by G. K. Parks
Finally, I found him on monitor three, talking with a small group of people. I kept an eye on him as he moved around, appearing on monitor one and then monitor four. He was at the bar now, ordering a drink. It was scotch, given the shape of the glass and his affinity for the golden brown liquor. As he sauntered away, I spotted Caterina in the corner of the screen, drinking something from a martini glass and animatedly conversing with a man. Was that Jake Spencer?
I shifted my focus to her since she was now attempting to strangle the man by shoving her tongue down his throat. That was one classy broad. She released him just long enough to let him gasp for air, before grabbing his hand and pulling him out of sight of camera four. I scanned the other three screens, trying to find her. Where are you going? Briefly, I caught a glimpse of the two of them on the second monitor, before she dragged him into a room and shut the door. I paused the feed and recorded the timestamp to point out to Heathcliff.
About fifteen minutes later, Caterina and the mystery man, who I was now positive was Jake Spencer, exited the ladies room. Sex in a bathroom, could this woman get any classier? I immediately scolded myself for judging the dead. Having a sexual appetite and a spirit to party were not reasons someone should kill you.
Refocusing, I found her on monitor four, sitting at the bar alone. Martin reemerged on the screen with Richard Sanderson. The two seemed lost in conversation until Sanderson turned to the end of the bar where Caterina was seated. Despite the fact I couldn’t see Martin’s facial expression, I knew his looks all too well. He smiled or smirked and introduced himself. The two conversed briefly before another woman appeared. Seconds later, Sanderson was gone.
For the next thirty minutes, Martin flirted with the deceased. He finished his glass of scotch and motioned the bartender over, holding up his hand to indicate two. I glanced down at the timestamp and noted this as well.
I focused intensely on Alvarez as he lifted two liquor bottles in the air and poured the sight-measured contents into a shaker. He put the bottles down, adding something else to the concoction with a flourish. He shook the metal canister and poured the contents into two martini glasses. Martin and Caterina were oblivious since they were wrapped up in one another.
I tried to study Alvarez’s expressions and actions, but the footage left a lot to be desired. He was watching the two with a level of disdain, and as he reached for the little plastic swords to skewer the lime, he stopped mid-skewer. Leaning forward in my chair, I was intrigued. Now would be the time for him to do something. He reached underneath the bar, out of sight of the cameras, and popped up a second or two later with two pre-skewered limes. Could the drugs have been on the limes?
The bar had a large array of fruits and numerous plastic implements. Why else would he retrieve two from below the bar? I continued to watch the footage as Martin handed one of the glasses to Caterina, and they walked off screen. By the time I located them in monitor three, the glasses were half empty.
Martin teetered slightly and took his jacket off. He strode off screen, and Caterina followed him. That must have been when he left the party to get some air. It was just after midnight, and I tried not to think about Caterina chasing after him like she was a puppy and he was her new chew toy. Her TOD was sometime soon after. The drugs probably hit him first due to the copious amounts of alcohol he had already consumed and his prescription painkillers. Jackass, my mind commented.
I rewound the footage to see what Alvarez was up to. He was still mixing drinks, but not once did he retrieve anything else from below the bar. Hitting pause, I rested my chin in my palm and tried to think. I sighed audibly and rewound the whole thing. Now that I had these few facts, the surveillance would have to be watched and re-watched for additional clues or personal interactions. After already spending too many hours staring at the footage, I couldn’t bring myself to do it again.
Leaving the small room I had been exiled to, I found Heathcliff in the bullpen, chatting with a few other cops. He saw me coming and held up a hand, indicating that I give him a minute. Impatiently, I rubbed my eyes and waited.
“How was America’s Rich and Fabulous?” he asked with a level of cynicism only public servants were capable of mustering. I shared the few key facts I witnessed, and he raised an eyebrow. “Guess we’ll be bringing Mr. Alvarez back in tomorrow for a follow-up. Did you see anything else out of the ordinary?”
“We need to go back over the footage from the beginning to see if he acted suspiciously at any other time. And we need to determine who left the party and hung around the marina, waiting to kill our vic. Also, we should track Spencer’s movements throughout the event.” I rubbed my eyes again and looked at my watch. “But you need a fresh set of eyes on this.”
“Careful, Parker,” he warned, “you’re starting to sound like a burnt-out cop.”
Picking up my jacket, I asked, “Can I get out of here or do you need me to stick around?”
He assessed my words for a minute and then glanced at the group he was speaking to before my appearance. “Looks like the real detectives have work to do.” He smirked slightly. “Guys, we’re gonna be burning the midnight oil tonight since our consultant’s got a hot date or something.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Get out of here. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” I teased, walking past the other cops who decided it’d be a good idea to catcall my exit. I raised my middle finger and continued out of the precinct.
* * *
The next morning, I parked down the road from the Smidel’s house, planning to tail Roger to school before going to the precinct. The kid emerged a little before seven thirty, dressed in his school uniform, and got into a bright blue Lexus and peeled out of the driveway. At least I didn’t have to worry about losing him amidst a sea of similarly colored cars, I thought as I maintained a decent distance, but his driving was erratic. Teenagers, I griped, slamming on my brakes as he pulled into a parking space in front of a diner.
