Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1)

by Lawrence Kelter

  I had just finished telling Lido about Seth Green’s untimely passing when Deveraux blew into the room. The man was unbridled energy. He was tall and thin with chestnut-brown hair that had begun to turn gray at the sideburns. He had sort of a Peter Lawford look going, which really wasn’t bad at all. He was wearing a camel-colored suede blazer over a houndstooth vest. He walked directly up to us, taking my hand first and then Lido’s. “Detectives Chalice and Lido, I was surprised to receive your phone call. I hope I don’t need . . . a lawyer.”

  Not unless you iced your partner. Deveraux was smooth. He didn’t know the nature of our visit and had decided to start off in a friendly demeanor. I was sure the fangs were there, to spring forth in the event his lawyer’s soul required a living sacrifice. Lawyers can be kind of two-faced, or haven’t you heard?

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting very long; the ride from New Canaan is hell on the weekends.” I thought as much. Deveraux flipped around a desk chair and sat down facing us. “Well, Detectives, what’s going on?”

  Lido’s face, which was generally impassive, grew somber. Deveraux saw this and grasped the arms on his chair uneasily. “I’m afraid we have some bad news,” Lido said. “Ellen Redner has been found dead. We’re very sorry.”

  “My God.” Deveraux shut his eyes as his face contorted. He stood up and walked unsteadily to the window where he was able to face away from us. Lido and I gave him a moment. Within a few seconds, he was clawing at a box of tissues.

  “Would you like us to leave you alone for a few minutes?” Lido asked. “Really, it’s not a problem.”

  “No, no.” I could hear him sniffling. He was still dabbing at his tears when he spun around. “How? How in the hell did this happen? Tell me how.”

  “Her body was found in a Roosevelt Island Tram car around three-thirty this morning,” I told him.

  “On the tram? What the hell was she doing on the tram?” It took a moment, but then the light bulb went on. “Tennis?”

  Lido replied, “Yes, a little late-night exercise, I’m afraid.”

  Deveraux grabbed another wad of tissues and used them to dry his brow. “What happened to her? Was she mugged, attacked . . . what? Why the hell was she still there after three in the morning?”

  “None of the above, I’m afraid. She was simply found dead. The last cabin came in from Roosevelt Island and when the door opened, she was lying on the floor. The conductor was shot to death. Someone went to a lot of trouble to kill your partner. It looks very much like a planned assassination. There were no other passengers aboard and no obvious signs of attack. Her purse and wallet were intact, as was her briefcase. That’s how we found our way here. There were no emergency numbers found in her wallet. We tried calling her home, but there was no answer. I assume she lived alone. As for why she was found at three-thirty, I’m not sure. We spoke with someone at the tennis academy. Ms. Redner took a private lesson from ten to eleven-thirty. She left the club shortly before midnight. We can’t explain the missing three hours yet, but we will.”

  “Jesus, this is fucking terrible.” Deveraux rubbed his neck. “What else can you tell me?”

  “A small note was found with the body.”

  Deveraux’s eyes widened and his breath became labored. “A note? You’re kidding me. A note, what kind of note?”

  “We found a small piece of paper, grade-school paper, the kind kids use to practice their penmanship. It said, Look back!”

  “My God!” Deveraux exclaimed. “That’s insane.” He shook his head with dismay. “Who does a thing like that? How was she murdered?”

  “We’re still waiting for the official report, but the medical examiner believes she suffocated. There was a gash and a small contusion on her head, but we think those injuries were incidental. She may have fallen and hit her head after she lost consciousness. Again, this is all guesswork for the minute.” I didn’t like the way Deveraux looked. His complexion had turned a shade of green not very different from the paint on the walls.

  “Is she the first victim to turn up with a wad of notepaper? Is there some kind of serial sicko out there that the police department is keeping under wraps?” he demanded.

  “No, Mr. Deveraux. As far as we know, this is an isolated incident.”

  “Damn it.” Deveraux slammed the side of his fist against the wall. “We had lunch together on Wednesday.” Deveraux looked up, searching our eyes. “Do you know how many times a woman like Ellen Redner leaves the office for a proper lunch?” Lido and I both shook our heads. “Maybe twice a year, once being Christmas.” Deveraux took a deep breath which helped his color. “I’m sick, I’m just sick. Do you know why we had lunch? Ellen was planning an adoption and she needed someone to talk it over with.”

