True. But, still …
Marcie continued, obviously on a roll. “You don’t have a contract with Mrs. Winslet, you don’t have a retainer. All your up-front hard costs are covered, sure, but what about your time? This isn’t even your standard mode of business. Everything about this case feels wrong.”
“I know it’s not how I normally agree to cases, but the income from this one case alone is equivalent to at least a dozen or more of my regular ones.”
“That’s not an excuse, Landry.” Marcie’s stare could melt glaciers, and she locked it on Landry. “So why did you jump on this case?”
“I need the money.”
“Your business does, but I’m not buying that’s your motivation.” Marcie stood, her stare burning.
Landry refused to shift in her seat. “I don’t want to lose Dad’s business. I can’t fail him. This is his legacy.”
“Baloney. You’re his legacy.” Marcie leaned against the table, not taking her gaze from Landry.
Silence hung as heavy in the office as the dark clouds settling over New Orleans.
Finally, Marcie straightened and headed for the office door. As she reached the doorway, she turned and faced Landry. “If you’re being honest, I bet you don’t know exactly why you took the case. I’m pretty sure, however, you’ll need to figure it out sooner rather than later. For yourself.” She flashed a quick smile. “I love you, ya know.”
Landry smiled back. “Love you back. I’ll call you later.” She watched her best friend retreat then glanced down at the documents on the desk.
Why had she taken the case? The money Mrs. Winslet promised? The challenge Nickolai threw at her?
Or was it something else? The good Lord knew she didn’t have time to figure it out at the moment. She needed to concentrate on the case.
CHAPTER FOUR
Maddening. Just maddening.
Nickolai gripped his cell phone tighter. The longer he sat on hold, the more he told himself doing anything at all on this case was a bad idea. He looked out the front windshield of his truck, staring at the facility his sister had called home for the last couple of years.
“Hey, Baptiste. Haven’t heard from you in a month of Sundays. How are you?” Chris Graze’s voice was as big as his personality.
“Doing well. Enjoyed the Saints’ games this season, even though we didn’t do as well as I’d hoped. At least we beat those Cowboys.”
Chris chuckled. “Yeah, yeah … rub it in. Missed watching games with you, bro.” The laughter left his voice.
Nickolai swallowed and ran his knuckles over the steering wheel. “Same.” And he did miss his former partner. More than he’d realized.
“Hey, man, I get it. I was there.”
Yes, he’d been there on the day Nickolai had almost died. If it hadn’t been for Chris’s fast action …
“I have a feeling you didn’t call me to talk football.” Chris snatched him back to the present.
“No, although I do love rubbing it in your face that we beat you.”
“I know you do.”
Nickolai chuckled. “I do have a favor.”
“Don’t you always?” The familiar easiness between them had returned.
“This one should be easy enough.”
Chris snorted. “You always say that. What is it?”
“The Bartholomew Winslet homicide.”
Chris whistled. “Nothing like jumping to the top of the ladder, huh, Baptiste? I can’t tell you much on that one, my friend. The captain is leading the investigation himself. I don’t even have access to a lot of the file.”
Money did grease the wheels of justice, that was for sure. “I’ve got a lot on the case already. I just need to know what angles y’all are working on recovering the map.”
“Map?” Keyboard tapping sounded over the connection. “Oh. The alleged missing document.” It wasn’t just his former partner’s wording that came out stiff and awkward—his whole tone changed.
“Alleged?”
“Yeah. According to the widow, he picked up an expensive document, but it wasn’t recovered when his body was discovered.”
Nickolai flipped through the envelope Mrs. Winslet had prepared for him. He scanned the information again. Something didn’t feel right. “Chris, the hotel security camera showed Winslet putting it in his briefcase before he left. If it wasn’t found on his body, wouldn’t you say it was taken? That it’s missing?”
“Maybe not. Could be that he put it somewhere else after he left the hotel. Or it was left in his car.”
Something didn’t sound right with his old partner, either. “Are you kidding me? Le Pavillon Hotel security tape shows him leaving the hotel with the briefcase at 11:05. The statement from his driver said he had the briefcase when he got out of the car at 11:32 at the corner since the front of the Crescent Bank was blocked by the armored car. His body was found at 11:42 by one of the guards from the armored company. No briefcase was found next to his body. What other explanation is there?”
“How’re you getting all this information, Nick?”
“Let’s just say someone’s interested, and I’m poking around a little.” Which was true. He hadn’t decided for sure whether to take the case. “Are you saying Winslet’s driver is a suspect?” Which was logical. He flipped through the papers spread over the front seat of his truck. “Miles Lewis.”
“I can only tell you what’s documented.” More tapping sounded; then Chris cleared his throat. “At the moment, we’re working many angles. We don’t have a specific list of suspects. You know the drill….”
He did, which was why he understood Chris wanted to tell him more but couldn’t volunteer anything. “Anything else you have on Lewis?”
“According to notes, Lewis’s statement that he was driving around the block during the actual time of murder was verified by GPS on Winslet’s vehicle.”
So the driver wasn’t a suspect. He was, however, the last person to see and talk with the victim. “What about the seller? Joel Easton in Arizona?”
