by Lisa Turner
Chapter 5
Down at the road, Billy requested that officers be dispatched to Caroline’s home to secure it as a possible secondary crime scene. Anyone with access could go in and destroy evidence, including the killer. He advised CSU to requisition a tent and asked the watch commander to take over the scene until Chief Middlebrook arrived, so they could locate the family and make the death notification.
They took his car. He drove on the shoulder to bypass the traffic, the black Charger’s LED lights flashing in the front grill and back deck. Frankie found the Lees’ address, their home located in the Shady Grove area nearby. He hoped to make the notification before the Lees left for morning appointments at their law office.
At the light in front of the hospital, he turned left and drove quiet streets that wound through some of the most expensive properties in the city. Enclaves surrounded by stone walls served as sanctuaries for the Delta plantation society who, bonded by birth and wealth, took their privileges for granted. The Lees lived inside the walls of Shaking Tree, the most exclusive neighborhood in the area.
Saunders Lee and his wife Rosalyn managed the family’s venerable Memphis law firm, and maintained Airlee Plantation, Saunders Lee’s ancestral home in Mississippi. The plantation’s big house needed constant tending as did the grounds, formal gardens, and the greenhouses maintained year-round to provide fresh cut flowers.
Billy had met the family as a teenager when, on Saturday afternoons, Saunders Lee would stop by the diner, Kane’s Kanteen, bringing along his young daughter Caroline, his son Martin, and their various cousins. While the kids ate at the picnic table outside, Mr. Lee and Billy’s uncle Kane would sit at the front window table and discuss Mississippi politics.
Although Kane had dropped out of school in the ninth grade, he was a sharp observer of human nature. Having an educated man, a plantation owner like Mr. Lee, ask his opinion about the state senate race meant the world to Kane. After about an hour, the men would stand and shake hands as if having reached an agreement. Kane would then move to Mr. Lee’s chair and smoke a cigarette while studying the traffic out the window.
His uncle always held Saunders Lee in high regard. So had Billy. He still did. Mr. Lee represented the best part of the old South culture—honor, civility, and integrity.
He pulled up to the security kiosk at Shaking Tree and asked the guard to ring the Lees’ number. The housekeeper answered and would only say that Mr. and Mrs. Lee weren’t home.
“I’m calling the law office,” Frankie said as he was backing out. She listened for a moment. “It’s a recording.”
“Their offices are about ten minutes from here on Poplar Ave,” he said, and sped down the shaded road that millennia ago had been dense hardwood forests. Multi-million dollar properties stood where trees measuring five feet in diameter once grew. In minutes he pulled into the parking lot of the two-story Victorian house the Lees had rescued from demolition a few years ago. Two cars, a late model Jaguar and an Alfa Romeo 4C convertible, were parked on the lot.
Frankie ran the plates. “The Jag is registered to Rosalyn Taylor Lee, the convertible to Martin Lee.”
“That’s Caroline’s older brother.”
They hurried down the walk past hollies that sheltered the white, clapboard building’s front porch from traffic noise. Formal brass carriage lamps flanked the glass door through which they saw a spacious foyer and staircase. The door was locked. The only lights on were in offices down a hallway that led to the back of the building.
“I’ll call again,” she said.
He shook his head and pounded the door with his fist.
“Calm down, Billy.”
“Attorneys keep TVs in their offices. I don’t want the Lees to look up and see Caroline’s car surrounded by emergency vehicles.”
A young man in a dark suit stepped out of a hallway to the right. He pointed at his watch, waved them away, and disappeared down the hall.
“What a jerk,” Frankie said.
“That’s Martin.”
He’d known Martin Lee as a stuck-up little kid who quit coming to the diner on Saturdays with his family after he’d been given a T-Bird convertible for his sixteenth birthday. Martin would show up by himself, order a takeout cheeseburger, and then count the quarters and dimes Billy had given him as change. Even at that age, Martin had loved money and hated like crazy to part with it.
