Hot Property

by Jenna Bennett

  “So you worked with Brenda Puckett before she died,” he said at one point. I nodded. “She’d been bending the rules for years, you know. It’s a good thing someone finally stopped her, although rather a pity it had to happen the way it did.”

  Having been the one to find Brenda with her throat slit from ear to ear, I had to agree.

  “And quite a shame about Walker Lamont, of course.” Kieran took another bite of medium-rare cheeseburger, chewed daintily and added, “He was a nice man.”

  A nice man who had murdered two women and would have murdered two more, myself included, if I hadn’t stopped him.

  “He was,” I agreed. “We always got along well. Until he threatened to kill me, of course.”

  “Of course,” Kieran nodded. “Have you spoken to him since?”

  “Oh, yes. He asked to see me, so I went out to Riverbend Prison one day last week. He wanted to apologize and tell me where to find the paperwork to fix some of the illegal things that Brenda did. It’s hard for me to say that Brenda deserved what she got – nobody ever deserves to get her throat cut, I think – but all the same, I can’t feel as sorry for her as maybe I should.”

  I took another bite of my own burger and added, “People told me that real estate was a cutthroat business, but I had no idea they meant it literally.”

  Kieran nodded. “There are a lot of raw deals in this business, dear. The longer you stick around, the more you’ll realize how true that is. Most people are out for themselves, and will step over your lifeless body to get where they want to go. Just look at the way Tim Briggs was getting his face on TV after Brenda died. Or your friend Lila, how she’s using this unpleasant, criminal situation to make herself more recognizable to the public. She’s trivializing a crime that involved not only her, but me as well. And my clients. They’re beside themselves with grief. They lost a collection of paintings that it had taken two generations to amass.”

  I nodded sympathetically. I had felt the same way when Tim was getting himself in front of the TV-cameras after Brenda’s death, and I knew he would probably reap the benefits in increased referrals and sales.

  On the other hand, I could understand where Lila was coming from, as well. She was trying to scratch her way to the top of a very competitive business – a business that Kieran Greene, by the looks of him, had succeeded quite well in – and if she decided to use the lemons life had handed her to make lemonade, it was hardly my place to object. More power to her, even if it wasn’t the choice I would have made. My mother would never have let me hear the end of it if I had.

  Chapter 5

  The second house that Gary Lee and Charlene wanted to see was an early ranch – anno circa 1940 – with huge windows and tall ceilings. It hadn’t been renovated to the degree that yesterday’s Tudor had, and a lot of the old features had been maintained. The fireplace hadn’t been outfitted with hissing gas-logs, but burned good old-fashioned wood, and the windows were original rather than tilt-in replacements. I liked it a lot better, with the exception of the carpets that covered all the floors. But as I explained to Gary Lee and Charlene, there were bound to be hardwoods underneath, and refinishing floors is no big deal. (Or so I gather, although I’ve never had to do it myself. The carpenter who refinished my mother’s floors a few years ago didn’t seem to think it was anything much, anyway. Messy and dusty and inconvenient for a few days, but hardly nuclear science, for all that. Rafe had managed to refinish the floors in his grandmother’s house, and he had barely made it through high school before he went to jail. Mostly what it takes, I believe, is the ability to figure out how the machine works, and the necessary muscular strength to keep it upright and moving.)

  My cell phone rang just as Gary Lee and Charlene were heading up the stairs to the master suite on the second floor. I checked the number and waved them on. “I have to answer this. Take your time upstairs, and let me know if you have any questions.”

  They nodded and giggled and kept going. I ducked out into the back yard, to the brick patio, before I answered the call. “Good afternoon, detective. What can I do for you?”

  “Where are you?” Tamara Grimaldi asked, without introduction. I told her I was showing a house in the Riverwood neighborhood in East Nashville. “I’d like to see you when you’re done.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll come downtown as soon as I’m finished here.”

  “I’ll meet you somewhere closer. Are you familiar with the TBI-building?”