He got out of the car and went into the restaurant. There were some spaces on a side street, and I decided stopping for breakfast wasn’t a bad idea. Girl’s gotta eat, after all. Entering the diner, I spotted him sitting in a booth with three other teenagers. I took a seat at the counter and ordered a black coffee and a scone. After the waitress brought my breakfast, I tossed a few discreet glances in their direction as I nibbled on the pastry.
Roger’s dining companions consisted of two other teenage boys and a girl. The girl obviously favored the goth style. She wore dark eye makeup and dressed predominantly in black. A pair of fishnet stockings protruded from the tops of her boots to the bottom of her miniskirt. The other two guys seated with Roger were dressed in preppy clothing, designer button-up shirts and dark wash jeans. If they attended public school instead and weren’t built like athletes, they would have the shit kicked out of them. High school, it’s amazing anyone lives to see nineteen.
The waitress brought the check, not bothering to see if I wanted a refill, and I put some money on the counter. While I sipped the remainder of my coffee, the group devoured eggs, pancakes, and sausage. Checking the time, it was getting close to eight, but none of them seemed concerned about missing school or being tardy. I was more concerned about missing the Spencer interview than they were about missing homeroom. Finally, one of the two guys waved a waitress over, handed her what appeared to be a fifty, and the four of them got up from the table.
Counting to three, I waited for them to clear the door before following them outside. By the time I exited the diner, the girl was pressed against a vehicle, kissing one of the preppy guys, and the other kid was getting into the passenger’s side of Roger’s car. I continued past to the side of the building, paying them no attention as I got into my car and watched my rearview mirror for a flash of blue.
Ten minutes later, the Lexus whizzed past, and I pulled out of my spot, backed into traffic, and continued after him. Roger parked in one of the student spaces at Highland Prep, and I slowed down but stay
ed on the main thoroughfare, not wanting to arouse any more suspicion from the overzealous security guards. At least he wasn’t ditching class, and he ate a decent meal to start his day. His mother should be proud. I drove to a cross street and executed a magnificent three-point turn before heading for the police station.
I was almost at the precinct when a thought hit me. “Dammit!” I slammed my palm against the steering wheel. My deductive reasoning skills were shoddy this early in the morning because it just occurred to me that Roger was the only one wearing the Highland Prep school uniform. His three breakfast pals were not dressed for school. Did they even go to Highland Prep? It was too late to turn around and see if Roger was still there, so I called his mother instead.
“Mrs. Smidel?” I asked. “This is Alex Parker.”
“Yes, Ms. Parker,” she sounded worried. “Is everything all right? Is Roger okay?”
“Everything’s fine. We didn’t have a very productive conversation yesterday, and I was wondering if you could provide a list of Roger’s friends. Do they all attend Highland Prep?” I was trying to be smooth in my questioning. “The reason I ask is he stopped for breakfast this morning, but he was the only one in uniform.”
“The kids like to change when they get to school. They don’t want the uniforms to cramp their style.” She let out an audible sigh. “Regardless, I will e-mail you a list of his friends later. I’m busy at the moment, but I will get it to you by this afternoon.”
“Thank you.”
I parked my car next to the out-of-service patrol cars and combed my hands through my hair, trying to get a grip on my current juggling act. Eventually, I went inside the precinct. It was time to start another fun-filled day.
Twelve
The interviews today didn’t take nearly as long as I expected. Jake Spencer admitted his romantic involvement with Caterina quickly before crumbling. As I watched Det. Heathcliff interview Spencer, I was surprised at how the man melted into a pile of blubbering, tear-wracked sobs. Either someone needed to give this guy an Emmy, or he wasn’t the murderer.
“I’m her lover,” Spencer sniffled. “I could never do that.” He pointed to the crime scene photos on the table, turning puce and burying his head in his hands as he continued to sob. Heathcliff threw a glance at the two-way mirror, hoping someone, anyone, would come and rescue him from the weeping Jake Spencer.
“Mr. Spencer,” Heathcliff’s tone was cold, “try to pull yourself together. Do you think Caterina would want to see you like this?” The mention of her name sent Spencer into another tailspin of tears. “I’ll give you a minute.” Heathcliff gave up and exited the room.
“You really know how to crack a suspect, Detective,” I remarked as he came into the observation room and stood next to me, watching Spencer try to get his emotions under control.
“Why don’t you go in there and give him the gentler, feminine touch, then?”
“Hell, no. I’m about as gentle as broken glass. Maybe we can just leave him in there until he gets bored and wanders out on his own.” Heathcliff emitted a sound, which was supposed to be a chortle, before going back to conclude the interview.
“Mr. Spencer, I think we’re done for the day. If we have any more questions, we’ll be in touch, but stay in town,” he warned, holding the door open and ushering Spencer into the hallway. That was one down, two more to go.