Billy was ready to pound the door again when Rosalyn Lee walked through the foyer, her head down over a file she was carrying. She had to be in her fifties now, still trim and stylish in a red suit. He tapped his badge wallet on the door then pressed his shield to the glass.
Rosalyn closed the file and looked annoyed as she came to the door. He could see Caroline in her face, the same classic features.
“May I help you?” she asked through the glass.
“Detective Billy Able, MPD. This is Detective Malone. We’re here on police business.”
She unlocked the door and took his ID. A question crossed her face as she glanced up, but she handed it back and opened the door for them to step inside. His uncle had introduced them years ago when they’d catered a fundraising barbeque for a political candidate on Airlee’s back terrace. She wouldn’t remember him of course. At that time, he’d been the help.
“What seems to be the problem?” she asked.
“We need a word with you and your husband,” he said. “Is there someplace we can talk in private?”
“Saunders isn’t here. He’s ill.” She gestured to a long hallway leading off the foyer. “My son is waiting in my office. This way.”
At the end of the hall, double doors opened into what had been the morning room of the original home. The office was spacious with floor-to-ceiling windows extending the length of the south and eastern walls letting in the morning light.
To the left, wingback chairs stood on either side of a fireplace with a mahogany mantel intricately carved with a scene of huntsmen and hounds in full cry. A young black woman in a maid’s uniform stood at a tea table beside the fireplace and was pouring coffee from a sterling pot. The coffee was for Martin Lee, who was seated in one of the chairs. He came to his feet, his irritation at their intrusion showing.
Martin hadn’t changed much from the boy Billy remembered. His face was that of a man who’d experienced few difficulties in life. Knowing Martin, there’d been difficulties, but he’d refused to acknowledge them.
Rosalyn dismissed the maid and introduced her son, who didn’t offer to shake hands. She walked to her desk, the sound of morning traffic filtering through the windows.
“Now what’s this about?” she asked.
Billy clasped his hands in front of him. He’d delivered many death notifications in his career. This might be the most difficult. “I’m sorry to inform you, your daughter Caroline has died.”
Chapter 6
Rosalyn took a step back. “What makes you think it’s my daughter?”
Good question. Last year the department had two well-publicized incidences of death notifications made to the wrong families. “I know your daughter. I made the ID at the scene.”
Her chin lifted, and she eased back against her desk, arms crossed in defiance.
Martin came to stand at his mother’s side. “Where did it happen?” he asked, his tone more aggressive than concerned.
“At Shelby Farms,” Frankie said. “A park ranger discovered her car early this morning.”
“Shelby Farms? Why would she—” Rosalyn stopped. Her gaze went to her son, and something passed between them. “Was it suicide?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “The medical examiner will make the final determination, but it appears she was murdered.”
Rosalyn paled. Finally a reaction. He allowed a few seconds for the reality to set in before he spoke again. “We’re sorry for your loss, ma’am. I know this is a hard time, but we have a few questions.”
“Not now,” Martin said, cutting him off.
Rosalyn igno
red him. “What do you need?”
“A release giving us permission to search your daughter’s house,” Frankie said.
“Absolutely not,” Martin barked.
Rosalyn placed a hand on his arm. “I have her key and the alarm code. You’ll need a photo of Caroline for identification. My assistant will print copies for you.”
“We’ll want to speak with your daughter’s friends and the people she confides in,” Frankie said.
Rosalyn stopped to consider. “There’s her cousin Zelda. She clerks in our file room.”
“When does she come in?”
“Late. Sometimes not at all.” Rosalyn shrugged. “She’s a dancer, a choreographer. She needed a paycheck. Family, you know? I’ll have my assistant find her.”
Billy heard female voices in the foyer. A distant phone rang. The business day was starting. This would be a hard one for Rosalyn Lee. What he was about to say would make it even harder.
“Your daughter was wearing a wedding gown when she died. What can you tell us about that?”
“You must be mistaken.”
“No, ma’am,” Frankie said. “Antique lace, a train. It’s a wedding gown.”
