Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  “Well, don’t feel you have to work all day. Even we need to have holidays now and then.”

  “I’ll be okay. I’ve got to see where this lead takes me, holiday or no holiday.”

  “Okay, I’m impressed. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that little sporting event of interest to you on TV this afternoon.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Parrott groaned.

  ***

  Ninety minutes later, Parrott had absorbed the information on all nine of the Bartoshes on the list. Nothing stood out, so he decided to do more research on the two Bills with police records. One had been convicted of petit larceny in 2013, and the other had been charged with auto stripping in the third degree. Plea bargain, sentenced to time served, just last year.

  Auto stripping, hmmm...he wondered if the auto in question had been a Lamborghini. He dug further into criminal justice websites. His police user ID and passwords unlocked doors and windows faster than days and weeks of old-fashioned footwork could do. “Bingo,” he shouted aloud for no one else to hear. Billy Bartosh, last on the list, had worked at Manhattan Luxury Cars on Tenth Avenue, the same place where Nicole had worked and met Preston.

  This has to be the one. Ambitious boy meets ambitious girl. The rest is history.

  His pulse racing, Parrott dialed the number of Nicole’s cell phone. In the time it took for the ringing to start, he planned his work for the rest of New Year’s Day.

  “Hello?” Nicole answered on the fourth ring, out of breath.

  “Mrs. Phillips?” He knew his baritone voice would give him away instantly, even if she didn’t examine the caller ID.

  “Detective Parrott?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry to bother you, but can I stop by and talk to you this afternoon?”

  Nicole hesitated, and Parrott could almost hear cogs and pulleys in her brain. “You are aware, of course, that this is New Year’s Day?”

  It sounded like Nicole was covering the receiver with her hand and shushing someone. “Yes, ma’am. But murder investigations don’t take holidays. I have just a few questions.”

  “Well, can’t you ask them over the phone, Detective? I’m pretty busy.”

  I’ll bet you are, Parrott thought. He felt sure that Billy Bartosh, auto stripper, was right there at her side. “No, ma’am. I’m coming into the city anyway. I can come at your convenience, sometime after noon?”

  “I just don’t know.”

  “Your cooperation means a lot, you know. I’m sure you want to get to the bottom of who killed your husband as much as we do.”

  Sighing as if purging the carbon dioxide from her lungs were painful, Nicole agreed. “How about I meet you here at noon?”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you then.” Parrott pressed the button to disconnect the call, but held the receiver near his ear, contemplating the meaning of the exchange. Something told him Billy was still there, he had spent the night, and those two were up to no good. Boy, that lady doesn’t waste any time. Even a broken ankle hasn’t stopped her from getting a date for New Year’s Eve. Unless--unless she and Bartosh never split, despite her marriage to Phillips. Oh, this might be an interesting interview indeed.

  ***

  The noon bells at All Souls Church were tolling when Parrott arrived at the Dakota. Last night’s doorman and security staff had been replaced by new faces in fresh navy uniforms with gold buttons. Parrott announced himself, producing his badge and a business card for them to keep.

  “Mrs. Phillips is expecting you,” the security officer said. His nod and grin spoke of complicity, as if he were about to add the word, “brother.”

  Parrott was used to such familiarities from other blacks, but he didn’t need them. It’s all about the work, he thought. Adrenalin pumped through his system. The next few minutes could possibly crack this case wide open. He shook his head at the mental picture of Nicole’s pretty head splitting in two like an overripe melon.

  ***

  Expecting Rosa to meet him at the door, Parrott was surprised to see Nicole, dressed in a sexy-looking velvet jumpsuit with holes exposing her shoulders and midriff. The large diamond stud in her bellybutton vied for attention, despite Parrott’s determined professionalism. Though still not weight-bearing, Nicole had graduated to crutches, and she was nimble enough with them to take his coat and lay it over the staircase railing. All of this occurred without a word being exchanged. The two stared at each other. Parrott couldn’t imagine what, from Nicole’s point of view, had changed since their last meeting, enough to erect frosty walls, unless it was a guilty conscience.

  She led him into the sunlit breakfast room, decorated with glass and chrome and a view of Central Park. He looked at the spot where his Camry had been parked the night before and wondered whether she had spotted it there. A bouquet of flowers nestled in a vase on the counter.

  When both of them were seated in leather and metal chairs, facing each other across the circular table, Nicole finally broke silence. “Okay, Detective. What is it this time?”

  Parrott cleared his throat and said, “Mrs. Phillips, I appreciate your cooperation with this investigation.”

  “Yes, you’ve said that. But what’s going on now? Do you have a suspect?”

  “We are making progress, yes. But we have a long way to go still.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I have some follow up questions for you. Some things have come up.”

  “I really don’t like having my New Year’s Day interrupted.” She picked at an invisible thread on her lap.

  Parrott had a few ideas about what he was interrupting. “I know how you feel. I don’t usually work on New Year’s Day, myself. But time is precious in a murder case.”

  “You know,” Nicole responded, “I’ve been thinking. How do we know Preston’s death was actually a murder? Maybe it was a suicide, or--or a freakish accident?”

