Coached to Death

by Victoria Laurie

  I gulped.

  Gilley’s yikes face turned into an EEEEEK! “Don’t let him in!” he mouthed.

  “You better let me in!” Shepherd shouted.

  I turned to the door. “How are you doing that?!”

  “So you are home!” Shepherd said.

  With a sigh, I smoothed out my features and opened the door. “Detective,” I said pleasantly, “to what do I owe this delightful surprise?”

  “Cut the crap, Catherine. I know you and your sidekick were in West Hempstead earlier. Care to explain why I’ve got you connected to another murder?”

  I pressed my lips together. The man was beyond intolerable. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective.”

  His expression went from angry to downright dangerous. “You’re ‘quite certain,’ are you?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling a spark of anger ignite in my own belly as my defenses went up.

  Shepherd rubbed his face with his hand. And then he did something I’m sure was quite difficult for him. He took a deep breath and softened his tone. “I know about the ticket in West Hempstead.”

  “So I got a ticket?” I said, not giving him an inch. “So what?”

  Shepherd simply stared levelly at me.

  “Lots of people get tickets.”

  Without blinking, he continued to stare.

  “I’m sure I’m not the only person in this town who’s received a ticket in the last week. Or even today!”

  “You done yet?” Shepherd asked.

  It was my turn to take a deep breath and let out a sigh. “Yes.”

  “Can I come in?”

  I was surprised by the request and looked to Gilley, who seemed just as surprised. He shrugged, so I opened the door wider, and Shepherd stepped in. “Thanks,” he said, before pointing to the table and raising his brow in question.

  “Of course,” I said, a bit thrown by his sudden congenial manner. “Please take a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Is there any tea left?” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

  “I’ll put the kettle back on,” Gilley said, trading another look of disbelief with me.

  I sat down at the table carefully, like you’d sit down next to an unstable person. “I would’ve pegged you for a coffee drinker,” I said.

  “You would’ve pegged me right. My sister got me hooked on an afternoon cup of tea, though. It’s sort of become our ritual ever since Lenny died.”

  “That ritual must bring you a bit of comfort,” I said.

  “It does,” Shepherd agreed, “I was a train wreck in the weeks that followed Lenny’s murder. I couldn’t solve the case, and it drove me to say and do some . . . shall we say, stupid stuff at work. And, because I was being a little reckless on the investigation, my lieutenant ordered me to take a few weeks off. That was my lowest point, I think. Sunny pulled me out of it by showing up at my door with a couple of tea bags every afternoon around four. And it was nice, you know? Sitting together, drinking something hot that didn’t taste like tar. Those afternoons helped me get my head together.”

  Shepherd had a wistful, faraway look in his eye that moved me. It was odd to find myself moved by the story and the expression of this man—whom I’d recently detested.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “even after I got my head on straight and returned to work, I still make it a point to drop in on her once or twice a week, and we hang out and drink tea.”

  I poked him in the arm. “Careful, Detective. You might be showing us your human side.”

  He shrugged as Gilley set down a steaming cup in front of him. “I think my secret’s safe with you two,” he said, while pouring in some cream and sugar. As he was stirring his tea he added, “Nice drone.”

  Gilley and I traded another look, this one definitely alarmed. Gilley laughed nervously, picking the drone up from the table and placing it out of sight on a chair next to him. “I ordered it just the other day,” he said. “I got the idea from the one you found last week.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Shepherd said, clinking his spoon against his cup as if he totally bought that explanation. “The West Hempstead cop I talked to said you’d been flying it near the site of another murder.”

  “How did you find out about that so quickly?” I asked, dropping the pretense.

  Shepherd took a sip of tea before answering. “He ran your license, Catherine. Your arrest record came up, and because the charges were dropped, he had to let you go with just the ticket, but he’d wanted to dig a little deeper given your . . . suspicious behavior, so he called me. That’s when I discovered that the same car that you described as Carmen’s getaway vehicle was found with a body inside.”

  I shuddered at the memory of the terrible image on Gilley’s iPad when the drone hovered next to the window of that car. “We had nothing to do with it,” I said, wishing my voice hadn’t quavered as I spoke.

  “I know,” Shepherd said.

  “You do?” Gilley and I asked together.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I also talked with the detective on the scene. He says the woman’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours, and since you were with me twenty-four hours ago, I know you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  I felt a wave a relief until Shepherd turned his gaze on Gilley. “Where were you yesterday between six and ten p.m., Mr. Gillespie?”

  Gilley pointed to the ceiling and said, “Sebastian?”

  “Yes, sir Gilley?”

  “Where was I last night between six and ten p.m.?”

  “You were in the kitchen area between six p.m. and six forty-two p.m. You were in the central bathroom between six forty-two and six-fifty. You were in the living room area at six fifty-one until nine oh-five. You were in the central bathroom between nine oh-five—”

  “Okay, I get it,” Shepherd said. “Geez, the last thing I want to hear about are your bathroom habits.”

  “You asked,” Gil said defensively.