  I was getting the picture. Redner had been a true career lawyer, long hours and no social life. One day she turned around and realized that at forty, her life was empty. There weren’t more than a handful of worthwhile men to choose from. She was sick and tired of the dating scene, so rather than marrying some loser, Ellen decided to do the most noble and honorable thing she could. This really sucked. I didn’t come across a lot of strong, smart, independent women much and now there was one fewer. Damn. It was wrong to do so, but I had already decided that Ellen Redner was the kind of woman I would have liked to know.

  “Did she have family, Mr. Deveraux?” Lido asked.

  “Ellen’s brother lives in California. He’s an independent movie producer. Would you like me to call him?”

  “It’s not necessary, Mr. Deveraux. We can do it,” Lido explained.

  “I’d like to make the call if you have no objections. Keith’s the only one she’s close to. It’s the least I can do. Her parents are both gone.”

  “That’s fine, Mr. Deveraux. We appreciate it,” I told him, “but we’ll need his phone number all the same.”

  “So how do we find this bastard? My firm stands at your disposal. All of our resources are yours. I’d like to help in any way I can.”

  “That’s kind of you. We’ll certainly keep that in mind. We’d like to look through Ms. Redner’s office. After that, we’re going to check her apartment. Is there anyone else at the firm we should speak to, anyone else who might have something beneficial to tell us?”

  “Ellen and I were close. I think I would know more about her than the rest, but you’re certainly free to ask around. I can arrange a schedule so that you can interview the staff.”

  “Any close friends that you know of?” I continued.

  “I know she has friends, but there aren’t any names that come to mind. Perhaps if I went through her Rolodex.” Deveraux moved quickly to his desk. “All right, come on. I’ve got a master key. I can let you into her office. Perhaps you’ll stumble upon something important. You never know.” Deveraux slid open the center drawer and produced a large ring of keys. “I assume you’ll let me know if you remove anything from her office?”

  “We will,” I replied. “Just one more thing, Mr. Deveraux. Was Ms. Redner seeing anyone, or is there anyone you know of who might have wanted to harm her?”

  “No,” Deveraux stated emphatically. “She was married to her job. This was her life.” Deveraux broke down and began to weep. “And she was a very big part of ours.”

  Chapter Six

  “Medeco pick-proof cylinder, drill-resistant security plate, steel-reinforced doorjambs. Shit!” Anatoli, the contract locksmith the department used, looked up in disgust. It was half past seven and he was tired and exasperated. Anatoli looked as if he wanted to be somewhere else, probably curled up in bed with one of his Russian tootsies, drinking vodka and burying the bishop. They do have bishops in Russia, don’t they? How about cramming the czar? Or my personal favorite: ramming the Russki? In any case, from Anatoli’s looks, my guess was that Russian women were not very discriminating. Anatoli scratched his head and then swore, “The place is a fucking vault!” Yes, comrade. Da.

  The determined Slav worked on the locks in the most un
obtrusive manner for about fifteen minutes before opting for brute force over finesse. A fourteen-pound sledgehammer took the door off its frame, forever desecrating the entrance to the shrine which had once been home to Ellen Redner.

  Lido and I began nosing around, tossing the place, as we call it in the trade. The first thing I can tell you about Ms. Redner was that she had great shoes, lots of them. I mean we’re talking an Imelda Marcos collection. From the looks of the place, Ellen was not expecting company. It wasn’t dirty, just messy. There were Botticellis and Guccis strewn all over the place: pumps, slingbacks, moccasins, sandals, you name it. Her feet were small, really small. They looked like size five, maybe five and a half, although I wasn’t getting close enough to check.

  Her dresser was filled with Swarovski collectibles. There were several crystal ashtrays filled with jewelry; one held bracelets, another pendants, and still a third contained earrings. I poked around, looking through the earrings, and noticed that she had the cutest pair of huggies. There was a lot of loose and accessible temptation around so I flagged down a cop named Gabrosh, another Russian, and asked him to have all the jewelry photographed and catalogued, tout de suite. Better to be safe than sorry. The last thing I needed was Internal Affairs up my firm little bottom, looking for a bangle bracelet that had walked out with one of the fingerprint boys.

