Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  ***

  By the time Parrott arrived at One West Seventy-Second Street, he had the outline of a plan in mind. The doorman greeted him with an unexpected handshake, and before he could take out his badge, the security officer greeted him with a friendly, “Is Mrs. Phillips expecting you, sir?”

  “Not today, Doc. Just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.” Are the Dakota employees always this nice, or are they intrigued by having a resident suspected of killing her husband?

  “Ringing her for you...Mrs. Phillips, Detective Parrott is here to see you, ma’am. No, he says he was in the neighborhood...Yes, of course, ma’am.” Stanley, as his name badge read, hung up the phone and reported to Parrott, “You can go upstairs. Mrs. Phillips asked you to give her five minutes, though.”

  “Sure. No problem. Thanks, man.” Parrott shook hands with Stanley and started to turn toward the elevator.

  “Must be a tough case,” Stanley commented, drawing Parrott back to the desk. “All them rich people.”

  “They’re all tough,” Parrott replied. “Murders are bad, no matter who the victims are.”

  “Sure seems strange without Mr. Phillips ’round here.”

  “Was he well-liked by the staff?”

  “Big tipper.” Stanley grinned. “That makes for ‘well-liked.’ Sure did miss him at Christmas this year.”

  “Well, at least you still have Mrs. Phillips here.”

  “Her? She’s got a lot to learn about tipping--that’s for sure.”

  Parrott was surprised by the guard’s candor, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “So, I wonder if she’ll stay here permanently, now Mr. Phillips is gone.”

  “Just between you and me,” Stanley replied sotto voce, “I don’t think she would have been here too long anyway.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I been here twenty-seven years, seen ’em come and go. Miz Phillips, she was a short timer if I ever saw one. Beautiful babe, but...”

  “Not someone to get old with, eh?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I mean. But poor Mr. Phillips. He ain’t never gonna get old.”

  ***

  Apparently, Rosa was back from vacation, because she let Parrott in with her usual formal efficiency, taking his coat and then leading him into the living room, where Nicole was seated on a sofa, her ankle propped up on a firm, slanted pillow and surrounded by a blue padded ice pack.

  “Forgive me for not standing, Detective. I’ve just had physical therapy, and my ankle is throbbing.” She was wearing an eggplant-colored velour warmup suit, expensive-looking, but with the lower right leg cut off. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she was wearing no makeup.

  “I apologize for coming without calling first, but--”

  “You were in the neighborhood. I heard.” The look on Nicole’s face was halfway between bored and disgusted.

  “Yes, and I wanted to discuss some things with you.” It felt weird looking down at her, but Parrott waited until he was invited to sit.

  “Discuss? Sorry for sounding so abrupt, but I hardly think we have anything to discuss.”

  “Is it something I said?” Parrott offered. He could see he would get nowhere fast with this attitude.

  “No, I’m--I’m sorry. I’m just crabby. It seems everything is such a struggle. I’m afraid I’ve been wallowing in self-pity.” She patted the sofa next to her.

  Parrott took his familiar seat across from her instead. He preferred to have full view of her face. “You’re entitled, I guess. You’ve been through a lot these past few weeks.”

  A film of tears glossed Nicole’s velvet brown eyes, but she shook off the show of emotion. “Yes, but I was never much for crying over spilt milk. I don’t know why I should start now.” She brushed her palms against one another as if to signal that the pity party had ended. “Now, what would you like to discuss?”

  “A few things. The last time I was here--”

  “New Year’s Day. We didn’t really talk because Billy was here. Well, don’t worry, Detective, you won’t see Billy here anymore.”

  “Oh?” Parrott’s eyebrows rose.

  “I broke up with him. I shouldn’t have let him come here...so soon after Preston. I guess I was lonely, and Billy and I had some good times together once.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “He was all sweet at first, but then he started bossing me around too much. He was just after my money. I know that now.”

  “Good that you saw that when you did and acted on it.”