“He was interviewed over the phone and his alibi was verified.”
“Are there any notes about his interview? His background? Is he even legitimate?” Come on, there had to be something in the file that Nickolai didn’t have.
“I don’t have any of that information. I told you, it’s not my case.” The unspoken warning was right there, where Nickolai could almost touch it.
“Just a couple more questions, Chris.”
The sigh over the connection revealed a lot. A whole lot. “Make it fast, Baptiste.”
“Is there a theory about the armored car? Was it coincidence that it was parked there, or was it at its regular time to be at the bank?”
The pause was heavy. “According to the notes I have access to, it was the normal time for the truck to be there. The driver courier of the truck was questioned, but he saw nothing.” Another pause. “The truck’s officer, upon exiting the bank, noticed Winslet on the sidewalk. He’s the one who called it in to 911.”
Interesting.
“If that’s all, I’ve got to go.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Hey, no problem. Let’s get together soon, yeah?”
“Sure.” Nickolai ended the call and stared at the papers from the envelope. It didn’t make sense.
He should call Mrs. Winslet and tell her he couldn’t take the case, that it was a police homicide investigation. He should call Landry Parker and warn her not to interfere in the investigation, either.
No, he should turn down the case and mind his own business, period.
But something about Chris Graze’s voice … it was more than just the captain heading up the investigation. Something was sure off about the investigation—he felt it in his gut, and his gut was rarely wrong. He’d work the case just as he had when he was on the force—start with the victim at the time of death and move back from then. That meant the driver, Miles Lewis.
Nickolai located the paper Mrs. Winsl
et had compiled of people associated with her husband and their business then dialed the number for Miles Lewis.
“Hello?” The answering voice didn’t sound much older than Nickolai’s thirty-four, which was a little surprising to him. For some reason, Nickolai had assumed Winslet’s driver would be older.
Nickolai cleared his throat. “Miles Lewis?”
“Who is asking?” The defensiveness came across clearly in those three, very proper, words.
“I’m Nickolai Baptiste. Mrs. Winslet gave me your name and number as I’m working for her.” Maybe.
“Yes. She informed me that some people might be contacting me in regards to Mr. Winslet’s passing.” People. Him and Landry Parker.
Nickolai reached for his notebook and a pen. “I understand you were Mr. Winslet’s driver?”
“I drive for both Mr. and Mrs. Winslet.”
Might better be specific with this one. “You were driving Mr. Winslet the day he was killed?”
“I was.”
He paused, waiting, but Lewis didn’t elaborate. Nickolai detested these kinds of interrogations. They were like getting a root canal. He’d have to walk the driver through the information. “Can you tell me what time you and Mr. Winslet arrived at the Pavillon Hotel?”
“I dropped him off at 10:32 that morning. Before you ask, I know the exact time as we had just left the bank down the street.”
Where he got the cashier’s check for Easton. “Did you enter the hotel with him?”
“I did not. Mr. Winslet instructed me to wait for him, so I parked in the hotel’s lot until he called and asked me to pick him up at the front door.”
“Which was when?”
“He called me at almost straight up eleven. I had to make a block to pick him up at the front entrance approximately five minutes later.”
Nickolai grabbed the page Mrs. Winslet had included in the packet. According to the statements given by the waitress at the Crystal Room inside the hotel and the hotel’s doorman, Lewis picked up Winslet at 11:05.
“So he gets in the car. Did he say anything to you?”
“Of course. I may be just a driver in your eyes, sir, but I liked Mr. Winslet and we spoke as friends.”
A bit too defensive? “My apologies. What did he say?”
“He informed me that he had obtained the map he had purchased, was excited to have it authenticated, and instructed me to go straight to his bank.”
“And you did?”
“Of course.”
Nickolai swallowed the sigh. “But when you got there …”
“There was an armored truck parked in front where I would normally let Mr. Winslet out. I asked Mr. Winslet if he would like me to drive around the block to give the armored vehicle time to move, and he agreed.”
“So you drove around the block?”
“I did. The truck was still there, so I made another circle.”
“And the truck was still there?”
“Yes. Mr. Winslet had a lunch meeting scheduled at noon, to which he didn’t want to be late as punctuality was a pet peeve of his, so he asked me to let him out at the corner of Poydras and Loyola. I did.” Lewis’s voice hitched on the last two words.
“Did he have his briefcase with the map in it when he got out?”
“Of course. That was his whole purpose in going to the bank—to put the map in his safety-deposit box until he could give it to his appraiser.”
“I have to be sure, Mr. Lewis—you’re positive he had the briefcase with him when he exited the car?”
“I am more than sure, sir. I am two hundred percent positive. He had it in his left hand as he got out of the car because I held his right hand to assist him.”
“So you helped him out of the car, then what?”
Lewis let out a dry cough. “Mr. Winslet told me he wouldn’t be but a few moments and he walked toward the bank. Cars honked behind me and the armored truck was still in its place, so I got back in the car and pulled out. I intended to continue circling the block until Mr. Winslet exited the bank.”
“And you did?”