Rosalyn turned to pluck a tissue from the box on the desk. When she turned back, Billy glimpsed something he hadn’t expected. He’d seen hysteria at these notifications, chest pains, swinging fists. He’d never seen guile on the face of a victim’s mother.
“I can’t explain the dress, but I can tell you she called off a wedding five weeks ago. Dr. Raj Sharma was her fiancé. You should speak with him.”
“He’s been harassing Caroline,” Martin put in. “Showing up at her house at all hours and here at the office. That’s stalking.”
“I warned her,” Rosalyn said. “Dr. Sharma is Indian, not even American-born. It’s hard enough to stay married to a man from your own culture. Then the babies come. People can be so cruel to racially mixed children.”
Frankie glanced at Billy. Rosalyn picked up on it.
“I know that sounds racist,” she said, “but I’m an estate attorney. I’ve seen families go to war over mixed marriages. Children are always the casualties.” She moved around the desk, wrote on a pad, and handed the paper to Frankie. “Dr. Sharma is a neurosurgeon. This is his assistant’s number at the Bathe Clinic.”
Billy had already pictured the scenario Rosalyn was hinting at. Caroline called off the wedding. Sharma was humiliated. He pursued her until he pressured her into marrying him. He talked her into eloping instead of risking a public ceremony. She agreed but wanted to wear the dress. Instead of happily-ever-after he killed her. Revenge cuts deep. This murder stank of it.
Frankie took Sharma’s number from Rosalyn and went into the hall to call the doctor’s office.
“I’ll need to speak with your attorneys and staff,” Billy said to Rosalyn. “How many are there?”
“Eight support staff, six attorneys.” She blinked. “Five without Caroline. My husband no longer practices. One attorney is out of town.”
“I’d like to speak with everyone available.” He looked at Martin. “Are you with the firm?”
“I’m president and senior trust officer of Airlee Bank. It’s family owned. My office is two blocks down the street.” He checked his watch. “Mother, I need to make some calls.”
“I have to ask both of you not to discuss the details I’ve given you with anyone except for your husband, of course, Mrs. Lee,” he said. “If you feel you need to make a statement to the press, please ask a liaison from our public information office to arrange it.”
“We’re not idiots,” Martin snapped. “We’ll require your discretion as well.”
Billy ignored him and spoke directly to Rosalyn. “I’ve attempted to shield your daughter’s identity from the media until the department makes an official statement, but there’s always a chance of leaks. Be prepared to hear her name on the news sometime today.”
Martin grunted and made a show of kissing his mother’s cheek. He slammed the door behind him as he left.
“My son is angry,” she said.
“I’m angry, too.”
She cut her eyes at him but didn’t pursue it.
“I’ll need to see your daughter’s appointment calendar for the last three months, her client list, and the files in her office. Don’t touch anything else. Lock her office door right away. We’ll be back later.”
Rosalyn’s eyes hardened. “This firm has a fiduciary responsibility to protect the privacy of Caroline’s clients.”
Her resistance didn’t surprise him. The best approach with an attorney is to assume the sale. “I understand your concern, but what I’ve requested may lead to her killer. Please have the client list and the files delivered to me by noon. Be sure nothing in the records is deleted or altered. Our IT people will spot any change.” He wasn’t sure if that was possible, but it sounded good.
“I’ll send her appointment schedule and client list,” she said, unmoved.
This was one tough woman standing there in her red suit with her perfect hair. She’d just received the worst possible news, the death of her daughter, and yet she was all business. At this early stage of the investigation, a judicial magistrate would refuse their request for a search warrant. Stalemate.
“I’ll get back to you on the files.” His hand came up. “And I must tell you how truly sorry I am for your loss. Your daughter was a fine person.”
Rosalyn’s expression remained unreadable, as glazed as skim ice on a pond.
“Thank you, Detective. Please close the door behind you.”
Frankie was at the end of the hall on her mobile and scribbling notes. As he walked toward her, a door between them opened. Martin leaned out. “Detective. May I have a word?”