  “Yeah. But it’s still lonely. All the money in the world is not worth a damn if you don’t have anyone to share your life with.”

  Parrott thought of Tonya and knew that was true. “By the way, you met both Bartosh and Mr. Phillips while you were working at the Lamborghini dealership. Correct?”

  “True. I actually miss those days at the dealership. Everyone was friendly and happy. Not stuffy.”

  “Yes. Well, what exactly was your job there?”

  “Receptionist.”

  “I mean, what did you do as a receptionist?”

  “Basically I greeted people. Put shoppers with sales staff. Offered coffee and snacks. Sometimes phone duty, too.”

  “No computer work?”

  “No. Actually, I am sure it surprises you, but I am a total klutz on the computer. It’s something I plan to work on as soon as all this is better.” She pointed to her ice-wrapped ankle.

  Parrott nodded and shifted gears. “Well, Mrs. Phillips, I want to ask you some more questions about Mr. Phillips. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “I’m about as uncomfortable as a person can be already.”

  “Okay. I’m sure you’re aware that you are Mr. Phillips’ fourth wife, and that he has had many girlfriends over the years.”

  Nicole’s eyes widened, and her mouth formed an O, as if she were about to step into a dark hole in the midst of a frozen lake. “Of course, I know that. You can’t date and marry a guy like Preston Phillips without knowing that you’ll be living with ghosts. Everywhere you go, it feels like people are comparing you, like you can never measure up to this one or that one. It’s not easy, trust me.”

  “So, when you were invited to Mr. Campbell’s birthday party, you must have had some trepidation about going.”

  “Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” Nicole shuddered, as if to emphasize the horror of it all. “As much as I miss Preston, I do not miss that.”

  “Are you aware that one of the guests at the party was once engaged to Mr. Phillips?”

  “Yes. Margo. And she was flirting with him all weekend, too. That was another thing about Preston. It was like potato chips. Once you loved him, you couldn’t stop. It totally pissed me off.”

  “Did her flirting concern you?”

  “Concern me? Sure. Nobody likes having another woman chasing after her husband. But let’s say it wasn’t the first time, and I figured it wouldn’t be the last--Oh, but it did turn out to be the last, didn’t it? Well, to tell you the truth, I was in no position to do much about it. I was in an incredible amount of pain, taking oxycodone, mostly out of it.”

  “Speaking of your injury, once you broke your ankle, you were pretty much confined to the downstairs. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, pretty much.”

  “So Mr. Phillips continued to sleep in the bedroom on the fourth floor, while you slept on the sofa in the den?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you make an attempt to go up to the fourth floor at any time following your injury?”

  Nicole sighed. “I suppose Ms. Margo Snoop told you. Yes, I tried to go upstairs late Saturday night, more like early Sunday morning. She saw me on the stairs and convinced me to go back downstairs.”

  “Did you go back upstairs later?”

  “No, it was too painful and difficult. I decided to wait till the next morning to see Preston. Now, of course, I wish I’d ignored Margo and gone up.”

  “
Why did you want to see your husband then?”

  A crease appeared in her otherwise-smooth forehead. “It’s hard to put into words. There I was, basically a stranger in the house, hurting and feeling sorry for myself. My anchor was on the fourth floor.”

  Parrott was beginning to think Nicole might not be as much of an airhead as everyone thought. “Had anything occurred during the day or evening to cause you to feel that way?”

  “Nothing, really. Just a bad feeling I had when Preston told me good night and went upstairs.”

  “Did this feeling have anything to do with the fact that you felt Margo was flirting with your husband?”

  “M--Maybe it did. Though I must say that it wasn’t the first time I felt shut out by Preston. He was a very closed-up person. It was something I struggled with.”

  Parrott shifted on the sofa. “Let’s talk about Mr. Phillips for a moment. Were you aware he was about to be sued by Marshall Winthrop?”

  Nicole’s countenance changed from worried to shocked. “No. Sued? For what?”

  “Apparently Mr. Winthrop believed that Mr. Phillips had mismanaged the Winthrop estate.”

