by G. K. Parks
“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word.” She sat next to me, looking at the scratches. “Are you okay?”
“I guess. The asshole from the party last night took me home, and this morning, his wife threw me out. How the hell was I supposed to know he was married?” I bellowed to the officer, who ignored me. “That asshole used me like a tissue and threw me away.” I wiped at nonexistent tears. “So I wandered into some pub after it happened, and the douchebag working called the cops for unorderly conduct or some shit like that because I accidentally knocked over a glass. Can you believe that? Two shitty guys in two days. Fuck.” Unintelligent tended to work well with hungover, and Monique wrapped her arm around my shoulders supportively.
“Men will tear your heart out, sweetie,” she said softly. “That’s kinda the reason I’m here, too.” I looked at her uncertainly, waiting for an explanation. “Can I tell you a secret?” I nodded emphatically, probably too emphatically for someone with a hangover, but she didn’t notice. She was dying to talk to someone. “Ricky’s always been so sweet to me, but lately, he’s been distant.”
“Are you dating?”
“No, but we will. I’m sure of it. The way he looks at me, checking me out, and he calls all the time. We’re in the pre-dating phase.” She smiled to herself. “But that stupid bitch just kept throwing herself at him. At everyone, really. We all had some fun with Jake, but Ricky was mine. Everyone knew it. You could see it, right?”
“Definitely. He was completely yours.” I tried to sound sincere, even though Monique actually fell into the crazy bitch category, as in foaming at the mouth, clinically crazy. “Who didn’t see it?” Luckily, she hadn’t attacked me, or I’d be begging to get vaccinated for rabies right away.
“Caterina,” she sneered. “That little bimbo got everything. The most attention from Yolanda and the best modeling jobs. Jake even went out of his way to make her happy and do everything she wanted. Can you believe he paid off the bartender not to serve martinis to anyone else because it was some special codeword or something the two of them were using for their game?” Her sigh sounded like a growl. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. It wasn’t fair. She controlled everything, even what I was allowed to drink.”
“Wow, what a bitch.”
“Don’t I know it.” She rolled her eyes. “We all knew Cat got Jake to agree to roofie her because Val has a big mouth and was bragging about how she hooked him up with the stuff. But something happened at the party. I don’t know what it was, but Jake asked me to go find Cat. She apparently just disappeared.” She shook her head. “After all that shit with the drinks and the drugs, and then she just leaves. Who the hell does she think she is?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see why anyone would do that,” I commented, trying to seem sympathetic to her plight and not uneasy about being seated this close to a psychopath.
“It’s just how Cat is,” she scoffed, “but Ricky was gone too. I couldn’t believe he’d play that disgusting game with them, but there he was, passed out on a random yacht with that whore.”
“Oh my gosh.” I sounded a little too valley girl, and I tried to tone it down. “What did you do? I hope you set him straight.” Confess, my internal voice screamed.
“I was going to, but he looked so helpless, lying there,” her tone shifted to something soft and motherly. Her psychosis was making me edgy, if not downright frightened. “I went back to Ricky’s boat to get him some things since apparently Cat thought it’d be more exciting to fuck on a stranger’s boat,” she snarled. “Why else would Ricky be blacked out on the floor of some shitty yacht?”
I stared in awe, pretending to be deeply interested in the drama. “What happened then?”
“I was going to bring him his own pillow. Something comforting and familiar, y’know. The poor thing was on the deck while that selfish bitch was sprawled out on the cushioned seats like she was royalty.” Apparently, Skolnick’s body wasn’t positioned. She must have collapsed on the seats above Martin. “And then I just couldn’t stand it anymore. The walk down the pier made me angrier and angrier. How could she treat my guy like he was garbage? I couldn’t let her do it. Not to me. Not to him. Not to anyone.” Monique’s tone changed from caring to venomous as she shifted from talking about Sanderson to Caterina.
“Of course not,” I piped up. Solidarity sister. “What did you do?” My tone was excited, maybe slightly manic, hoping to feed into her insanity.