The guy had already pissed him off, but he might have something important to say. They stepped into a small conference room.
Martin flashed an ingratiating smile. “I remember your involvement in the Sid Garrett investigation. That footage of you and Sid on the train tracks went viral.”
“What’s your point?”
“You and your pretty partner attract media attention.”
“And?”
“Just this. I want my sister’s privacy protected. With your notoriety that may be impossible. If you feel you can’t handle the case with discretion, I’ll ask my friend the mayor to step in.”
Martin folded his arms across his chest. The backs of his hands were white and smooth as a baby’s bottom. The son of a bitch thought he could say anything he pleased.
He gave Martin a fake smile. “By the way, Mr. Lee. Where were you last night?”
“At home. Why?”
“Got any idea who killed your sister?”
Realization grew on Martin’s face. It reddened. “I believe that’s your job.”
“You’re damned right it’s my job, so stop bullshitting me about the mayor. You’re interested in protecting your business not your sister’s privacy.”
“Our clients expect us to focus on their problems, not our own,” Martin said, and started for the door. He turned back. “If you want my alibi for last night, call my house. My girlfriend lives with me.” He stormed out, bumping into Frankie, who had been waiting outside the door.
Billy stepped into the hall and caught her predatory stare as she tracked Martin’s retreat. Billy motioned her to join him in the conference room.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“The creep is worried his sister’s murder will hurt the firm’s image. He threatened to call his buddy the mayor if we don’t handle the case the way he wants.”
She laughed. “And you let him live?”
Billy had been around city politics longer than Frankie. Jeff Davis was the mayor’s new appointee as director of the MPD. If Martin had the pull with the mayor that he claimed, Director Davis might bird-dog the case. That would be a royal pain.
“Did you locate Dr. Sharma?” he asked.
“He’s preppin
g for surgery at Baptist Hospital. He won’t be available for ten to twelve hours.”
Billy gave that some thought. “Tell you what … You do the walk-through at Caroline’s house. Call if you find anything. I’ll question the staff.” He nodded toward the foyer, indicating the women who’d gathered at the foot of the stairs. Two of them glanced in their direction, looking wide-eyed and shaken.
“God love her,” a gray-haired woman wailed. Another broke into throaty sobs.
“Oh, brother,” he said. “One of them saw Caroline’s car on the newscast. You do the interviews. I’ll check the house.”
“Not on your life. You’re better with the ladies.” She lowered her voice. “By the way, what’s with Mrs. Lee? We told her that her daughter had been murdered, and she barely flinched. We work murders all the time. We don’t see that kind of disregard.”
“It looks like indifference, but it’s not. Rosalyn Lee is Mississippi old school. She was raised to tough it out in public. If she decides Sharma murdered her daughter, we’ll find his hide nailed to a fence post.”
Chapter 7
Even with her office door closed, Rosalyn could hear Glenda’s shuddery voice wailing “God love her” followed by sobs. More than anything she detested emotional displays, and there was more to come. She had to take hold to protect her law firm.
First step was to get control of the staff before they could spin off into hysterics. Her office manager Glenda was the key. She marched out of her office, brushing past Able and that young woman he’d brought with him. Glenda must have heard her coming because she turned around, tears wetting her face, her arms coming up to give her a hug. Rosalyn hated hugs. Glenda picked up on her get-hold-of-yourself look, dropped her arms, and shushed the group.
“Ladies,” Rosalyn said. “This is Detective Able and …”
“Detective Malone,” Able said.
“They have informed me that Caroline died last night. We’ll learn the details later. For now I need you to pull yourselves together. Glenda, cancel my appointments. I’ve forwarded a photo of Caroline to you. Make copies for the detectives, as many as they need. Everyone else go to the break room. Detective Able will speak with each of you. Otherwise you’re not to discuss this sad event with anyone. No one, understand? Not your family, not clients. I’ll prepare a statement for you to work from when the time is appropriate.”