  I wrinkled my forehead. “The Tennessee Bureau of Investigations? Sure. It’s just a few minutes from here. What are you doing there?”

  “I’m not there. I’m just down the road from it. Brown building on the right before you get to the TBI-building. I’ll be waiting in the lobby. Don’t drag your feet.”

  I had a hard time breathing. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.” She disconnected. I closed the phone with shaking hands. This didn’t sound good.

  Gary Lee and Charlene were still upstairs when I came back inside, and I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and started gnawing the lipstick off my bottom lip. Time passed, during which I tried to convince myself that a few minutes wouldn’t make a difference, and that it wouldn’t be kosher to drag them out before they were ready. After two minutes I decided I’d waited long enough, and raised my voice. “Excuse me!”

  My voice cracked and I had to try again. “Gary Lee? Charlene?”

  I heard something that sounded like a scramble, and then Gary Lee’s voice. “What’s up?” His voice sounded rusty, too. It was followed by a giggle and a low-voiced comment from Charlene.

  “I’m sorry,” I yelled, “but are you guys almost finished? I’ve had an emergency and I have to go.”

  “Oh.” There was a momentary pause and then, “Just a minute.”

  “I’ll be outside.” I headed for the front door, and stood tapping my foot impatiently until they came rushing down the stairs. Charlene’s hair was disheveled – so was Gary Lee’s, although there was nothing new in that – and both of them looked rumpled and rather the worse for wear.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, as I hurriedly locked the door and hid the key inside the gray lockbox, “but I have to go meet someone. Something’s wrong, and I have to deal with it. We can come back later, if you want.”

  They exchanged a look. “No,” Gary Lee said, “I think we’ve decided that this one isn’t for us.”

  Charlene nodded. “The master suite didn’t really work for us.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  “There’s another house we’d like to see. On Baxter Avenue. If you think you’ll have time tomorrow – if your problem’s gonna be solved by then – maybe we can go see that instead?”

  “I’m certain things will be taken care of by tomorrow,” I said, with no clue whether I was telling the truth or not, “but unfortunately, tomorrow is Sunday, and I’m hosting an open house from 2 to 4. Do you want to do it earlier or later, or do you want to wait until Monday?”

  Gary Lee and Charlene exchanged a look. “Monday’s fine,” Gary Lee said.

  “Great. Give me the particulars, and I’ll meet you there. Same time?”

  3:30 worked well for them on Monday, too, and I jumped in the Volvo and peeled rubber out of the driveway, leaving them to get into their hybrid and drive off at their leisure. Not the way a shark-like real estate professional should behave, but my priorities are thankfully not so skewed yet that I’d slaver over a pair of buyers rather than answer the summons of the MNPD.

  I broke several laws and almost the sound barrier on my way to Gass Boulevard, but mercifully I avoided getting a ticket. Although I admit I almost ran off the road when I came to the brown building on the right, just before the TBI-building. Or more accurately, when I saw the discreet sign at the entrance. Center for Forensic Medicine, it said.

  Now, I don’t have much of a social life outside Todd Satterfield, so I read quite a bit (tawdry romanc
e novels, mostly) and I watch TV. Like everyone these days, I know what Forensic Medicine means. Just to clinch it, in case I hadn’t known, underneath it said Davidson County Medical Examiner’s Office. Tamara Grimaldi had directed me to the morgue. This couldn’t be good.

  I managed to settle the Volvo in a parking space without dinging the cars on either side of me, and walked into the building, heart beating. Just like she had said, Detective Grimaldi was waiting in the lobby, her feet on an oak coffee table and her head leaned back with eyes closed. I hesitated, loath to wake her if she was enjoying a no doubt well-deserved nap. She looked like she could use one. Her naturally olive complexion had lightened to a drab tan, and there were circles under her eyes.

  “I’m not asleep.” Her eyes opened and fixed on me.

  “How did you know it was me?” I took a few steps closer.

  “Your smell precedes you. Chanel No 5, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a classic. So what am I doing here?”

