Coached in the Act

by Victoria Laurie

  “Huh,” I said. “Would a vice admiral throw away his whole career out of revenge for a former lover making fun of him onstage?”

  Gilley shrugged. “I’d say maybe if I hadn’t heard all of that part of Yelena’s act. Of all the lovers she mentioned, he was kind of the most boring.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Number Five got the fewest laughs.”

  “So, there really wasn’t anything salacious about him,” Gilley said. “And a vice admiral is second in command in the Coast Guard. He’s way up there in rank.”

  “Is he married?” I asked, thinking that if Leahy was married and he had an affair with Yelena, that could definitely end his career.

  “Nope,” Gilley said. “He’s a divnk. Just like Shepherd, actually.”

  “A divnk? What’s a divnk?”

  “Divorced, no kids.”

  I blinked. “Then what am I?” I asked.

  Gilley smirked. “The envy of divorcées everywhere.”

  I laughed. “Come on, Gilley, I’m serious.”

  “So am I,” he insisted. “You’re divorced, with two kids in boarding school, a sexy boyfriend, and all the money a person could want. You’re a divrahah.”

  “What’s a divrahah?”

  “Divorced, rich, and happy as hell.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You make it sound like I’m happy that my sons are at boarding school.”

  “Oh, please, Cat. They were here the second half of the summer and had dinner with us, what? Four times?”

  “Eight,” I said and offered Gilley a chagrined smile. “I counted.”

  “Exactly my point. They were at the beach or the skate park way more than they were here.”

  I sighed. “I’d still rather have them home than away at school.”

  “But can you deny you’re happy as hell?”

  “No,” I said. “No, I’m pretty happy.”

  “Exactly my point. And thank your stars you’re not a mankatbed.”

  “A . . . what?”

  “Mankatbed.”

  “What the devil is that?”

  “Married, no kids, about to be divorced.”

  “Oh, you’re right. That would be bad. Who do we know that’s a mankatbed?”

  Gilley eyed me expectantly.

  It took me longer than I’d like to admit to realize he meant himself. “Oh, come on,” I said. “Gilley, you are not!”

  “Aren’t I?” he said, his lower lip quivering just a tad.

  I moved in for a hug, disturbing Spooks, who moaned slightly in protest. When I let go, I kept my hands on Gilley’s shoulders. “I’m here for you. Day and night. Whatever you need.”

  Gilley nodded and pointed to his tablet. “Shall we get on with it?”

  “Yes,” I said, sitting back again. “Where were we?”

  “Talking about Mr. Leahy. Who’s divorced, no kids, and the apparent mark of a very clever, albeit very dead, lady.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “Do we know if he was recently divorced? Maybe he had an affair with Yelena and that ended his marriage, and he killed her in revenge.”

  “He’s been divorced for six years,” Gilley said, scrolling through his tablet. “At least according to my public records search.”

  “Let’s put him on the list of suspects, anyway. We want to be thorough in our investigation.”

  “Agreed,” Gilley said.

  “Okay, so that’s three out of eleven, and it’s not even nine o’clock yet.”

  “We are good,” Gilley said.

  “Okay, so how do we identify the rest—especially the ones we didn’t get to hear about during the second act?”

  “I wish we could talk to Sunny,” Gilley said. “I’m sure she’d know every guy in the show.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. She told me yesterday, when I went to pick up the tickets, that Yelena was planning to name names that night, and she gave me the impression that she didn’t know who Yelena would publicly identify. She also said she hadn’t yet seen the act.”

  “Hold on,” Gilley said, swiveling to me with wide eyes. “Yelena mentioned that she was going to name names?”

  “Yes,” I said. I didn’t know why Gilley was so excited by that. “She told Sunny when she gave her the tickets that she was going to drop a few names at the end of the show.”

  “Sugar,” he said, “way to bury the lead.”

  “You think if Yelena told Sunny she was going to name names then maybe Yelena also told other people and it got back to the murderer?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Gilley said, like it should’ve been obvious.

  “Don’t be mean,” I told him.