  “You know what? You’re right. And you and your robot answered. So neither of you had anything to do with Sasha Kuznetsov’s murder—”

  “Sasha?” I said. “You’re sure it was Sasha and not Carmen?”

  “Positive. As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, the two were related—they were sisters. Sasha was identified through her fingerprints.”

  “So Carmen wasn’t found in the trunk?” Gilley asked.

  Shepherd looked at him oddly. “Why would you think she’d be in the trunk?”

  “I don’t know,” Gil said. “One too many Law and Order marathons, I suppose?”

  Shepherd shook his head. “You’re a little weird, ain’t cha?”

  Gilley sniffed and threw an imaginary scarf over his shoulder. “I’m an acquired taste.”

  “I bet,” Shepherd said. “But to answer your question, no. There’s no sign of Carmen, so she’s either dead or on the run again.”

  “Do you think she might’ve killed Sasha?” I asked him.

  “It’s possible, but I don’t think so. This looks like it’s another hit from our assassin.”

  “I’m beginning to hate this woman,” Gilley said.

  “Trust me, I know,” Shepherd said. “But it’s all the more reason for me to try and talk some sense into the two of you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked testily.

  “It means that this woman is dangerous, Catherine. And you’re putting your nose into her business. First with the priest, then with the vintage store, and now in West Hempstead. She’s liable to get ticked off pretty soon, and we all know what happens when she gets ticked off.”

  I gulped. “Do you think that’s why I was followed last night? She might’ve thought I was headed to West Hempstead and wanted to follow me there?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Shepherd said. “As far as I can tell, you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Doesn’t that also extend to you, Detective?” Gilley asked.

  Shepherd frown
ed. “I can take care of myself. It’s you two I’m worried about.”

  “What would you like us to do?” I asked him.

  “I’d like for you two to butt out. And I know I’ve already asked you that, Catherine, but I need you to understand how serious this is.”

  “But what if we discovered something that might be important to your investigation?” I asked.

  Shepherd immediately opened his mouth as if to protest, thought better of it, and said, “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that Carmen grilled me about the punch when I arrived at Heather’s.”

  “What do you mean she grilled you about the punch?”

  “She wanted to know if I’d followed the recipe to the letter, what kind of juices I’d used, and if I’d used tonic or Sprite.”

  Shepherd eyed me like he was waiting for a punch line. “Aaaaaaand?”

  “And then she taste-tested it to make sure what I said was correct.”

  Shepherd looked at Gilley. “Do you know what she means?”

  “Not yet,” Gil said. “But I think we’re about to find out.”

  “Why would Carmen go to such lengths to ensure that the punch was made correctly if she was the one that poisoned Heather?” I said. “If she did the deed, then why would she even care?”

  “Maybe because there was a hit out on Heather, and Carmen thought to collect the reward,” Shepherd said.

  “Wait, what?” I asked. “There was a hit out on Heather? Like ... a mafia hit?”

  “Yes,” Shepherd said. “One of my sources just confirmed it. Heather had a price on her head.”

  “So she took over more of her husband’s business than just the business,” Gilley said.

  “Looks that way,” Shepherd replied. “I’ve got a forensic accountant going over her books, but we think we’ve spotted a pattern of money laundering going back a year or two. She was definitely padding the costs of her business’s construction. But lately her numbers were off.”

  “Off?” I asked.

  “Yeah. She’d been doing about six houses a year pretty steadily for the past four years, and funneling extra money through the builds. Her costs for everything from lumber to light fixtures were usually two hundred percent above average.”

  “So who was she funneling money for?” I asked nervously. Thinking that the mafia was present in my own backyard rattled me.

  Shepherd blew out a sigh and swiped a hand through his hair. “Around here? There’re a few organized crime cells to pick from. Most are Russian-based. My source says there were rumors that Heather was working for one organization and wasn’t happy with her cut—her percentage of the profits. There are at least a few additional rumors that say she might’ve been courting a rival family.”

  “Why would she do something so stupid?” Gilley asked. “Everyone knows that once you’re married to the mob, there’s no such thing as divorce. It’s till death do you part.”

  “True, but nothing says that if your profits dry up, you can’t be asked to leave.”

  My eyes widened. “Is that what happened? Heather’s business dried up?”

  “We think so,” Shepherd said. “She was having a hard time coming across available land where she could have the lots re-parceled and build multiple homes.”

  “That’s what she tried to do with this lot,” I said to him.

  “Yeah, I know. My sister told me, which is what led me to start digging through Heather’s books. This lot looks like it was her last chance to remain profitable for whomever she was laundering money for.”

  “Would they kill her just for that?” Gilley wondered.

  “They’ve killed for less. But my guess is that she didn’t put much effort into it once Catherine bought this plot. I think she was trying to use the fact that she was no longer profitable to her advantage while making it appear that she was furious over losing out on the lot. That way, her bosses would dump her rather than keep her on, and she’d be free to court another family if she wanted. But she would’ve needed to be careful. She would’ve needed to appear to be really upset that she lost out on this property.”

  I inhaled sharply. “That’s why she made my humiliation so public!”

  “Yep,” Shepherd agreed. “I think so.”