“Yes, sir. I did. Three times.” Which the car’s GPS verified. “I had just pulled around for the fourth time when I noticed a crowd of people near the front of the bank. I pulled up to park, but the ambulance arrived. I whipped around in front of the armored truck still there, parked, and rushed toward the crowd. They had just put Mr. Winslet on the stretcher.” Emotion filled the man’s voice.
Nickolai understood. Better than most. “According to the police report, you spoke to the officers from the eighth district who arrived on the scene?”
“I did, then later went down to the station to sign my statement.”
Which Nickolai had a copy of, but it wasn’t much help. “I have a copy of your statement, Mr. Lewis.”
“Then I’m not sure why we’re having this discussion, Mr. Baptiste.”
Nickolai wasn’t exactly certain himself. “Can you think of anyone who wanted to harm Mr. Winslet?”
“No, sir. Bartholomew Winslet was one of the kindest, most gentle, generous men I have been fortunate enough to know. Do not misunderstand, he was smart and didn’t allow himself to be taken advantage of, by no means, but his compassion and bigheartedness were very ingrained into who he was as a person. Publicly and privately.”
Spoken as a friend, not an employee. Nickolai made a note. “Mr. Lewis, do you believe, then, that his murder had to do with the map more than him as a person?”
“The police didn’t ask me that.”
Nickolai stared out the truck window and waited, holding his breath. A moment passed. Then another.
“I do. I believe he was murdered to get the map.”
Nickolai exhaled slowly. “Do you know who all knew he was going to pick up the map that morning?”
“His wife. Me, of course. The appraiser.” A pause. “I would imagine his assistant and his secretary. Maybe someone else, but none that I’m aware of.”
Nickolai wrote as quickly as Lewis spoke.
“The seller, obviously, and whomever they told. I would assume a significant other or relative, but I don’t know. I would hope …”
“You would hope what, Mr. Lewis?”
“I would hope that the seller wouldn’t have told the other interested party.”
This was new. “Other interested party?”
“The other person who had been bidding on the map.”
Nickolai’s gut tightened, just as it had back when he’d been Chris’s partner. “There was another person bidding on the map?”
“Indeed. Mr. Winslet almost had the map for eight hundred thousand, until the other bidder came in at nine. Mr. Winslet had to jump to a million dollars to secure the map.”
Nickolai flipped through the papers he’d gotten from Mrs. Winslet. “I don’t have any of that information. Did you tell this to the police?”
“No. They didn’t ask me, so I didn’t think it important. Is it?”
Probably. At the very least, it gave him another suspect. “Maybe. Do you know this other bidder’s name?”
“I’m sorry, no. Mr. Winslet didn’t know. Well, if he did, he never told me. He had simply expressed frustration in the price acceleration because of the bidder. The seller even made a point of telling Mr. Winslet that the other bidder was local to him, so he wouldn’t have to worry about security in delivery. That’s why Mr. Winslet paid for his travel expenses.”
The seller would know who this other bidder was and if he, in fact, knew who Winslet was. Nickolai’s “sixth sense” kicked in, and despite his best effort, excitement rose within his chest. He thanked Lewis for his time then called the number listed for Joel Easton. He received a recording that the cell phone number he dialed was unreachable. Had Easton used a burner phone? Very sketchy, but he glanced at the time on his cell.
He’d call this evening and see what he could find out. Depending on what he learned, he’d decide whether or not to actually take the case.
&
nbsp; There was no denying his interest was piqued. Especially with the new information about the other bidder. And there was the money … no one could deny the payday on this one job alone was about what he normally made in a year.
He shoved the papers back into the envelope and stashed it in the console before climbing out of the truck. After locking the door, he made clean strides across the parking lot. This always felt like the longest walk ever. Like what he imagined a death row inmate’s walk to the executioner’s room would be.
Which was silly because he was only going to visit his sister. The only problem was, he didn’t know which sister he’d see.
On one hand, there was his sweet Lisbeth. A decade and a half younger than him, Lisbeth had been his parents’ midlife surprise, but she’d been the apple of their eye. Strong willed, determined, but she wrapped their dad around her little finger and only had to smile to get him to do whatever she wanted. She’d barely reached puberty when she’d begun to change.
And that was the other Lisbeth. The one who’d become more sullen. Withdrawn. Sulking. Then out-and-out rudeness. Hard for Mom and Dad to control. She’d cut herself. Nickolai had been convinced she’d only hurt herself to manipulate their parents. He’d already been a cop for many years, had extensive training. He’d seen it all. Thought he knew it all.
He’d been wrong. Dead wrong. And his mistake had cost his parents their lives.
“Good morning, Mr. Baptiste.”
The front desk receptionist never failed to greet him as soon as he entered. His returning smile was automatic. “How’s my sister this morning?”
“She’s doing very well.”
Despite himself, Nickolai let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding; yet, he did the same thing every week.
“Go ahead down to the visiting room and I’ll let the nurse know you’re here.”
Nodding his thanks, he did as instructed, just like he had every week for the past eight years. The routine remained constant, only Lisbeth’s mood changed from week to week.
He took a seat in the chair he always sat in then decided to change and moved to the love seat where Lisbeth usually sat.
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