  Parrott held the young widow’s gaze. Her heavily made-up eyes were opaque, hiding what? “What makes you think it might not be a murder?”

  “Well, I just don’t know who would have done that to Preston. The people at that party are all really smart, really rich, really famous people. Even if they didn’t like him very much, I just don’t see people like that stooping to killing him. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes, but someone did.” Parrott took his mini iPad from his shirt pocket. “Is there some reason Mr. Phillips may have been suicidal?”

  “No--o--o,” Nicole answered, drawing the syllable out as long as humanly possible. “I don’t really think so. He seemed happy enough. But he was acting a little strange during the weekend.”

  “Strange in what way?”

  “Mmmm, it’s hard to say. I really never spent time with Preston and his friends before. We mostly went out just the two of us, as a couple, you know.”

  “So what struck you as different in this situation?”

  “I don’t know. He acted like he was showing off. His money, his success, even me. But--”

  “But?”

  “Well, I was pretty drugged at the time, but I felt Preston was distancing himself. He didn’t like it when I was needy. It worried me. Now I’m just trying to forget it.”

  “Sorry to make you go through it all again. Let’s talk about the desktop computer that we took from Mr. Phillips’ office there.” He pointed in the direction of the entryway. “Who else besides Mr. Phillips had access to that computer?”

  “Preston’s computer? Just Preston.”

  “Did you ever use it?” Parrott asked, noticing the dilation of Nicole’s pupils.

  “Once in a while. I mostly use my iPhone and iPad, but I’m not that much into electronics. That room was Preston’s hideaway. I rarely went in there, especially if Preston was at home.”

  “Were you forbidden to use the PC?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just didn’t need it except once in a while. I maybe used it a half a dozen times?”

  “Can you
remember when you used it last, what you used it for?”

  “No, why?” Nicole flipped her smooth blonde hair behind her mostly-bare shoulder. “Did you find something on it?”

  Parrott did not intend to answer questions, only ask them. However, before he could formulate a response, he heard a muffled sound coming from the kitchen pantry. “What was that?”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Nicole said.

  Parrott was sure he’d heard something--or someone, but he let it go in favor of more questions. “I want to talk to you about those pills you gave me the last time I was here.”

  “What pills?”

  “The ones that had been in Mr. Phillips’ toiletry kit at the Campbells’ farm.”

  “Oh, those,” Nicole replied, her voice whiny as a plucked violin string.

  “Who, besides Mr. Phillips and you and I, had access to those pills, either before or after the weekend?”

  A frown line appeared between Nicole’s ultra-skinny eyebrows. “Nobody, I don’t think. Maybe Rosa helped me unpack everything when I got back from the farm. Maybe my sister Francine. I really don’t remember.”

  “How about Bill Bartosh? Did he help you unpack?” Parrott’s eyes were riveted on the face of his suspect, hoping for a flinch.

  Nicole didn’t disappoint. Her eyes moved in the direction of the kitchen pantry. Aha! He’s hiding in the pantry, Parrott thought. Nicole’s mouth opened to respond, but no words passed through her pouty lips.

  “Mrs. Phillips?” Parrott prodded.

  “Uh, I--no, Billy did not touch Preston’s pills, Preston’s computer, or anything else of Preston’s.”

  “How about Preston’s wife?” Parrott asked. The word “wife” fairly echoed in the tension between the two.

  She gave a sharp intake of breath. “Just what are you implying, Detective? And, and how do you know about Billy, anyway?”

  “Look, Mrs. Phillips. I know you and Billy Bartosh both worked at the Lamborghini place. I know you spent New Year’s Eve with him last night. And I know he is still here in this house. Shall we take a look in the pantry?” Parrott stood up and held his arm out in the direction of the pantry, as if to say, “I’ll follow you.” He held his breath, praying his hunch was accurate.

  Before Nicole could decide what to do, the creak of a door opening in the next room caused her to freeze in place at the table. In a matter of seconds, footsteps announced the appearance of an athletically built young man with thick brown hair tipped with blond; dark, snappy eyes; strong chin. Rosy cheeks were either natural or induced by the precarious situation. Regardless, the man seemed composed and confident, perhaps foolishly so, under the circumstances.

  Striding up to the table, he extended his hand. “I’m Bill Bartosh,” he said, as if networking at a cocktail party. “I know it seems strange, my being here and in the pantry, but I promise you it’s not. We can explain everything.”

  Chapter 45

  Driving back to the station, Parrott ruminated on the facts of the case. The two-hour drive was becoming a familiar setting for sorting out puzzle pieces, turning them this way and that. The deck was certainly stacked against Nicole now, especially with the new twist of an accomplice in the picture. What bothered him most, though, was the lack of hard evidence--everything he had was circumstantial at best. And he knew better than to rush to judgment in a high profile case like this, where arresting the wrong person could send his career careening into the dumper.

  Bartosh’s so-called explanation fell short of satisfying. Claimed they fell in love three years ago, broke up when Phillips entered the picture. Didn’t speak for over a year, till Phillips’ death was publicized.

  You bet I’ll be checking the phone records, Parrott thought, remembering the young man’s suggested proof of innocence. Not that that proves anything. Today people knew multiple ways to communicate without using cellphones. He made a mental note to look into burner phones, emails, and social media, as well.

