Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  Whoever it was, Parrott thought, needed to be identified and brought to justice, no matter whether the victim was honorable, brilliant, or well-loved--or a total bastard. A man’s life had been cut short by another person’s hand. It was his, Parrott’s, mission to find out whose, and, by golly, he would.

  Chapter 37

  Nicole had just returned from a physical therapy session, and she was feeling hopeful. As she shirked off her shirred mink coat and brushed the melting snowflakes from her thick blonde hair, she inhaled deeply. She was healing ahead of schedule, according to her surgeon and physical therapists. Her spirits were healing, too, as she settled into a routine of life without Preston. New Year’s Eve was tomorrow, and it reminded her of last year, when she and Preston had gone out for the very first time. It filled her with amazement at the way her life had changed in just one year.

  She recalled how Preston had stopped by her desk after buying his new car. He’d leaned in to introduce himself, almost kissing her on the lips. His brazen confidence had stolen her attention, and the invitation to attend one of the most exclusive New Year’s Eve celebrations in New York had given her that Cinderella moment she had been waiting for all her life. Within weeks they were featured in society columns and magazines, and soon she was wearing a five-carat engagement diamond on her left ring finger. She couldn’t believe her luck in landing one of America’s most desirable men.

  Of course, the whirlwind romance was not without its costs, one of which was Billy Bartosh. Nicole had been considering moving in with Billy at the time Preston so suddenly injected himself into her life. She and Billy had been together for almost three years, and they had had lots of good times, but surely even he could see that this was an opportunity no girl could refuse. Now, a little more than a year later, she plopped down on the bed in the master suite and surveyed her plush surroundings. She considered, then decided against, popping one of the homemade white chocolate rumballs into her mouth. While Preston had enjoyed having the delicious treats on his nightstand, and the staff was taking pains to keep the household routines in place as much as possible, Nicole was determined not to allow temptation to rule. I’ll bet there are over three hundred calories in each one. She remembered how Billy would tease her with Hershey bars, knowing how partial she was to dark chocolate.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mrs. Phillips?” Rosa broke into Nicole’s reverie and brought her back to the present.

  “Oh, Rosa, is it time for you to leave already? I’ve been meaning to ask you whether you’d like to have the next few days off to spend with your family.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Phillips, but I think you’ll need me to help you still.”

  “I’m much better, now, really. And I know you gave up Christmas to take care of me. Besides, my sister is coming in again, and she will help me with whatever I need.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind working the holiday, and I appreciate the extra money.”

  “I’m sure,” Nicole said with a firmness that didn’t allow for further debate. She reached for her wallet to retrieve five hundred dollar bills, which she handed to Rosa with a flourish. “Here is a little extra for being so helpful over the past few weeks. I will see you on Thursday morning, the second.”

  Rosa accepted the tip with a nod of the head and a murmur of thanks. After Preston’s death, Nicole hadn’t been sure of her servants’ continued loyalty, but she had learned during her short marriage to Preston Phillips that hundred dollar bills went a long way toward building relationships.

  “Bless you, Mrs. Phillips,” Rosa said. “I will see you on Thursday, and if you need me before, just give me a call.”

  Nicole leaned back against the comforting firmness of the Tempur-Pedic pillows on Preston’s side of the bed and sighed. It was nice to be waited on hand and foot, but that came with costs, too, chiefly a lack of privacy. She felt a glimmer of conscience at having to lie about Francine, but then she supposed that any woman in her position had to do such things now and then; otherwise, how would she ever have a life?

  She reached into her pocket for her smartphone and went to the “B’s” on her contact list. As the phone rang, she examined her manicure as she thought, This year’s New Year’s Eve celebration will be much different.

  ***

  Parrott pulled up to the station, put the car into park, and placed his forehead against the steering wheel before killing the engine. It had been a long day, and, apparently, it was going to be an even longer night. The growl of his stomach reminded him that the sandwich from Corner Bakery had long since metabolized. He hoped there was something lying around the station to snack on. And hopefully some strong coffee, too.

  The falling snow and biting wind ushered him into the station, where he was greeted by bright lights, the metallic smell of day-old coffee and the chief’s booming voice. “Come on into the conference room, Parrott. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Schrik clasped him by the elbow and led him into the spartan room, where “Nick,” whose real name was Sylvester Riley, gazed at a computer screen, scrolling constantly. He rose as Parrott entered the room, and offered his hand in greeting.

  “What have you got?” Parrott asked, his deep preacher voice sounding like Charleton Heston’s from The Ten Commandments. Sylvester’s ability to extract jewels from motherboards was the stuff of a detective’s dreams, and Parrott rubbed his hands together in anticipation of a break in the case.

  “More than I expected to find,” Sylvester replied, grinning to show a gold star in his second incisor. “The victim definitely was no stranger to his computer. We’ve got a trail of emails, internet searches, purchases, favorite websites, you name it.”

  “Meaning?” Parrott didn’t mean to cut off the commentary, but it was late, and, excited as he was to hear the report, he was yearning for home.