  “I need a favor.” She swung her legs off the table and stood up. She was dressed in jeans and a crisp button-down shirt today, with a gun in a holster under her arm. I avoided looking at it. Ever since Walker came after me with one, I’ve been a little leery of guns.

  “Is this something left over from Brenda and Clarice’s deaths?” I asked, referring to my recently departed co-workers.

  “Unfortunately not. This is something new.” She headed for a door at the back of the lobby, waving me to follow. I did, my ladylike pumps clicking fast to keep up with her long legs and short heels. She added, over her shoulder, “There’s been a death. I need confirmation of an unofficial identification.”

  I felt the color leeching out of my face. “Oh, my God! Who died? It’s not someone in my family, is it?” I’d had no idea any of them were coming up to Nashville today, but they might have driven up without telling me. “Or Todd? He hasn’t called me, but sometimes he likes to show up unexpectedly.” To surprise me, he says, although sometimes I wonder if it isn’t so he can make sure I’m alone. “Or... it’s not Rafe, is it?”

  The way he drove, like a bat out of hell, it wouldn’t be surprising. And I didn’t suppose he really had a next of kin who could identify him. His parents were both dead; Tyrell before Rafe was born and LaDonna this summer. And his grandmother, poor old Mrs. Jenkins, went in and out of knowing who he was, thinking he was her son, or someone she didn’t know at all.

  Or was it Mrs. Jenkins herself…?

  But no, then Grimaldi would call Rafe to do the honors, wouldn’t she?

  “It isn’t Mr. Collier. Nor anyone else you mentioned. I would tell you who we believe it is, but I don’t want to prejudice your identification.”

  She pushed the call button for the elevator, and we waited in silence. My mind was spinning. I’ll admit to being relieved when she sent the elevator up rather than down. On TV, the dead bodies are usually kept in the basement, and I was cowardly happy that we weren’t headed that way.

  Upstairs, she led me to a small, friendly room that looked more like someone’s sitting room than an office at the Forensic Science Lab. It looked out over green trees and the spiky satellite and cell phone towers on top of the TBI-building. A manila folder was holding pride of place in the middle of the table, and she waved me to it. “I thought it’d be easier for you to look at pictures rather than the corpse itself. Just glance at the first two photos, if you don’t mind. There are some others in there – crime scene photos – that I doubt you’ll enjoy. Take your time.”

  I took a couple of shaky steps toward the table. She added, “I’m going to go to the soda machine. Do you still prefer Diet Coke?”

  “Under the circumstances, I’d prefer a stiff drink, but Diet Coke will do.” She turned to go, and I added, belatedly, “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Have a seat at the table, and when you’re ready, open the folder. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She disappeared. The door shut behind her with a soft click. I eyed the manila folder as if it were a snake preparing to bite me.

  I don’t enjoy being involved in violent crimes. Finding Brenda’s butchered body had been the grossest experience of my life, and the thought of it still had the power to turn me woozy and nauseous. I was brought up to be a lady. I’m delicate and squeamish and sensitive, and the sight of blood – especially that much blood – bothers me. I wasn’t looking forward to whatever the folder had to offer.

  Better get it over with. I sank onto the chair and pulled the folder across the table toward me. This didn’t involve a family member; the detective had said so. And if it wasn’t Todd, and it wasn’t Rafe, exactly how hard could it be?

  Taking a deep breath, I opened the folder and looked at the first picture. And felt the room start to spin slowly while colored confetti began raining down in front of my eyes.

  When Rafe and I had found Brenda, I had taken one look at her and promptly passed out. Rafe had had to carry me outside. This wasn’t quite as bad. No blood, for one thing. Or none I could see. Still, good call on Detective Grimaldi’s part to make me look at pictures rather than the real thing. If I had come nose to nose with this bloated, discolored face down in the morgue, I would have collapsed on the spot. And while Detective Grimaldi might be more capable than most men, she was no match for Rafe.

  “Here.” She had come in without my hearing her through the buzzing in my ears, and now she placed an ice-cold can of Diet Coke on the table in front of me. I popped the top and took an unladylike swig. My stomach objected, and then settled a little.