  The two really seemed to connect with each other. He could tell by the way they avoided voluntary eye contact, but when their eyes did meet, the magnetic force between them was almost palpable. Could it be they were just reconnecting after a long separation while Nicole was married? Parrott thought of how it would be when Tonya came home from Afghanistan and knew he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes from hers, either.

  The case against Nicole was a house of cards, none of them aces. He had the money motive, the quick cremation, the home aquarium, the internet searches on palytoxin, the Metamucil container filled with the poison, and now the boyfriend. Working against him, though, was Nicole’s ankle injury and narcotics.

  Murder by palytoxin had to have been pre-meditated. If the newlyweds had been unhappy, no one had mentioned it. Bartosh notwithstanding, Nicole had seemed to be in love with her husband at the time of his death. Parrott remembered hearing about her high-pitched screaming when the paramedics were attempting to revive the victim. He wished he could place her in the upstairs bedroom after the dinner that Saturday night.

  The fact that her fingerprints were on the Metamucil container meant nothing. She had handled the small canister on its journey back to the co-op, and again when she had given it to Parrott. As she had put it herself this afternoon, “If I had known there was poison in it, why wouldn’t I have gotten rid of it when I had the chance? I certainly wouldn’t have given it to you to analyze.”

  Parrott shook his head as he drove, doubts ricocheting inside. Eighteen days into the case, and he still didn’t have a clear solution. Neither time nor an impatient public were on his side.

  ***

  Parrott reached his office by five p.m., tossing a bag of Chinese carry-out onto his desk. The smell of spicy vegetables permeated the space. His plan was to organize his notes and draft the questions for the Winthrops. He would meet with them and their attorney at Marshall’s office at the Fed first thing tomorrow morning.

  He kicked off his shoes and stretched his long legs under the desk, leaning his head back against the padded vinyl chair. He opened the first of three food containers, inhaling the steamy aroma.

  The phone rang, piercing his gastronomic reverie. “Officer Parrott?” the strong, but crackly voice asked. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

  He glanced at the caller ID, though he was almost certain he recognized the voice--Phillips’ mother. He re-sealed the insulated food container.

  “Mrs. Phillips? Of course not. Nothing more important than whatever you have to say.” His mind was spinning with possibilities.

  “You gave me your card and asked me to call if I remembered anything significant. I know it’s New Year’s Day, but I guessed you’d be there.”

  “Yes, ma’am. What is it you remember?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the last conversation I had with Preston. He’d called me from the car, on Bluetooth, the Thursday before his death. He was always checking up on me that way, when he was alone in the car. I had just had a minor medical procedure, and he wanted to know how it had gone. I told him I was fine, never better, and I asked him how things were going with him. I didn’t think much of his answer at the time, but in light of what’s happened since, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “What did he say, Mrs. Phillips?”

  “He said, ‘Couldn’t be better, Mom. New wife and all. Keeps me young. Just one more hurdle, and I’ll be on top of the world.’ I should have asked him what he meant, what the hurdle was. What if it had something to do with his death?”

  Parrott replied, “You were right to tell me about this. Perhaps it is significant. What possible hurdles can you think of that Preston may have referred to?”

  “Well, I know he’d been putting off a knee replacement. At first, I thought that might be it, or something having to do with Peter. But the word ‘hurdle’ made me think it might be a business matter, something time-sensitive.”

  “Any particular business matters that you know about?”

&nb
sp; “I can’t say. Preston was a financial wizard, as you know. He had so many business interests, the stock market, bond market, international investments, and that doesn’t even include his stint in politics as treasury secretary. Preston knew so many people, had so many business interests--it would be impossible to identify just one.”

  Parrott tried to narrow the woman’s thinking. “Remember, there were just fourteen others at the Campbell house that weekend, though--the Campbells, the Bakers, the Spillers, the Winthrops, the Blooms, the Kelleys, Margo Rinaldi, and, of course, Nicole. Do any of those people sound like they might be a “hurdle” in Preston’s life?”

  “I--I just don’t know--I wouldn’t want to falsely accuse anyone--” Mrs. Phillips’ voice faltered.

  “It wouldn’t be an accusation, ma’am. It would be a lead, a way to guide our focus as we continue the investigation.”

  “I guess you’re right. In that case, I would eliminate Caro and John E. Caro has always been like a sister to Preston, and I know she would never harm him. The Bakers and the Blooms are Caro’s friends and associates, not Preston’s, so I doubt they had any motive, either.”

  Parrott nodded, though no one could see.

  “The rest are long-time connections. Of them all, Marshall Winthrop would be the only one I’m aware of with a business tie to Preston. Except for Nicole, of course. Oh, this is all so upsetting. I’ve known Marshall all of his life, and I just can’t imagine that he would be a murderer.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Phillips. Please call me again if you think of anything else.”

  “I will, Detective. And thank you. It’s comforting to know that you are working so hard to solve this case. Goodbye, now.”

  As Parrott put down the receiver, a shudder took hold of him. The questions he was about to draft for Marshall Winthrop had just become even more important.