  “Sorry,” he said. “You’re right. That was rude.”

  I shrugged and let it go. “How do we find out if Yelena told other people her plans for the evening?”

  “We hunt down the twelve angry men and grill them about how much they knew about Yelena’s show.”

  I nodded. “I like that. But how are we going to grill them exactly, Gilley? We don’t know these men, and we wouldn’t have any reason to walk right up to them and start asking them personal questions like that.”

  “Hmm,” Gilley said. “That’s true. We’ll need an excuse.”

  We both stared at the floor while we thought about an excuse good enough to approach any of the men we identified.

  “I’ve got nothing,” I finally said.

  Gilley sighed. “Me either. But not to worry. I’ll think of something.”

  Headlights outside flashed across the room through the open blinds. I looked over my shoulder.

  “Who’s here?” Gilley said.

  I got up and went to the front door. Spooks must’ve heard whoever it was outside approaching, because his head popped up and he jumped off the couch to run over to me and place himself between me and the door.

  “Woof!” he barked. The sound was like a low rumble of thunder. Definitely not a bark to be messed with.

  “Gilley?” we heard through the door.

  Gilley had gotten up and was next to me. “Hey, Shepherd,” he said through the still closed door.

  “Is that a dog in there?”

  “Woof!” Spooks barked in reply.

  Placing a hand on the doorknob, I looked pointedly from Gilley to Spooks and back again. “Best hold on to him, Gilley. He’s never met Shepherd.”

  Gilley knelt down next to Spooks and hugged the pup to him.

  I opened the door, and Shepherd stood on the first step, hesitantly. “When did you get a dog?” he said by way of greeting.

  “This is Spooks,” Gilley told him. “Spooks, meet Shepherd.”

  Spooks had his hackles raised, and although he wasn’t growling, we all understood that Shepherd needed to be on his best behavior until Spooks could approve his arrival.

  “Hey, buddy,” Shepherd said, kneeling low to get on Spooks’s level. “He’s a good-looking guy. Did you get him from the shelter?”

  “We did,” Gilley said, allowing Spooks to move forward toward Shepherd. “We picked him up today.”

  Shepherd nodded and waited for Spooks to inch forward and sniff at him. “Hey, guy,” Shepherd said and very carefully lifted a hand to stroke the dog’s ear. “How ya doin’? Huh? Who’s a big boy? Huh? Who’s a good buddy?”

  I put a finger to my lips to suppress a bubble of laughter. Shepherd had completely melted at the appearance of a dog, and it was adorable.

  Spooks, it seemed, had also allowed his protective heart to melt, and his stub tail was wagging back and forth furiously as he pushed his big head into Shepherd’s chest. Then he had a sudden thought and bolted inside again to retrieve a squeaky toy and bring it over to Shepherd, who played tug with him for a bit out in the driveway while Gilley and I eyed each other knowingly.

  At last, Shep came inside himself, still pulling on the squeaky toy while Spooks dug his heels in and tried to coax his new friend to continue playing. “Man, I love dogs,” Shepherd said.

  “You do?” I ask
ed. “I never knew that about you.”

  Shepherd nodded. “I had a bunch of dogs growing up, three, sometimes four at a time, and they were all rescues. Rescues make the best companions. They’ve seen the darker side of life, and they’re grateful for any love they get.”

  “Agreed,” Gilley said, moving to the kitchen counter, where he dug through one of the bags we’d brought inside after our trip to the Pet Palace. When he produced a large Kong, he said, “Spooks! Hey, Spooks! You want some peanut butter?”

  The dog cocked his head at Gilley, the squeaky toy dangling out of his mouth. Gilley chuckled and headed into the kitchen to fill the Kong with a yummy treat. Spooks dropped the toy and padded after him, leaving me alone with Shepherd.

  “How come you don’t own a dog now?” I asked, feeling a sudden tension in the air between us.

  “No time,” he said, looking wistfully at Spooks’s departing form. “I spend too many hours at the station to be a good parent to a pooch.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  I tried to think of another thing to say to fill the awkward silence that followed, but Shepherd beat me to it. “Thanks for butting into my case today, Cat.”