  Lido allowed me the privilege of going through Ellen Redner’s dresser. I didn’t cherish doing so, but at least it showed me that he wasn’t into handling women’s undergarments. I opened one of the drawers which was piled high with fresh packages of Wolford pantyhose. I turned to Lido and asked, “Hey, Gus, what do pantyhose and Brooklyn have in common?”

  Lido’s head was in the closet. He turned to me with a bewildered look on his face. “I don’t know, what?”

  “Flatbush . . . Get it? Flat-bush.” Lido smiled wryly. I like a nice wry smile in the afternoon as well. He shook his head in dismay. He grinned, but didn’t laugh. What can I tell you? Girl joke.

  I continued to go through Ellen’s drawers. I heard Lido’s voice emanating from within the closet. “Find anything unusual,” he asked.

  “Nothing electric or lubricated,” I replied. “Nothing rubberized, vulcanized, or elongated, nothing that vibrates whatsoever.” I heard Lido’s snickering from within the closet. Of course there was always old reliable manual stimulation. Barring this, however, I deduced that Ellen Redner, a young, successful and intelligent woman in her early forties must have had a love interest of some variety. Woman does not live by bread alone. They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. It’s similar with women. We don’t require a full meal, but rather a taste from time to time. There had to be a piece of candy somewhere.

  Lido finished with the closet. I walked past and saw that my partner had examined most of her outfits, almost all of which were in dry-cleaning bags. He had lain some of her suits on the bed: a teal Tahari, an Armani, and an absolutely stunning Calvin Klein. I noticed three Prada shoulder bags hanging from the inside closet doorknob. A wicker Kate Spade was filled with tampons. Now, that’s class. Ellen Redner had done well for herself—I mean, we were talking megabucks.

  The apartment was spacious. There were two bedrooms, the master, which we had been through, and a guest bedroom. Ellen was no doubt planning to convert the smaller one into a nursery. There was an eat-in kitchen, a combination living room-dining room, and a study that contained a desk and a Bang & Olufsen stereo. It was a really spectacular piece of equipment. Speaking of which, I caught a glimpse of Lido striding toward the front door. Yum.

  There were several framed pictures on the wall of Ellen’s study, mostly shots of Ellen with her family. I found many academic mementos on the bookshelf. Among them was her high school yearbook. I flipped through the pages and found Ellen’s picture. She had been the prim and studious-looking type at eighteen. Her accomplishments were listed below her photograph: senior class president, Future Leaders of America, Arista Honor Society, and lastly, Senior Sing. Her picture appeared next to a budding Neanderthal type whose name was Marcus Ripper. Beneath his name was listed, Future Ax Murderers of America. Okay, just kidding. He probably grew up and became a postal carrier.

  Ellen had graduated magna cum laude from George Washington University. I had seen her diploma on the wall in her office, along with her juris doctorate from Columbia. Several certificates were lodged in between the back cover and last page. I noted that Ellen Redner had won a Regents Scholarship and a grant from the Ford Foundation. She had been one brilliant young woman. I had a sense of what this person had been like: brilliant, dedicated, and caring. Her plans to adopt a child really told me all I needed to know about her. Some psychopath had murdered her, stuffed a note in her mouth, and taken out Teddy Balto for good measure. I wanted this son of a bitch in the worst way.

  I heard shouting coming from where the front door used to be. I put Ellen’s yearbook back on the shelf and went to see what all the commotion was about. Officer Gabrosh’s frame filled the doorway. He was having words with a good-looking man in a three-piece suit. Lido got to the doorway before me. He was doing an okay job of quieting down the visitor who a moment earlier had seemed on the verge of hysterics. I caught up with Lido just as the man asked, “Where’s Ellen? I demand to know.” Not, What’s going on? Not, What are you doing in Ms. Redner’s apartment, but Where’s Ellen? I demand to know. From where I stood, the man looked and sounded like candy. Having a sweet tooth of my own, I had a sixth sense for these things. He was dark and strapping, Latino, perhaps Mexican by descent. I checked his hair, his eyes, and the cut of his suit. Yo quiero Taco Bell; may I hold your chalupa? Gabrosh, the oaf, finally stepped out of the way and I was able to see that the man’s left ring finger was adorned with gold. Damn.