  Frowning, Nicole replied, “See what I mean? Preston never told me anything about that. He apparently was a man of many secrets.” She fiddled with the zipper of her warmup suit, touched a spot inside of her upper arm. Standing, she caused the ice pack to fall to the floor. Using her cane to walk around the living room, she appeared to be engrossed with the ramifications of this new concept. Parrott gave her the time and space. After a few laps, she plopped down in the exact spot and said, “So do you think Marshall is the one who killed him?”

  “I can’t answer your question, but I have another question for you. Do you think Mr. Phillips, knowing of the pending lawsuit, might have been angry with Mr. Winthrop?”

  “Oh, ho, probably not angry. Probably furious. Maybe that’s why Preston was so cranky the weeks before the party. Lots of times he would close himself up in his office at night, leaving me alone to wonder what was wrong.”

  Pleased with the way the interview was going, Parrott pressed on. “In your experience with Mr. Phillips, both before and after you were married, what was he like when he became angry?”

  Nicole jerked her head upward, so her eyes met Parrott’s. It was as if she were confronting a part of her husband and her marriage that she had completely suppressed until now. Her voice, when it came, was a whisper. “It was not good to be on Preston’s bad side. He didn’t get angry often, but when he did, just stay away.”

  “Do you mean he became explosive?”

  “Cold, mean, yeah, I guess ‘explosive’ works. Maybe cruel.”

  “Did he ever become explosive with you?”

  Holding eye contact, Nicole used her cane to stand. She removed her zippered jacket and began removing her right arm from the pink shell she was wearing. Parrott could see glimpses of shoulder, bra, elbow, and midriff, but the mini-strip was happening so fast, he was dumbfounded. Finally, Nicole stopped, her shell still covering her left side. She rotated her arm outward to expose the inside of her bicep, where an angry red scar in the shape of a lightning bolt was imprinted. It looked to be a few months old.

  “Did he do that to you?” Parrott mumbled. The vivid mark just didn’t jibe with the act of a former secretary of the treasury, a billionaire, a member of high society.

  “He hit me with a granite paperweight. He threw it at my face, but I raised my arms to shield myself. Better to have the scar there, don’t you think?”

  “When did this occur?”

  “May. He overheard a voicemail from Billy and went off the deep end.”

  “Before you were married?”

  “Yes. We were married on June fifth.”

  “And knowing that he had a violent temper, you married him anyway?”

  “I know. I should have seen this as a sign, big time. But he apologized profusely, promised never to hurt me again, told me he loved me and that thinking of me with Billy made him temporarily insane. I wanted to believe him, and I did.”

  “And did he ever hurt you again after that?”

  “No. He kept his word. And, now, I know for sure he’ll never hurt me again.”

  Chapter 52

  Ignited with fresh ideas and leads in the case, Parrott phoned Officer Barton as he drove back to Brandywine. He wanted some quick information from the Lamborghini dealership. Was Bill Bartosh still employed in the shop there? Did he show up at work today? Parrott’s instincts told him Nicole was telling the truth about breaking up with Bartosh, but it was worth checking to make sure there wasn’t foul play involved, and there might be a need to interview him at some point in the future. Next, he wanted to verify Nicole’s story about having no computer skills. It had been less than a year since she worked there, and someone in personnel should be able to corroborate.

  Also, it wouldn’t hurt to check Nicole’s phone records for the period since her husband’s death. He wanted to make sure that the breakup with Billy was legit.

  When Parrott arrived back at the station, dusk was hovering over the crimson roof. He hoped Schrik was still there.

  His hopes were realized when he saw the brawny chief pacing around the hallway, hands clasped behind his back and chewing on his paper clip. The thought passed through Parrott’s mind that this iconic image of Schrik would be implanted in his brain forever.

  When Schrik noticed Parrott, he broke stride and greeted the detective with a combination handshake-hug. “Glad you made it back before I had to leave for the day. We need to talk.”

