by Leslie Wolfe
45
The Pilot
I stopped short of entering the BeneFoods lobby, and Holt let go of the door, so it would close. We’d rushed there, driving as fast as we could through the thick traffic, but now I hesitated, thinking it would only be a minute or less after we entered that building before the alarms sounded and lawyers were asked to intervene. Although both Ellis MacPherson and his wife, Celeste Bennett, had been more than forthcoming with us, I doubted that they’d be thrilled to know we were interviewing their employees.
We needed to be smart about things if we wanted to have a fruitful conversation with the pilot.
I took a few steps back and studied the three towers again; the tower in the middle had the rooftop tennis court we’d visited yesterday. The one on the left had a pool, and the one on the right, the helipad. I could tell for sure by the windsleeve blown out all the way at the corner of the roof, sustained by high winds.
We were about to enter the wrong tower.
“That one,” I pointed at the right tower, and rushed toward the entry. “Listen,” I said between raspy breaths of air, “it’s your turn to play a game. Keep the receptionist busy, work your charm, while I find the pilot and talk to him. Otherwise, security will escort us out in thirty seconds or less.”
“What do you mean, it’s my turn?” Holt asked.
I stopped, panting heavily after rushing up the stairs, and contemplated kicking myself a couple of times. A slip of the tongue, but he’d caught it, and knowing Holt, he wasn’t going to let it go anytime soon.
I swallowed with difficulty, feeling my throat constricting, and managed to put a smile on my face, hoping it would seem genuine enough to hoodwink the talented cop standing next to me. “Just joking,” I said. “What, you can’t handle a sexy receptionist?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, giving me a long stare that screamed I wasn’t fooling him for one single second.
Bollocks. That mistake would end up costing me dearly, like any other mistake I’ve made with Holt.
We entered the right tower lobby and Holt went straight for the reception desk, while I pretended to be studying the stunning architecture, trying to get my bearings and locate the elevator that led to the roof. From considerations of symmetry, I had every reason to believe that the elevator I was looking for would be the matching pair of the one in the central tower we took the day before to get to the tennis court.
I had no idea if the pilot would be at the helipad, but I was counting on that; it seemed a safe bet to assume, considering he had filed a flight plan for that afternoon. If he wasn’t there, maybe the security officer on that floor would know where to find him.
Walking casually toward the elevator bank I saw Holt leaning against the massive, custom-built reception desk, smiling and looking at the beautiful, young woman sideways, shamelessly flirting. She was an attractive, twenty-something redhead who was about to rip her clothes off right there, in the middle of the crowded lobby. She wasn’t taking calls anymore, and she’d removed her headset, then ran her perfectly manicured fingers through her hair to restore the styling and put more of her female scent in the air.
I waited for the elevator to arrive, aware I’d been holding my breath, suffocated by jealousy. I was losing my marbles; that was the only explanation. I’d sent Holt to keep her occupied; it was me, no one else. I knew that, but still, seeing him deploying his power smile for another woman and noticing her response to his attention brought my blood to an instant simmer.
Bloody hell, why? I asked myself. If he was just my partner, and the mistake I’d made shagging him was never supposed to happen again, why did I feel like I could easily go over there and bitch-slap that redhead?
Because I was being an idiot, that’s why.
I breathed deeply and forced myself to focus on the elevator digits counting down, ignoring the happenings at the reception desk. When the doors finally opened, I stepped inside the cabin and pressed the top floor, glad no one else was sharing my ride.
I gave myself a long look in the wall-sized mirror and sighed. Instead of feeling reassured, I felt the obsessive need to compare myself with the redhead downstairs. Nevertheless, I undid the top two buttons of my shirt and lifted the collar to deepen the V.
Bloody stupid, undecided, irrational, I complimented myself as the doors opened on the top floor. Then my eyes locked with those of a young security guard seated behind a small desk.
Swaying my hips, I approached and caressed his cheek with the tips of my fingers. “Where’s Mack, sweetie?”