  “Do you recognize her?” Tamara Grimaldi sat down on the other side of the table with her own can of Dr. Pepper.

  “Who’d recognize that?” I responded, hoarsely.

  “Try again. Look at the other picture.”

  I glared at her, but slid the first photograph out of the way so I could see the second. It showed a hand, brown, with long fingers and long nails, and what looked like abrasions around the wrist. The nails were painted with tiny flowers, each set with a rhinestone chip. I put the picture down.

  “Lila Vaughn.”

  My voice was flat. Detective Grimaldi eyed me. “Are you sure?”

  “Those are her nails. They were painted like that yesterday. Or whenever it was I saw her.”

  “Can you manage to look at the other photo again? Just to make sure? I can’t accept a positive ID based on fake nails, even from a professional such as yourself.”

  I was too far gone even to object to this jab at my previous job behind the make-up counter at the mall. Instead I steeled myself and looked at the picture, fighting the nausea that was rising in my throat. This second look didn’t last more than five seconds, but it was enough. I shut the folder with as much of a bang as a manila folder can make, and pushed it across the table toward the detective. “It’s Lila. The hair, the face shape, the nose... God, what happened to her?!”

  “From the evidence,” Detective Grimaldi said, “she was strangled.”

  “No kidding?” I’m no detective, but even I could have figured that out. Lord!

  I took another long drink of soda and leaned back, closing my eyes. Now I understood why I had found Detective Grimaldi in that same position down in the lobby. Strange as it sounds, it helped me to keep from regurgitating the salad I’d had for lunch.

  “I need a formal statement from you regarding everything Ms. Vaughn said during your lunch the other day,” the detective said, from far away. I opened my eyes.

  “Why?”

  “In the event that she said anything that could shed some light on what happened to her.”

  “She didn’t. All we talked about was business. And what happened on Sunday, of course.” I paused as a thought struck me. “Oh, my God! You don’t think…?”

  “We’re considering the possibility. Whoever did it, tied her to the bed first.”

  I felt myself blanch. “And raped her?”

  “There’s some evidence of trauma,” Detective Grimaldi said, her
voice even, “but not so much that it couldn’t have been consensual. Some people like rough sex.”

  “Not this rough, surely?”

  “There have been cases of death during autoerotic asphyxiation.”

  I must have looked blank, because she added, “Some people practice self-strangulation during masturbation. They say it enhances orgasms.”

  “Yikes!” I was fighting not to blush. In the circles where I travel, people don’t throw words like “masturbation” and “orgasm” around, let alone “autoerotic asphyxiation.”

  Tamara Grimaldi shrugged. “Not something you’ve ever been introduced to, I daresay.”

  I shook my head. Mercy, no. “My ex-husband was pretty traditional in bed. Not that I’m complaining. He was an adulterous jerk, but at least he never suggested we try something like that. That’s just nasty. Although this... um... auto-asphyxiation wasn’t how Lila died, was it?”

  Grimaldi shook her head. “She had a partner. One she let into her apartment. There was no sign of forced entry, so she must have opened the door for him. Either that or he followed her home and pushed inside before she had a chance to lock the door.”

  Scary.

  “Of course, there’s the possibility that whoever she had sex with wasn’t the person who killed her,” Grimaldi said judiciously. “However, our theory is that one man did both, and that it’s connected with the robbery. That’s why I need you to go over your conversation with her again, in detail. As much of it as you can remember. Anything, however little, may help us find the person who did this.”

  I nodded. “Of course. Anything I can do.”

  “I’m going to tape you, if you don’t mind. That way, I can get someone to transcribe the tape later, and I won’t have to worry about taking notes now. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “Sure,” I said. She pulled out a small recording device, pushed a button, told it her name and the date and time, and asked me to introduce myself. “Interview regarding Vaughn, Lila Jeanette. Case H-5927694. Go ahead, Ms. Martin. Tell me about your lunch with Ms. Vaughn. I’ll interrupt if there’s anything I want to clarify; it not, just keep going.”