  Lido turned to me. “This is Dr. Villas. He’s a neighbor and claims to be a friend of Ms. Redner.”

  I squeezed past Gabrosh and Lido to offer Villas my hand. “Detective Stephanie Chalice. May I help you?” I said authoritatively. Dr. Villas had not seen me standing behind Lido and was surprised to find me in his face. I was glad to see that he was not too distressed to give me a proper once over. Hey, up here. “Dr. Villas, may I help you?” Villas snapped to attention.

  “Yes, I live in the building. I heard the commotion and wanted to see what was going on. I’m a friend of Ms. Redner.” And then finally, “Is she all right?”

  “Where’s your apartment, Dr. Villas?” My God, he had the most gorgeous hazel eyes. I looked into the corridor waiting for him to point to one of the other apartment doors.

  “Thirty-seven-A,” he stated.

  Ellen Redner’s apartment was on the eighth floor, nowhere near the thirty-seventh. “As in the thirty-seventh floor?” I tilted my head. Dr. Villas looked back sheepishly. A picture is worth a thousand words. If that wasn’t an admission of guilt . . . “Come in, Dr. Villas,” I insisted. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  I directed Dr. Villas to the dining room table. He seemed unhappy about being asked in, but . . . well, tough. As he walked past me, I noticed that he had the slightest limp, almost imperceptible. Well, two lovers after all; what would you expect?

  Lido joined us at the dining room table. He took out a notepad and a pencil before winking at me. It was a sexy wink, just for the record that is. I began asking questions. “There are twenty-nine floors between this apartment and yours, Dr. Villas. You must have incredibly astute hearing.”

  Villas seemed to take the comment in stride. “Detective Chalice, I saw three police cars and assorted official vehicles parked at the building’s entrance. William, the concierge told me that the police had gone up to Ms. Redner’s apartment.”

  Not buying that one, not buying it at all.

  “Ellen . . . “ he continued. “I mean Ms. Redner and I are friends.”

  And then some, I’m sure. Good for Ellen, bad for Mrs. Villas, but really good for Ellen. I was glad that Ellen had a little fun in her life. It seemed
as though she more than deserved to. Of course, her entertainment should not have come at Mrs. Villas’ expense, but considering the circumstances, we’ll have to cut her a little slack. “So you say you were friends. What kind of friends?”

  “Ellen’s a lovely person. I have many friends in the building.” Both Villas and I knew that he was lying. Villas searched my eyes to see if I was satisfied. I wasn’t, but I wasn’t grilling him to ascertain whether he was unfaithful either. I didn’t think he was the kind of guy who would murder a woman and then stuff a note in her mouth, but I had to satisfy myself thoroughly. Besides, he was really nice to look at. Oh, had I mentioned that before?

  “I have some bad news, Dr. Villas. Ellen’s dead.” Villas shook his head in dismay. I saw the muscles in his face tighten and then the same thing happened to his throat. His breathing ceased and he began to slowly rock back and forth in his chair. He was staring past me, out the window. He finally gasped and drew a breath.

  “When?” he asked sadly. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his eyes.

  “Sometime after three this morning,” I explained. “I’m sorry to say we suspect that she’s been murdered.”

  “Oh, dear God. No.” Tears ran from his eyes. “Please tell me what happened to her.” Villas was genuinely distraught. If he was a faker, he was a damn good one.

  “Her body was found on the Roosevelt Island tram. Do you know of anyone she might have visited there?”

  It took Villas a long moment to respond. “No.”

  “Can’t think of any reason she’d go there?” Lido asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Villas replied. “I really don’t know any of her other friends.” I wasn’t surprised. I doubted that anyone else knew that he had had a relationship with her, including, of course, the unwitting Mrs. Villas. It’s poor practice to be seen with your mistress.