  “So this assassin,” Gilley said, focusing us back on the killer, “do you think she works for the Russian mafia?”

  “I think she works for whomever wants to pay her,” he said.

  I had a chilling thought and said, “I almost hate to ask this again, Detective, but are you sure your ex-wife didn’t have anything to do with the Russian mafia?”

  Shepherd inhaled deeply and said, “Not to my knowledge. Lenny wasn’t the type to get mixed up in anything criminal.”

  “Still,” Gilley said, “having an ex-husband who’s a cop is pretty good cover if you’re trying to fly under the radar.”

  Shepherd frowned. “Agreed.”

  “What I don’t understand is how Carmen fits into all this,” I said.

  “Me either,” Shepherd admitted. “Her last name is obviously Russian, but she’s originally from a place called Tura, which is a remote northern settlement, population less than ten thousand. She and her sister left there in the late eighties, settling in New York. They’ve worked domestically as housekeepers and nannies ever since. And there’s nothing in either of their backgrounds that rings any kind of alarm bells.”

  “Well, there is one thing,” I said.

  “What’s that?” Gilley asked.

  “Carmen worked for a lady who worked for the mob. Maybe she overheard something or saw something incriminating, and that’s why she’s on the run.”

  “Or,” Gilley said, “maybe through her own Russian domestic connections she heard there was a price on her boss lady’s head, and she wanted to collect the dough for it.”

  “Both of those scenarios are possible. And—to Gilley’s theory—it could be why the assassin is after Carmen. If she thinks her paycheck was taken out from underneath her, she’d be hell-bent on getting even,” Shepherd said.

  I knew that all worked in theory, but a lot still bothered me about all of this. Mostly, I just didn’t believe that Carmen was a killer. I’d seen the fear in her eyes as she fled the church, where she’d obviously been hiding out.

  “A woman who kills her boss in lieu of getting a big fat paycheck doesn’t seek sanctuary in a church. She heads to Aruba,” I said. Gilley and Shepherd both frowned. They knew I had a point. “I wish we could form a theory that covers all these bases,” I mused.

  Shepherd shook his head at me. “See now, that’s exactly why I’m here, Catherine. I don’t want you to form any more theories. I want you to stay out of this investigation until we find either the assassin or Carmen.”

  “Deal,” Gilley said, and that surprised me. I turned to look at him, and he said to me, “Cat, it’s enough. We’re playing with fire here. I’m too gorgeous to get burned.”

  I sighed and offered Gilley a grateful smile. “Yes, all right,” I said. “We’ll stop.”

  Shepherd let out his own sigh of relief. “Good.” Getting up, he walked his mug over to the sink. He then headed to the door and paused before leaving. “As a thank-you for being so cooperative, I promise to update you two when we catch either of these women.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” I said.

  With a nod, he opened the door and left.

  Chapter 14

  Gilley and I sat on the couch later that night mostly in silence. Even the volume on the TV was quieter than usual.

  I think we were both feeling a little down in the dumps over being asked to butt out of the investigation. “It really was getting too dangerous,” I said, breaking the silence.

  “It was,” Gilley agreed.

  “Still . . . ,” I mused.

  “Yes?”

  I sat up and looked at Gilley directly. “I feel like we’re missing something obvious.”

  Gilley wrinkled his nose. “Yeah. I know. That th
ought has been bugging me too. But what can we do, Cat?”

  I got up and began to pace the room, trying to think of a way to stick my nose back into something dangerous without attracting any attention. I then paused and headed over to the window, looking out across my parcel to Heather’s.

  Her whole house was dark, which was to be expected, but something about my exchange with Carmen over the punch still really bothered me.

  And then I thought I had it. “You know what was so weird when I went to Heather’s with the punch?”

  “What?” Gilley said.

  “The fact that Heather assigned me to make the punch, but her housekeeper insisted on tasting it before letting me past the kitchen. Like I said before, it was almost like she knew someone might want to poison Heather.”

  Gilley cocked his head. “I’m listening,” he said.

  I turned back to him. “So what if she did know that Heather had a price on her head?” I said. “What if Carmen was trying to protect Heather, but failed.”

  “Makes sense,” Gilley said.

  I tapped my lip. “In a way it does, but in a way it doesn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if Carmen knew that Heather had a price on her head, the obvious route to taking Heather out is probably a gunshot to the head, right?”

  Gilley made a face. “I suppose.”

  “So how did Carmen know that Heather was going to be poisoned?”

  “You know the Russians and their love of killing people with exotic toxins,” Gil mused.

  “Yes. But then why would Carmen risk her life to taste-test the punch? If she knew that someone might try to kill Heather through some sort of toxic poison, why would she risk her own life by ingesting the punch?”

  “Maybe Carmen had already taken the antidote?”

  “But to what?” I asked. “Aren’t there like a bajillion poisons out there that could kill you?”

  “At least that many.”

  “So Carmen would’ve known that something in the food or the punch could kill Heather, but not her. How is that possible?”

  “Well, if Heather were allergic to something, like shellfish, that could be one way to take her out.”