  Schrik broke in. “Listen, before we get started, I know you’ve been on the road, and you must be hungry. I saved you some General Tso’s chicken, egg rolls, and shrimp fried rice. You want me to heat it up?”

  Parrott began to salivate at the mere mention of his favorite take-out menu. “Thanks, Chief.” Parrott’s desire to go home drained away. He pulled a chair up to the computer and let its light bathe his face with the same glow as that illuminating the face of his new best friend. “Sylvester, my man, make my day.”

  ***

  The next ninety minutes passed quickly. Sylvester had made catalogues of the victim’s computer use for the six months prior to his death. There were thousands of pieces of data to log. Both Parrott and Schrik were impressed that Sylvester had been able to accomplish so much in just a few days’ time. The report was just over four hundred pages, too much for the policemen to digest in time to keep moving forward with the case. That was why Sylvester was presenting this late night “show and tell.”

  “See these?” Sylvester said, pointing at a group of icons inside of a file. “These are files that Phillips saved, documenting information he found about Mrs. Phillips before he married her. It seems he didn’t fully trust the pretty package enough to marry her without investigating her background first. Then he hid the information inside of folders within folders.”

  “Anything suspicious in there?” Parrott asked. The Chinese food had made itself at home in his digestive system, and the new blood sugar had made him fully alert again.

  Schrik, who had looked this part over while waiting for Parrott to arrive, answered. “What you would expect--pretty girl, lots of boyfriends, a few serious, but no marriages. Ambitious enough to get a job at a fancy car dealership, where she would be likely to meet rich men. High school education followed by one semester at ju-co. Not dumb, but not a rocket scientist. Certainly not a naïve little girl, but nothing that screams ‘criminal’ either.”

  “She’s still looking suspicious to me,” Parrott said. “Can you get me information about her computer use, her cell phone calls, social media postings?”

  Sylvester
said, “Sure thing, as long as you approve, Chief.”

  “Sure, go ahead. Do the easy stuff first, and I’ll tell you whether we need to go further. A victim this prominent, I’m sure I wouldn’t need to do much to get a warrant.”

  “Okay, what else did Phillips do on this fancy machine?” Parrott asked.

  Sylvester clicked out of one folder and opened another. “Something interesting here. In the weeks before the party at Bucolia, it seems our guy was busy researching.”

  “Researching what?” Parrott and Schrik asked in unison.

  “Oddly enough, he was researching the people who were at the party. Well, not all of them. Just the Spillers, Kelleys, Winthrops, and Campbells. It’s as if he wanted to know what each of the couples was doing currently before he met up with them in person.”

  Parrott commented, “Those were the ones he had known for most of his life. The Bakers and the Blooms were newer friends of the Campbells.”

  “What about Margo Rinaldi? Wasn’t she part of that group?” Schrik asked.

  “Yes, but she was living somewhere in Italy. She came to the party with her younger sister, Libby Bloom. Maybe Phillips didn’t know she would be there,” Parrott said.

  “So what’s in the folders?”

  “Copies of news articles, postings on Facebook or Twitter, a few pictures. The biggest folder is about Marshall Winthrop. Seems Winthrop was not happy with Phillips’ management of the Winthrop Estate Trust. Can’t blame him, myself. Who would want to answer to an outsider for money at the age of sixty-five?”

  “What’s in there about the trust?” Parrott asked, leaning forward to look.

  Sylvester clicked on more files, some of them requiring passwords. Parrott was doubly amazed to be able to look at copies of correspondence from Marshall Winthrop’s attorney, Rodney Ballenger, to his client. First of all, how did Phillips get hold of them? Then, how did Sylvester get to them?

  “It seems,” Sylvester said, pointing to one of the letters, “that Winthrop had engaged Ballenger to represent him in a lawsuit against Phillips.”

  “If the suit had been filed, the news sharks would have gone into feeding frenzy mode,” Schrik remarked. “Two guys that rich and powerful?”

  “Nothing about a filing date,” Sylvester went on, “but evidently they had been preparing to file.”

  Parrott thought out loud. “I can see why Phillips would want to keep an eye on Winthrop. Phillips’ reputation might have been ruined by that kind of lawsuit, but why did he snoop on the others?”

  Sylvester clicked out of and into other folders. “I can’t answer that, Detective,” he said, “but I can tell you Leon Spiller has suffered big financial losses in the past twenty-four months, all documented here.” He pointed to the information saved in the Spiller file.

  Again Parrott was amazed at how thoroughly Phillips had been able to obtain personal financial information on another person.

  “What about Kelley?” Schrik asked. “He’s the guy from Miles Stewart who just had a stroke.”

  “Lots of docs on Kelley, but nothing that stands out. Mainly financial articles about Miles Stewart and social stuff. The guy has three homes, if that means anything.”

  “You think these finance wizards play a tight game of one-upmanship?” Schrik asked.

  “Probably,” Parrott guessed, “but in this case, I think there is more to it. The vic did a lot of things to piss off his old buddies. He knew he was going to encounter them at the Campbell party. I think he wanted to be prepared for what might come up over the weekend.”

  “Well,” Schrik said with a low chuckle, “I don’t guess he was prepared enough, given what happened to him.”