  My shoulders sagged. “Is that what this is?” I said, pointing to the door, then to Shepherd. “You came over here to give me a lecture?”

  “Oh, come on. You knew I would,” he said.

  “I didn’t butt into your case, Shep. I merely recommended an attorney for my client—whom you arrested based on flimsy evidence.”

  “It ain’t flimsy, honey,” Shepherd said, and his tone was dead serious. “Yelena was murdered with a letter opener that belonged to Nassau.”

  “How do you know it belonged to Aaron?” I asked.

  “It has the coat of arms of the Danish royal family on it,” he said easily.

  “A letter opener with a coat of arms of the royal family on it can probably be found in any tourist gift shop in Denmark,” I argued.

  Shepherd chuckled. “I doubt a tourist gift shop sells a fourteen-karat gold letter opener with the official coat of arms inlaid with sapphires, yellow diamonds, and rubies.”

  My mouth fell open. “Whoa,” I said. “That has to be worth a pretty penny.”

  Shepherd nodded. “Our best guess is that it’s worth fifty to sixty grand. Probably more.”

  “Probably a lot more,” I said. “Which begs the question, why would Aaron use it to commit murder?”

  “Because it was handy,” Shepherd said, moving around me and over to the couch, where he collapsed in a tired heap.

  “Do you want something to eat, Shepherd?” Gilley called from the kitchen.

  “Whatcha got?”

  “I made a sweet potato and chickpea curry over basmati rice.”

  Shepherd sniffed the air. “That must be what smells so good. Yeah, Gilley, a plate of that would be great.”

  “Coming right up,” Gil said, and he got to work pulling the leftovers out of the fridge.

  “Where did you find this letter opener?” I asked next, wanting to continue the conversation.

  “At the scene. One of the techs found it under the dressing table.”

  “What was it doing there?”

  “I dunno, Cat. Maybe Nassau threw it there after he got done stabbing my victim to death.”

  I looked at him crossly. “Shep,” I said, “why would Aaron leave behind the most incriminating piece of evidence and not take it with him if he did in fact kill Yelena?”

  “I think he panicked,” Shepherd said.

  “How convenient,” I said drolly.

  “It happens,” Shepherd said.

  “What did Aaron say about it when you asked him?”

  “You mean, what did Marcus Brown allow him to say when I asked him?”

  I pursed my lips in an effort to keep them from spreading into a small grin.

  Shepherd rolled his eyes and said, “Nassau claims that he has no idea how it got in Yelena’s dressing room, but he suspects she stole it the last time they were together.”

  “She stole it?”

  “That’s what he says. That’s not what I believe.”

  “Why would she steal something worth so much money?” I said, as if Shepherd hadn’t even spoken. “I mean, stealing anything over ten thousand makes it a felony, right?”

  “It does,” he said. “But Nassau was quick to say that if she had taken it, he wouldn’t have pressed charges, because he still loved her, and as far as he was concerned, she was welcome to anything of his that he owned.”

  “And you don’t believe him,” I said.

  “Of course I don’t believe him. He had to add that last bit to take away the motive for murder.”

  “I’m missing that. What motive?”

  Shepherd shrugged. “Nassau discovers his extremely valuable letter opener is missing, suspects Yelena has stolen it, heads to the theater to confront her about it, finds it, and stabs her with it when he finds the proof of her larceny.”

  “Why wouldn’t he have simply called the police?” I asked next. “If he’d suspected that Yelena had stolen the letter opener, why wouldn’t he have simply filled out a police report?”

  “You’d have to ask him that,” Shepherd said.

  “But does that really make sense to you?” I pressed. “I mean, you’re a seasoned detective. Does it make sense that a man would stab his former lover with the very object he suspected she stole, only to then throw it under a dressing table as he ran out the door?”

  Shepherd rubbed his tired eyes. “I don’t know what was going through his mind at the time of the murder, babe. All I know is that your guy did it. I had him set up to confess it, and then you stuck your nose into it, and now what was almost a slam dunk means I gotta work triple hard to prove my case.”