“There was a knife near the trashcans that must have gotten thrown away by accident, and I figured I’d scare her with it.”
“Did you?” My stomach twisted in knots because I knew what happened next, but apparently she forgot last night’s party was a memorial.
“I tried, but she just lay there with her eyes open, staring at me. I hit her with the pillow, but she just kept staring. That bitch couldn’t even be bothered to offer an explanation. She did nothing. Said nothing. So I–” She stopped abruptly, remembering herself and her surroundings.
“What?” I pushed.
“Caterina’s dead.” She remembered this as an afterthought. Even if she didn’t say another word, she said quite a bit already. Suddenly, she looked wary. “Were you with Ricky last night? Val said you were sitting with him at the bar?” Before I could respond, Heathcliff opened the door to the drunk tank.
“We have more questions for you upstairs, Ms. Peters,” his tone was professional as he dragged me away, locking the cell behind him.
“She was about to crack,” I insisted once we cleared the double doors. “Why’d you pull me out?”
“Because she was about to crack your skull over her beloved Ricky.”
“So you’re not sending me back in?”
“No. We have an explanation for how the pillow ended up on Martin’s yacht and where the knife came from. It ought to be enough,” he insisted, but I had issues being optimistic. I feared when Monique was confronted, she would spin the story into a different tale of woe, but it was still nice to untape the wire from my torso since it was starting to chafe.
After changing back into my normal garb, I located the group of detectives standing around the theory board. Thompson was playing an elaborate game of connect the dots. He organized our suspects, motives, and evidence into a flow chart. Spencer had given the drugs to Alvarez, but when he couldn’t attend to Skolnick himself, he sent Webber to find her.
“Wait,” O’Connell was processing the information, “after Webber found Skolnick and Martin, she detoured back to Sanderson’s boat. Weren’t Sanderson, Yves, and Tate on board filming?” Our timeline was going to shit.
“No. Sanderson and Tate alibied out because they left the filming fiasco together and met with a third party business backer. We had uniforms question the backer and verify their story.” Thompson put the additional pieces together.
“How long did the filming process take?” I wondered aloud. O’Connell tossed the Bureau’s report on top of my desk, and I skimmed through it. “Twelve minutes from start to stop. Add in some time for setting up and posting online, so maybe thirty minutes?” I got a round of head nods. “Did the ME ever narrow down Skolnick’s time of death?”
“Not down to minute increments,” Thompson responded. “But according to the surveillance feed, Webber was the last person to leave the party within our window of opportunity, and that was twenty minutes after Yves. If things happened in the order she claims, she probably missed their tryst by a few minutes.”
“Maybe Webber ran into Yves on Sanderson’s boat,” O’Connell speculated. “Yves probably knew Webber wasn’t stable, and instead of risking her wrath, she might have told Webber she’d seen Skolnick go off with Ricky in order to cover her own ass.”
“But if Webber is head-over-heels for Sanderson, why would she try to make him into a scapegoat?” I asked.
“I don’t think that was her intention,” Heathcliff muttered. “She probably killed Skolnick, freaked, and did her best to hide the evidence. She’s probably delusiona
l enough to assume no one would think the unconscious guy was the killer, even though he was the only one on the goddamn yacht.”
Moretti came out of his office and stood in the center of our discussion, silently observing for a few minutes. “Some good solid police work,” he said mainly to himself as his gaze settled on me. “Get cleaned up and go home.”
“Sir?” I hated my OIO brainwashing.
“You’ve been incredibly helpful in this investigation, but I don’t want you to make this department appear incompetent. Despite popular belief, we can find our asses with both of our hands.” Reading between the lines, Moretti was afraid of the appearance of impropriety if I worked out the few remaining details resulting in the positive identification of Caterina Skolnick’s killer. “We’ll call you when the paperwork needs to be finalized or in the event the ADA’s need anything from you.”
“I’ll keep my phone charged.” I tossed a slight grin to O’Connell. “I brought you boys this far, so don’t screw it up.”