Slack-jawed and turned into a mute, he pointed toward the helipad, while his eyes stayed riveted to the tip of that V.
I thanked him and went outside, where the pilot, in full gear minus the helmet, was busying himself detaching red covers marked, “Remove before flight” from the black, unmarked helicopter’s air intakes. Even standing so close to it, it was almost impossible for me to read the N-number on its tail.
Keeping my back turned toward the security guard I’d just dazzled, I approached Mack and discreetly showed him my badge.
“Mack Eggers?”
“Yes,” he said, approaching hesitantly.
“We have a few questions regarding the death of Crystal Tillman. I believe you knew her?”
He ran his fingers through his hair. He reminded me of Andrew; maybe there was something about helicopter pilots that created a certain air about them. Just like doctors have a recognizable demeanor when they walk the hallways of a hospital, pilots share a specific mien, a discernible gait, a particular facial expression, especially when they fret over their flying machines.
“I’d flown her a few times,” he replied. “I’m sorry to hear what happened to her, but I signed an NDA with BeneFoods. There’s nothing I can share.”
“Nondisclosure agreements don’t apply to law enforcement during the investigation of a murder, Mr. Eggers,” I lied without skipping a beat. In reality, only a subpoena would’ve counteracted the NDA from a legal point of view, but I was planning to do right by him and get one issued, just in case someone at BeneFoods would decide to hold his feet to the coals.
“Oh, I see,” he replied. “What do you need to know?”
“Do you fly this helo to the Scala Casino?”
“Yes, every time one of the Bennetts goes there. Both of them go, usually not together.”
“Who’s your most frequent flyer?”
“Mr. MacPherson, of course. He’s got concerts, and, um, girlfriends,” he added, after lowering his voice a little. In the brisk winds up on that rooftop, it was difficult to hear what he was saying.
“And Mrs. Bennett?”
“She gambles sometimes, plays high-limit blackjack.”
Ah, there it was, maybe that’s how she’d met Crystal; she must’ve seen her dancing near her blackjack table. Maybe she’d watched her husband interact with her from the lounge, unnoticed by the two lovers.
“Four days ago, on Sunday night, you picked up Crystal from the hotel at about nine PM; is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
“Where did you take her?”
“To the house.”
“Ellis MacPherson took his mistress home?”
“No, ma’am. Mr. MacPherson didn’t fly in with me that night to pick her up. I flew alone, under orders from Mrs. Bennett.”
That piece of information was so unexpected I had to think for a few seconds, trying to understand what it meant. The fancy dinner Crystal had eaten before she died was served at the Bennett mansion. Only that food wasn’t poisoned.
“Then what happened?” I asked, while a deep frown started to take up real estate on my forehead.
Had I been so wrong? Was Mrs. Bennet the murderer, despite her perfectly calm demeanor and her apparent indifference toward her husband’s infidelities? How could I have been so blind?
“Nothing, as far as I could tell,” he replied, a little pensive. “I took her back to the casino, I dropped her off at about e
leven, and that’s the last time I saw her.”
“Did she say anything during the flight?”
“No, not really. She was smiling at times, but wouldn’t say what that was about, and I know my place, ma’am. I don’t ask questions.”
I nodded a couple of times, mulling things over. Why would Mrs. Bennett want to talk to Crystal? I didn’t recall Mrs. Bennett sharing that tidbit of information when we’d spoken with her.
“One more question, Mr. Eggers,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“I heard you filed a flight plan for Los Angeles for this afternoon. Who are you taking and where?”
“That would be the old Mrs. Bennett,” he replied with a smile. “It’s her annual vacation with the Legacy Ladies; they’re all going to the Dominican, flying out of LAX. That’s where the corporate jet is today.”
“Who are these Legacy Ladies?”
“They’re the surviving spouses of the Bennett Corporation founders—the first executive team. A bunch of old women.”
I thanked Mack Eggers and left, and while waiting for the elevator to arrive, I threw a smile at the security officer and entertained myself, seeing him flush then spill some of his coffee on his shirt. Eat your heart out, redheaded receptionist; I got the goods better than you do.