  “Here you are,” Gilley said, handing Shepherd a steaming bowl of the delicious curry. “And here you also are,” he added, pulling out a pint bottle of chilled pale ale from under his arm.

  “Gilley,” Shepherd said with a grin as he took the bottle from him, “you really know how to spoil a guy.”

  “I’ve had some practice at it,” Gilley said, clearly pleased, as he shuffled over to a nearby chair and plopped down himself.

  Shepherd tucked into his dinner, and we waited in silence for him to take a few bites. “Oh, man,” he said, hovering his fork over the meal. “Gil! This is good!”

  Gilley’s grin widened.

  “Any word on Sunny?” I asked, suddenly thinking of her.

  Shepherd stopped chewing. In fact, he froze in place for a beat or two, but then he seemed to recover himself. “Nothing new,” he said. “I stopped by their house on my way here. Darius had his hands full with Finley. He says that Sunny is kind of out of it. They’ve got her on some heavy sedatives to keep her calm until they can figure out what might’ve triggered the episode.”

  “Did you get a chance to see her?” Gilley asked.

  Shepherd stared at his food and shook his head. I could see the tense line of his shoulders and knew he was terribly worried about his twin. “Darius is the only one allowed to see her right now, and he said even his visits are kept short. They don’t want her upset, and they’re worried that seeing me might make her upset.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Cat,” Shepherd said, his voice suddenly hard. “Maybe because I’d lose it if I saw her locked up in some mental ward.”

  I bit my lip, regretting the fact that I’d pressed him on the point. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  He shook his head, set his fork in the curry, and reached over to squeeze my hand. “It’s not you. It’s this whole situation.”

  “Understood,” I said.

  We let Shepherd continue to eat his dinner in relative silence, but then he looked up at us and said, “I’m getting self-conscious with you two watching me eat. Somebody say something.”

  “How’s that other case going?” Gilley asked.

&
nbsp; Shepherd grunted and chewed the bite he’d taken for a moment before answering. “That one’s a puzzler.”

  “Do you still think it was a mob hit?” I asked.

  Shepherd shook his head, then shrugged. “I don’t know what to think of it. I assigned the case to Santana—”

  “Santa?” Gilley interrupted. “Are his eight tiny reindeers also on the case?”

  Shepherd leveled a look at him. “Not Santa, Gil. Santana. He’s the department’s new detective. A hotshot out of Queens, he asked for a transfer here ‘’cause he likes the sea.’” Shepherd used air quotes for that last part, and he added an eye roll. “Anyway, he’s worked enough homicides that I figured he could probably handle this one, and I’m keeping tabs on it ’cause I’m not ruling out that there’s a link to Yelena’s murder, but everything Santana’s reporting back to me so far only adds to the mystery.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Well, like the fact that we were only able to identify the vic by using the key fob in his pocket to locate his car, which was in the same parking structure where you guys were parked. He left his wallet in the car, along with his phone and anything else that might identify him, and although he was wearing a women’s size-ten raincoat, stuffed with two hundred thousand dollars—”

  “Two hundred thousand?” Gilley and I both gasped.

  Shepherd nodded and continued, as if we hadn’t interrupted him. “In the lining. Labretta found the car. The plates were registered to a guy named Mark Purdy, and when we searched the car, we found a wallet and phone in the glove box. ID matching the vic identified him definitively.

  “Purdy’s on no one’s list for organized crime. He’s a retired estate attorney, lived in a condo overlooking the bay in Sag Harbor, and the ME says that he doesn’t think the murderer used a knife to slit Purdy’s throat. He thinks it was piano wire.”

  “Oh, God,” Gilley said, his face a mask of horror. “I thought they did that only in the movies.”

  “Nope,” Shepherd said. “They do that in real life too. It’s quick and effective, and it sends a clear signal.”

  “So, you really do believe this was a mob hit,” I said.

  “For sure. What I can’t figure out is the money. None of the bills are counterfeit, so why the hit man didn’t take it with him is a puzzler.”