Thirty-four
The next morning, there was loud knocking at my front door. I looked at my nine millimeter, but shooting whoever it was could be considered an overreaction. Instead, I put on my robe and answered the door. After signing the delivery form, I was handed a large white box. I put it down and eyed it suspiciously. Nondescript packaging always made me leery. Slowly, I lifted the lid to reveal a bottle of French wine and a dozen, long-stemmed, white roses. The card was scrawled in familiar handwriting: For everything you’ve done, and everything still to do. Thank you. - J.M. Could Martin be any more cliché?
I picked up the bouquet, filled a large water glass, and shoved the stems inside. I wasn’t the floral type, but it was a sweet gesture, I suppose. It would have been sweeter if he thought to send pizza to accompany the wine, but maybe that’s where he and I differed. Deciding to ignore the gesture for the time being, I got ready and went to my office.
Staring at my notepad, I was unable to resist working on the final solution to Skolnick’s murder. Moretti had a point. It didn’t look kosher to have the initial suspect’s security consultant identify the actual perpetrator. Then again, Martin had friends in high places, and it seemed unlikely anyone would bat an eye. Better safe than sorry, though.
The only remaining question was whether Valerie Yves was an accomplice in Caterina’s murder. Yves knew the unconscious man wasn’t Sanderson, but she had an axe to grind with Skolnick. Being desperate for money and fame would make a great reason for killing the star model at Tate’s agency, and since Webber was willing to kill over nothing more than conjecture, Yves might have convinced her Martin was actually Sanderson.
Considering Webber was insanely possessive of her beloved Ricky, what would she have done if she saw the sex tape? The light bulb blinked on, and I knew it was the threat Heathcliff would make to get cooperation or at least substantiation from Yves. Valerie wouldn’t risk her own safety to cover for Skolnick’s killer. After all, accessory charges didn’t carry the decades that homicide did.
If Webber saw the porno, there’d be no way to predict how she’d react, and Yves wouldn’t risk being locked up with a deranged killer. Then again, besides the drug contacts and insider information on Sanderson and Tate, if Yves wasn’t involved in the murder, she wouldn’t have anything useful to give the police. But why did she attack me? There had to be more to the story. I leaned back in my chair, trying to clear my mind and leave the investigating to the men with badges since I was benched for the rest of the game.
The phone rang, providing a great distraction. “Parker Investigative Services,” I answered. I had no idea what to call my business, so I was trying out new things.
“Don’t we sound professional?” Jack Fletcher mocked. “I just wanted to make sure you received our invoice.”
“Mail’s a bit slow,” I replied since I didn’t bother to check it today. “Don’t worry, you’ll get paid. You know where I work, after all.”
“I was kidding about the invoice. I was just calling to tell you that other issue concerning our mutual adolescent acquaintance has been resolved. No record and no court appearances. He didn’t do anything wrong, so it’s all been swept under the rug.”
“Any word on the dealers?” I had no idea why Fletcher was calling to fill me in. Maybe he missed one too many professional ethics classes, but I wasn’t complaining.
“They’re small potatoes, but I heard through the grapevine the DA’s compiling a major case against some bigwig supplier. I don’t know if they work for the same guy, but if they do, the DA’s office is prepared to make a deal with them. Once again, there won’t be any blowback on anyone we might concern ourselves with.”
“Thanks.” I was genuinely appreciative. “Are you harboring any ill will toward me for declining your generous work offer?”
“We’re good here,” he reassured. “In the future, if we need an investigator for a random third party, should we file your name in the Rolodex?”
“Only if I have the option to decline again.”
“Thanks for the referral, and thanks for straightening out the other situation.” He disconnected, and I wondered if the police made any more progress on the Skolnick case in the last twelve hours or if Fletcher’s gratitude was a general statement and not focused on anything specific.
Since he reminded me that I failed to check the mail, I went outside to the box. There was a bubble mailer with the Smidel’s return address. It must be Christmas with all the packages I was getting today. Inside was a thank you card from Roger and a brand new mancala game board. I smiled, placing it on top of my desk. At least the kid didn’t take after his mother. Although, with the way she was, this probably wasn’t the last time I’d hear from either of them.