Then I texted Holt.
“Meet me in the lobby. We need to speak with Mrs. Bennett again.”
46
Mrs. Bennett
We waited for a few minutes outside Mrs. Bennett’s office, under the annoyed gaze of her executive assistant. At first, she’d invited us to make an appointment she would’ve been happy to schedule. When we declined, she invited us to take a seat on one of the plush sofas and wait, but I preferred to look out the window; I’d never had the opportunity to see the Las Vegas business district from that vantage point.
I’d have expected Mrs. Bennett’s office to be on the top floor of the center tower, where we found her the day before playing tennis. However, after riding the elevator all the way down to the lobby and meeting with Holt, we learned from his new, redheaded friend we had to ride it back up again; her office was in close proximity to the heliport, which, in practicality, made a lot of sense.
The door to Mrs. Bennett’s office swung open and a man, dressed impeccably in an expensive suit, rushed out, carrying an armful of large-size prints and a thick portfolio.
“Detectives,” Celeste Bennett called, before I saw her amazing figure appear in the doorway, inviting us in. She wore a black and beige combo, with a black blouse and a beige and black pencil skirt with an asymmetrical gold zipper running down her thigh. I didn’t recognize the label of the attire, but it was to die for.
We entered her office, and her assistant followed us in with a tray filled with espressos in tiny cups, and cold, sweaty glasses of water. The room was huge, decorated with impeccable style. The desk was a massive piece in dark-hued wood, matched with the bookcases that lined the wall behind her, the coffee table, and the fireplace mantle. At the side of her desk, toward the window, a Bohemian crystal vase held an intricate arrangement of rare orchids.
Cream-colored leather chairs were placed in front of the desk, and we followed her invitation to take a seat, while she walked briskly and elegantly behind her desk and sat in her massive executive chair.
She leaned forward, waiting for her assistant to finish serving the coffee, making small talk.
“Pardon the wait, Detectives, I was in the middle of a marketing review. We’re rebranding our stores starting next year.”
“No problem,” I replied, amazed at how calm and detached she seemed. “Thank you for seeing us again.”
“Tell me, what can I do for you?”
“We’re aware you invited Crystal Tillman to your home on Sunday evening; your helicopter flew her in from the Scala.”
She didn’t skip a beat, and her perfect smile stayed perfect. “Yes, and?”
“You omitted to share that piece of information with us yesterday, Mrs. Bennett,” I said, putting a tinge of accusatory disappointment in my voice. “You must understand, when we’re investigating a murder, the whereabouts of the victim before she died represents a critical piece of information. I believe you deliberately withheld that from us.”
She lowered her eyes for a moment, as if embarrassed with her omission. “You didn’t ask, Detective, and I didn’t think to volunteer that information. I didn’t think of it because our meeting had nothing to do with her murder. What would you like to know?”
Again, I was stunned, disarmed seeing her candor, her flawless composure when dealing with matters that couldn’t’ve been easy for any wife to discuss, no matter how open her marriage was.
“Why did you have Crystal over for dinner?” Holt asked. “What did you two talk about?”
She sighed and veered her eyes for a moment, but straightened her back and looked straight at Holt, then at me. “I offered her money to disappear, Detectives, but she wouldn’t take it. She was pregnant,” she added, hiding her eyes for a split second.
“But you said you and your husband have an open relationship,” I reacted. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Open, yes,” she replied, and I thought I heard a vein of repressed emotion coming across in her voice. “Open to fleeting passions and insignificant flings, but Crystal was becoming more than significant. Ellis had fallen in love with her. He’d fathered her child, for goodness’ sake, and wanted to, um, keep it.” She stopped talking for a moment, aware her emotions were bubbling up too close to the surface. “I was losing him…” she continued after a while. “I was willing to pay anything to make her go away.”