  “Something ominous, Chief?”

  “Been a long day. Lots of pressure from the top on this case. Local, state and national.” He led Parrott toward his office and motioned for him to sit. “Tell me something good, something real good.”

  Parrott summarized his interviews with Margo and Nicole, pinpointing specific details pertinent to the case. He started with Margo’s affair with Phillips, her nervousness and repeated claims not to have killed him, and her encounter with Nicole on the third floor hallway, confirmed by Nicole. He continued with Nicole’s break with Bartosh, her lack of computer skills, and her comments about Phillips’ brooding, likely fury with Winthrop, and fiery temper--including the spousal abuse.

  Schrik listened, the paper clip moving around in his mouth. Parrott could tell by his lack of eye contact that the new information was doing little to appease the fireball of impatience roiling about inside. Parrott’s short-lived feeling of efficacy was evaporating as he delivered each detail. When he finished, he said, “That’s it.”

  Usually, at the end of Parrott’s reports, Schrik would praise Parrott’s good work, but today there was just silence as the words settled around them both. After an uncomfortable quiet, Schrik said, “So, where are we, Parrott? Who is our perp, and where’s the evidence to convict him?”

  Parrott knew better than to beat around the bush. “I’ve narrowed the list of suspects, and I’m closing in on the killer. I just need a little more time.”

  “More time? It’s January sixth for Pete’s sake. It’s been almost four weeks. You know as well as I do that this case is growing icier than a Popsicle at the North Pole.” Schrik began storming back and forth in the short space between desk and chair. “What makes you think you are closing in?”

  “Andrea Baker made a passing remark the other day--”

  “The crime writer? What did she have to say?”

  “She said with the threat of a lawsuit being filed by Winthrop against Phillips, it wouldn’t surprise her if Phillips had wanted to kill Winthrop. Something like that.”

  Schrik sat down and looked at Parrott with an inscrutable expression.

  “So I started thinking, what if Phillips is the one who researched palytoxin on his computer? He might have used his own aquarium to harvest the deadly stuff, and took it to Bucolia in a Metamucil container to poison Winthrop. Maybe he planned to put it in Winthrop’s CPAP machine somehow.”

&nbs
p; “Then why didn’t he go through with it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he got distracted by the Rinaldi woman and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing.”

  “So the Metamucil container full of palytoxin was just sitting in his bathroom, unused, and he forgot what was in it and ingested it himself. Is that your thinking?”

  “No, Chief.”

  Schrik was toying with him now. Parrott sighed. “I’m thinking somehow someone else administered the poison to Phillips early Sunday morning. That narrows the suspect list considerably.”

  “Where’s the Metamucil container now?”

  “In the property room. Crime lab dusted for prints and found multiples.”

  “Look, Parrott. Nothing against you. I know you’ve broken your back for this case, but the Board of Supervisors is on my case. Our little department is just not equipped to handle such a high profile case. I think it’s time to turn the case over to the state police.

  Parrott gasped and bent over, covering his face with both hands. He felt as though he were slipping down the face of a mountain after a long, hard climb. After several seconds he replied, “Please, Chief. Give me one more shot at this. I have an idea that might just work. We’ve come too far to give up now.”

  Shaking his head, with a wry smile, Schrik said, “Parrott, you remind me so much of me when I was your age. You’re just a dog with a bone. Okay, twenty-four hours. That’s it. Bring me the killer and the evidence by tomorrow night, or, Wednesday morning, I’ll roll this case over on its back. Okay?”

  “Deal.”

  They shook hands, and Parrott left Schrik in his office, mumbling unintelligibly through the paper clip.

  ***

  By this time, six-thirty, Parrott’s stomach was rumbling with a ferocity that demanded action. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but the sand in the hourglass was sifting with equal ferocity. He had come too far with this case to let someone else solve it. He took a chance that Maria Rodriguez was working late at the coroner’s office. Sometimes she had such a backload she would stay till midnight. If so, he would pay her an after-hours visit.