After dispensing with the rest of the mail, I used my office time to catch up on some phone calls. First, I dialed Mark’s work number and waited. When the call was redirected to his voicemail, I left my thanks for smoothing the waters with Director Kendall and an apology for my less than positive attitude when it came to consulting at my former agency. I knew when I asked for a favor it would lead to at least one more gig at the OIO, and I didn’t want there to be any hard feelings for when I returned. The police department put me through enough hazing hell for one lifetime, and I didn’t want the OIO to get the same idea. I was running damage control for the future. Maybe I was completely pessimistic or just afraid what another stint would do to my private life.
Speaking of private life, I tried Martin’s cell phone. It was Saturday, and there was a fair chance he’d be at home. “Hey, beautiful,” he greeted. “I was afraid to leave you alone to your own devices for too long.”
“Thanks for the flowers and wine. It wasn’t necessary.”
“It’s the least I could do. God, Alex, I wish I realized what I put you through. At least I understand why you were so adamant about protecting me before and why you pushed me away. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve said that already. Let’s leave all of that in the past. You’ve moved beyond it, so it’s time I do the same.” I let out a breath. “On a more current matter, nothing’s been set in stone, but I feel confident the police have Caterina’s killer in custody. I can give you a brief synopsis the next time I see you.” I promised to fill him in, and everyone at the police department probably expected as much.
“Well, I’m free all day.” The swagger was in his voice. My god, he was one confident son of a bitch.
“Okay,” I relented, “I’m leaving my office now. Do you want to meet at my place?”
“Sure. I’ll see you soon.”
On the way home, I picked up takeout from the Chinese restaurant. I wasn’t sure how well Chinese food would go with French wine, but it was the easiest option for reheating. Apparently, we were international tonight.
I just put the food into the fridge and placed Roger’s gift on my coffee table when there was a knock at the door. Someone was impatient. Opening the door, I nodded to Bruiser, who immediately r
etreated down the hallway.
“Hey.” How Martin made a single word sound sexy was some talent. He was giving me the same look he did yesterday in his kitchen. My face flushed, and I turned away, hoping he didn’t notice. This was ridiculous. “Maybe I should have sent a vase instead of wine.” He cocked an eyebrow at the flower setup on my kitchen counter. “I’ve missed you.”
“You need new material, especially since we haven’t even hit the thirty-six hour mark yet.”
“I didn’t realize there was a moratorium before such sentiments could be uttered.” He cracked a bemused smile. “Is there a rulebook or something that I can refer to?”
“Jackass.” I snorted. “I picked up some Chinese food for dinner in case you were planning to hang around for a few hours, unless Bruiser’s waiting in the lobby again?”
“You don’t have a lobby, so I sent him home,” Martin remembered, picking up the mancala box. “What’s this?”
“A gift from yet another of my adoring fans.” I pulled two wine glasses from the cupboard. “Wine?”
“Open it now, so it’ll have time to breathe,” he instructed, taking the box and setting the game on my kitchen table. “I haven’t seen this in years. We had to make our own for some social studies class in high school or junior high,” he mused, appearing nostalgic. “Want to play while you tell me about the police investigation?”
“Sure.” I uncorked the wine and found my decanter, which I never used, and emptied the bottle into it. Over the next forty-five minutes, we played nonstop mancala and drank some wine while I told him everything regarding Sanderson and Webber. “I still don’t see the resemblance,” I concluded, “but I’ve been removed from the investigation for now. Moretti wants his guys to finish things up, unhindered and unassisted.”
“Smart move,” he responded. I glanced up, noticing he was struggling with something, and I had my suspicions on what it could be.
“One thing,” I poured more wine into our two glasses, perhaps needing the liquid courage, “a guy goes to a party with a wad of cash, his Rolex, overly popular designer suit, his Harvard business school ring, and a condom in his wallet, and proceeds to drink himself stupid. It seems to me he’s looking to get laid.”