“And when she wouldn’t take the money, you poisoned her?” I asked harshly. Her calm had been a façade, and I’d been had; she was just like the rest of us, a jilted, jealous woman, and that meant she had motive. “Is that what you did?”
“No, Detectives, I didn’t,” she replied calmly, but tears started flooding her eyes. “Listen, I’ve been forthcoming answering your questions, but if you have accusations against me, then this conversation needs to come to an end.”
Her fancy talk stepped on my nerves. I kept thinking of Crystal, of how she collapsed on that stage where she worked night after night to keep herself in school, eager to start making enough money to help her family. She didn’t deserve to die because she’d fallen in love and gotten pregnant and wouldn’t put a price tag on her feelings for the man she loved.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she added. “What poison? How did she die, exactly?”
“A plant extract,” Holt replied. “Monkshood. Stopped that poor girl’s heart and paralyzed her lungs. But don’t worry,” he said, standing up and pulling out zip ties, “you’ll learn all the details you’re pretending not to know during defense discovery for your murder trial.”
He walked around the desk toward Mrs. Bennett, whose mouth gaped open in shock. I looked at her face and had to admit that, based solely on her microexpressions, she was truly surprised. No one can fake the pupils dilating upon the delivery of a shocking blow, the tiny beads of sweat breaking at the roots of one’s hair, pallor spreading like a white shroud over one’s features.
“A plant extract?” she asked quietly, letting herself be handled and handcuffed without opposing the tiniest resistance.
“Celeste Bennett, you’re under arrest for the murder of Crystal Tillman,” Holt started to say, when I noticed her shooting a lightning-fast glance at a framed photo on the wall before she lowered her eyelids.
I followed her glance and approached the photo. It was a framed cover of TIME magazine dated fifteen years ago, titled, “Vegas Royalty Blooms.” The woman on the cover was the old Mrs. Bennett, Patricia, younger then, photographed against a mountain landscape backdrop I recognized from my hikes on Mount Charleston. The subtitle referenced BeneFoods stock being traded on the New York Stock Exchange, the company’s successful initial public offering making its owner a billion do
llars richer overnight. But that wasn’t what caught my attention; in the photo, Patricia Bennett wore gloves, despite it being summer, as proven by numerous flowers in bloom surrounding where she stood, in the middle of a small, sun-filled meadow. Among those flowers, some were purple and could’ve been described as resembling a monk’s hood.
“Holt,” I said, and beckoned him over.
I felt a strange, ominous vibration, at first in the rattling of the windows, then as if the entire building resonated. I shot Mrs. Bennett an inquisitive, worried look.
She smiled, a smile touched by sadness, as she looked up at the ceiling. “That’s our helicopter getting ready to take off. Nothing to worry about, Detective, we don’t have earthquakes here in Vegas.”
47
That Night
Crystal’s heart was pounding with excitement after reading the text message advising her of the pickup time at the Scala heliport. Sure, she would’ve preferred Ellis had texted her and not the pilot, but she was thrilled nevertheless, as she always was when Ellis could spend any time with her.
She devoted twenty frenzied minutes wondering what she should wear, rummaging through the hangers in her closet in an exhilarated rush. She had no idea where they were going to go, but she didn’t assume it would be a public place; after all, Ellis was married, and quite discreet about their affair.
With that thought in mind, she decided to wear something sexy, something that would remind him of the day they met. She still blushed when she recalled how she was running her big mouth in the café, for the immense amusement of Roxanne and Brandi who, bitches that they were, let her continue ranting even after they’d noticed Ellis MacPherson standing there, petrified to hear her go on and on about how awful his music was, and how he should be prohibited from torturing people’s ears with those squeaky sounds.
However, her world stood still when their eyes met. At first, she didn’t recognize him, but when she did, she wanted the earth to gape open and swallow her whole. She remembered turning around and taking two steps back, as if to distance herself from the man who should’ve been, by all measures, beyond angry. But he wasn’t… he seemed mesmerized, looking at her as if she were someone he’d been waiting for his entire life. Hesitant, he introduced himself.