what she’s saying is that, why is there tea here? For that matter, why are there several kinds of tea here? If they weren’t for Dan, who were they for?”
When Harper looked up at me, I saw that some of her color had returned. “Exactly,” she said. “That’s exactly what I want to know.”
sixteen
“Who’s what for?” Marcy asked as she and Brian rejoined us.
“The tea,” I answered.
Marcy raised an eyebrow. “You want to try that again?” she asked.
“Sorry. According to Harper, Dan hated tea,” I explained, “but there’s tea here.”
Brian continued to stare at me. “Lots of tea,” I added. Brian still stared. “Dan didn’t drink tea,” I finally said.
Marcy’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh. I see,” she said. From Brian’s expression, I gathered he did not.
Harper set the offending mug on the kitchen table and pushed it away from her. She pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like cheating rat bastard. Perhaps because that’s exactly what she muttered. Skippy shoved his head farther into her lap until Harper registered his presence. Staring down at him with an expression of mild surprise, she began to mechanically stroke his massive fawn-colored head.
A woman suddenly exited Dan’s bedroom, and all eyes turned to her. It was Deborah Simms, the medical examiner. It had been a few years since I’d last seen her, but she hadn’t changed a bit. A no-nonsense woman with jet-black hair and gray eyes, she wore her usual outfit of a black turtleneck and black trousers. Her only concession to color was her trademark slash of ruby-red lipstick. Seeing me, she gave a friendly nod just as an officer rolled the gurney with Dan’s body out from the bedroom.
“Nic,” she said, as she briskly crossed the room to where I stood. “What are you doing here? I heard you married some gorgeous playboy and moved to LA. Don’t tell me you’re back on the force?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m actually an old friend of the victim’s wife. She called me when she found the body.”
Deborah nodded and then her gaze landed on Nigel. “So that makes you …?” she began.
Nigel smil
ed and stepped forward. “The gorgeous playboy,” he said with a wink, “but you can call me Nigel if you prefer.”
A faint blush crept up Deborah’s neck, and something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle escaped her lips. I glanced at Marcy in surprise. I had never heard Deborah laugh let alone giggle. From the expression on Marcy’s face, she seemed as stunned as I was. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Deborah now said, extending her hand.
“And you as well,” Nigel said. “Nic always spoke very highly of you.”
I forced myself not to roll my eyes at Nigel’s obvious attempt at flattery. I had never once mentioned Deborah Simms to him, and he damn well knew it. But if it resulted in getting some information about Dan’s death, I wasn’t going to argue the point.
Deborah smiled up at him. “So you knew the victim?” she asked.
Nigel nodded. I noticed he was still holding her hand. “We did. We actually saw him just last night. I can’t believe that he’s dead. It’s all so sudden. Do you have any idea what happened? Was it a heart attack?”
Deborah shook her head. “It’s too early to tell, of course. I still have to run some tests, but at this point I’m leaning toward poisoning.”
“Poison,” Marcy repeated.
Deborah shifted her gaze to Marcy and nodded. “Looks that way. I’ll know more once I finish up.”
“Could it have been intentional?” Brian now asked.
Deborah raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it was definitely intentional,” she said. “But whether it was the victim’s intent or someone else’s intent I can’t answer to yet.” Her gaze then landed on Harper, who was still numbly petting Skippy’s head. “Is that the victim’s wife?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
Deborah paused a moment and then asked, “Why does she have a pony with her?”
I swallowed a laugh and explained. “Oh, that’s just our dog, Skippy. He’s a Bullmastiff.”
Deborah looked at me and then at Nigel. “Oh. Someone said something about you and an enormous dog, but I thought they were kidding.”