  Sylvester clicked out of several folders then and flipped to another screen. “Now, I have to show you something even curiouser. I stumbled upon this by accident.”

  Something in Sylvester’s tone of voice caused Parrott to perk up, despite the lateness of the hour and the tribulations of the day. He stood up and bent forward, his head almost touching Sylvester’s ear.

  “This is a list of the computer’s search history for the past sixty days. Easy to access. Lots of searches, mostly financial. But look at this one from November sixteenth.” Sylvester pointed to the spot on the screen where a single word was listed.

  “Omigod,” Parrott exhaled. “How can that be?”

  The paperclip cigar fell from Schrik’s mouth as he, too, exclaimed, “My God.”

  The word that Preston, or someone who had access to his computer, had searched just four weeks before he died was “palytoxin.”

  Chapter 38

  After feeding Horace and cleaning out his cage, and giving him some time to fly free in the house, Parrott had trouble getting to sleep. He was still bummed about the violent death of his cousin, gone from the news, but still fresh and painful for him. His mind was also a constant feed of snippets from the interview he’d had with Kitty Kelley and the meeting with Schrik and St. Nick. More and more his focus was narrowing, like that of a microscope honing in on protozoa. Impressions were important, and while he didn’t have anything against anyone he had interviewed, he was not so naïve as to think that he was hearing the whole truth and nothing but from any of them, either.

  A thin line of melted marshmallow ringed the inside of the mug on his nightstand. It was a sign of frustration that he left it for tomorrow. He tried in vain to plump up his old, flat pillows, trying to get comfortable in the double bed. His flannel pajamas did little to ease him into dreamland, either.

  He tried to erase the details of this case from his brain, focusing instead on the picture of Navy SEAL, Tonya Collins, by his bedside. The slight gap between her front teeth and her velvety eyes seemed to speak to him from worlds away. “These rich folks don’t have nothing on you, Detective. Just follow your instincts, and you’ll crack this case.”

  Parrott held the picture in both hands, wishing he could hold the real thing. He remembered last New Year’s Eve, just before Tonya was deployed to Afghanistan. They had whooped it up bigtime with four days in the Big Apple, Times Square, the whole ball of wax. This New Year’s Eve would be really different with Tonya a million miles away and this clunky case pressing in on every waking moment.

  He clutched his pillows, imagining they had the warmth and shape of his girl, and eventually he drifted off.

  ***

  At six a.m., Parrott’s radio alarm, set on the news station, burst into the commercial of a foreign-accented insurance mascot. He reached for the “off” button, tempted to push “snooze” instead. The year was getting away from him, and this made him feel even more pressured to jump out of bed and get going. His goal was to interview the remaining suspects before the New Year balloons lost their helium.

  He lumbered out of bed, completed his toiletry routine and a set of vigorous exercises, then made himself a gigantic bowl of oatmeal. When he arrived back at the station, he logged onto his computer and typed summaries of his notes from the past day’s investigations. By then it was seven-thirty, and with no time to waste, he called the Spillers’ home phone number.

  Leon answered on the third ring, a cuckoo clock chirping its two syllables in the background, followed by a cheery Swiss tune. “Hello,” Leon said, not particularly friendly.

  “Mr. Spiller?” Parrott asked, his deep voice several octaves lower. “Oliver Parrott here, West Brandywine Police. I hope I haven’t called too early.”

  “Well, I’m not used to getting calls at seven-thirty a.m., Detective, but you didn’t wake me.”

  “I apologize, sir. I just wanted to set up a meeting with you and Mrs. Spiller to talk about John Campbell’s birthday weekend.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective, but my wife is unavailable right now.”

  “What do you mean unavailable?”

  “I mean, she is not available to meet with you or anyone. She’s in the hospital.”

  Parrott donned his most sympathetic tone of voice. “I’m sorry to hear that. Which hospital i
s she in?”

  “Not that I think it’s any of your business, but she is in an alcohol rehabilitation hospital, The Caron Foundation.” He added, “She’s not in any condition to meet with you, and I would appreciate it if you could respect her privacy.”

  Not surprised by the sharp tone, Parrott took on a similar tone of his own. “Need I remind you, that we are investigating a murder? Of a public figure, no less. My orders are to interview every guest who was at the Campbell birthday weekend.”

  “I am more than willing to meet with you, Parrott. Ask me as many questions as you can think of, and I will answer them. Just please leave my wife out of it, at least for the time being. She’s very anxious. Her doctors don’t want her to have any visitors--except me--and I have strict orders not to bring up any topics that may upset her.”

  First Gerald Kelley, now Vicki Spiller--will there be no end to suspects who are unable to talk? Parrott leaned toward the computer screen and pulled up his Outlook calendar. “Okay, Spiller, I’ll meet with you at your place. What’s the best time?”

  “I’m working from home today. Have to take some clothes to Vicki later this afternoon. How about ten a.m.?”

  Parrott looked at his watch. It would be cutting it close to get there by ten, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He wished he could earn frequent driver points for all the miles he was racking up in this case. Before he agreed, he realized he wanted to make a stop on the way. “How about eleven?”