The second interview was with Yolanda Tate, head of the Tate Modeling Agency. She reminded me of an evil witch, cold and methodical. I also got the distinct impression she loathed men. How she managed to marry, I’d never know. Mrs. Tate was in her late forties or early fifties and had been a former model. As she aged out, she took over the business and opened her own agency. Maybe that was when her husband came into the picture.
“Ma’am.” Heathcliff continued the interview, having already established the baseline of facts. Skolnick had worked for Tate for the last four years and was set to have a big spread in an upcoming fashion magazine in the fall.
“It’s Mrs. Tate,” the witch icily responded, staring daggers at Heathcliff. If a fight were to break out, I’d put my money on the ice queen.
“Mrs. Tate,” he started again, undaunted, “can you account for your whereabouts Saturday morning from midnight until two a.m.?”
“Am I a suspect in Caterina’s murder?” she inquired. “Because quite frankly, I don’t see why I should account for my presence to you.” Her tone dripped disdain.
“Ma’am,” I was positive he said it just to piss her off, “it’s my job to investigate Ms. Skolnick’s murder. Wouldn’t you like to be cleared from any suspicion?” Maybe he was trying the carrot and stick theory.
“The news said some CEO was responsible. Why are you still looking into it?” It was my turn to glare.
“That was a mistake. The man in question was another victim, not the perpetrator.”
She let out a harsh, awful-sounding laugh. “Mr. Detective, you can either arrest me or I’m leaving. There is no reason why I would harm the number one model at my agency. Her death has cost me thousands, and if you insist on continuing this pointless interview, I’d like my attorney present to witness the harassment.”
“Bitch,” I cursed. She would be a hard one to crack. Today’s interviews were going just swimmingly. First, we had the blubbering boyfriend and now the evil ice queen. Next would be Alvarez and his misogynistic attitude.
Heathcliff cut her loose after she insisted on taking his badge number and speaking directly to his superior. When he returned to the observation room, he shut the door and slammed his fist into the wall. He forgot I was there and was looking for a moment of solitude.
“Don’t worry about it,” I offered my condolences, “the rich bitch ice queen probably just got her panties in a bunch. Moretti won’t hold it against you, especially if he has to spend more than two minutes alone with her.”
He graced me with a brief smile. “I say we break for lunch.” He looked at his watch. “Alvarez is supposed to show up around two. In the meantime, wanna grab a bite and check out the crime scene?”
“Music to my ears, Detective.”
* * *
We made small talk as we sat in the unmarked police car, eating our lunch and staring out over the pier. Our bonding required some give and take on both our parts, and I provided a brief overview of my short-lived career at the OIO, my current P.I. and security consulting gig, and how Det. O’Connell and I became unlikely friends.
Heathcliff was a third generation cop, following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather. And while he tended to come off as a serious, no-nonsense guy, I had seen a few cracks in that pristine business-only exterior. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy to work with, after all.
“What about the ethical ramifications of working for James Martin and the police department?” he asked, bunching up the packaging from his lunch and tossing it into the takeout bag.
“It’s a fine line. I made the same argument, but I’m a MT employee, no longer in the James Martin private security business. Plus, everything we figure out is going up the chain of command to you guys, not anywhere else.” I didn’t divulge the fact that I promised Martin I’d fill him in on who was responsible.
“It’s good to know you can prioritize.” I wasn’t sure about that, given my two current cases and my unsteady personal relationship with Martin, but if I appeared on top of things, I was willing to go with it. “Ready to check out the yacht?”
“Definitely.”
Following him down the pier, he held his badge up to the uniformed cop guarding the scene, and we ducked under the tape and climbed on board. The yacht was lavish, just like everything else Martin owned. I surveyed the main deck, vividly recalling Martin’s retelling of the events. I surmised where he passed out on the floor and where he found the body.
“The assailant must have walked onto the boat, just like we did.” Heathcliff pantomimed the most likely attack scenario.
“Martin was out cold, right h
ere.” I indicated the floor next to the bench seats. “Skolnick’s body was discovered here.” I pointed to the crime scene marker.
“There were no defensive wounds,” he continued. “She was probably already passed out on the seats.” I squinted into the distance, thinking. “What?”
“Based on everything I’ve heard and read, Martin blacked out first. So if I were Skolnick, I would try to revive the guy who just hit the deck.”
“Maybe you’re more altruistic than she was.” But he didn’t sound convinced. He knelt down. “Act something out with me.” I gave him a skeptical look but played along. “I’m Martin, and I black out.” He attempted to take a seat on the bench but missed and landed on the ground, the most plausible theory.
“I check to see if you’re okay. Maybe I think it’s a game you’re playing.” I flashed back to Skolnick and Spencer exiting the bathroom. “Perhaps you just want some mouth to mouth.”
“But you’re feeling woozy because you’ve been drugged too. You come over to check on me, but it hits you. What do you do?”
“Me or Skolnick?” I was getting confused with our role-playing game. “I would probably call for help while I still could. Or I would check on you.”
“There’s no way you would just lie down on the bench above me?” I saw where he was going with this, and I shook my head.