by Elaine Viets
Except it did. I’d seen her worn, bony body and sagging skin. Also, that sparse gray pubic hair. Did Stu’s duties include bedding Jessica?
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were married to the vic?’ Greiman’s voice was low and menacing. I wished he didn’t sound like a TV caricature.
‘You didn’t ask,’ Stu said.
‘I DIDN’T ASK!’ Greiman was so mad he was spitting. ‘YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME, DIPWAD!’ He took a deep breath, and that seemed to calm him.
Greiman’s voice went back to that low, dangerous tone. ‘I could arrest you for interfering with an investigation! You know the husband is always the main suspect when a wife is murdered. Always! Especially when a young buck marries a much older woman. Why didn’t you say you two were married? I assume you inherit everything?’
‘You have no proof Jessica was murdered,’ Stu said. He was icy calm. ‘I want to speak to my lawyer. Then I want to go home and take my wife with me.’
Stu had avoided Greiman’s question. Did he inherit Jessica’s fortune? Did Stu trade his so-called golden handcuffs for a wedding band? That’s when the idea popped into my head: Stu killed Jessica. I considered it again – yes, it fit. Stu was the killer. He was free of his old, nasty wife. He’d have her money. He could restart his magic career in Vegas. I hoped Greiman would see that and arrest Stu.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Greiman said. ‘Except to the station. All four of you.’
‘Me, too?’ Mario looked uneasy.
‘Especially you,’ Greiman said.
I stood protectively next to Mario. ‘Angela, would you go with me?’ he asked. ‘I am feared I may not understand him.’ Mario’s normally excellent English had deteriorated. No doubt about it, he was upset.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll be your representative.’ Mario managed a tentative smile.
Stu wielded his cell phone like a weapon and said again, ‘I want to call my lawyer.’
‘Then make the call right here,’ Greiman said.
Stu had his lawyer’s number on speed dial. ‘Hello, Danielle. It’s Stu. I’m in a spot of trouble. Jessica died suddenly.’
Stu showed no more emotion than someone discussing a minor inconvenience. Stu had lost his wife. I’ve heard people who were more upset when their flight was canceled. After a pause, Stu said, ‘Yes, yes, it’s terribly sad. The police think she may have been murdered.’
Again, that matter-of-fact tone. What was wrong with this man? His wife had died in front of him, a violent, degrading death.
After another pause he said, ‘I need you. I’m afraid I’m a suspect. The police want to talk to me. Can you fly out here to St Louis?’
More silence. This time, it seemed to stretch for a decade. Then an outraged Stu said, ‘What? You can’t come here? You want me to deal with a local yokel in Bumfuck, Missouri?’
I felt my temper rising at that last remark, and tried to tamp it down. I wondered what Reggie Du Pres would think, after he’d spent all that money on his lavish party to impress the Californians.
Stu was still whining to the lawyer. ‘Are you sure you can’t fly here? Yes, yes, I understand. You’ve called him and he’ll be right over. OK, I won’t say another word until he shows up. I’ll be at the police station.’
He hung up and said, ‘My lawyer’s name is Montgomery Bryant. I’m told he lives here, and he’s on his way. I’ve been instructed to say nothing until he arrives.’
I knew Monty, and he was damn good, but I wasn’t going to say that to Stu. Monty’s specialty was getting people out of tricky situations, and I was pleased his reputation was national. He was also dating my best friend, Katie.
‘Come along,’ Greiman said. ‘All of you. You’re riding in my car.’
Mario looked frightened. What had he been doing?
I told him, ‘It’s OK. I’ll follow you to the station.’
I rolled my DI case to my car, loaded it into the trunk, and followed Greiman’s car. The Chouteau Forest Police station looked like a boutique hotel on the outside, but inside it was a typical grungy cop shop: scuffed floors, wanted posters, and a miserable group of people waiting in the lobby.
When I joined Jessica’s staff inside, Greiman turned on me. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I’m representing Mario Garcia. He sometimes has problems understanding English. I’m here to help him.’
‘Oh, you are, are you? Let me remind you, you’re involved in this case.’ Greiman was in a nasty mood, and I wasn’t having it. I drew myself to my full six feet – I was several inches taller than the detective – and said, ‘I’ve already finished my death investigation. It’s your choice. Either I stay here, or you wait while we get a Spanish interpreter. That could take hours.’
‘All right, you can stay. But your job is to interpret. That’s all.’
Good. I was betting he wouldn’t want to wait.
My cell phone interrupted his tirade. I didn’t recognize the caller ID. I started to take the call, and Greiman said, ‘Put it on speaker so we can all enjoy it, Mizz Richman.’ He gave the Ms a mocking buzz.
I didn’t want to argue with the creep. I did as he said.
A woman’s slurred voice said, ‘Are you the death investigator lady who was at the party?’
‘Who’s speaking, please?’
‘This is Becky. I was one of the models at Jessica’s stage show.’ I wondered about her slurred voice. Was Becky drinking?
‘Oh, right. How did you find me?’
‘I called the medical examiner and a lady gave me your cell phone number.’
‘Are you back in St Louis?’
‘Yes, no thanks to Jessica. She left me high and dry. That cheap bastard Reggie Du What’s His Name said his man would take me home if I took a shower. I told the old fart to stuff it and hitch-hiked home.’
I tried not to laugh. ‘Are you back on Olive Street, Becky?’
‘No, I found a nice hotel downtown – the Hoffstedder. That hundred dollars got me a whole week. And I have a job prospect, too, from those ladies you told me to see.’
‘That’s good, Becky, but I’m kinda in a hurry. Why did you call?’
‘I saw something at the hospital when that woman was there. I think it killed her.’
‘What? This is about Jessica?’
‘I’ll tell you tomorrow. You can meet me for breakfast. Ten o’clock at the pancake house on Jefferson.’
‘Becky, don’t play games. At least give me a clue.’
Becky chanted, ‘Since you’ve been so dear, I’ll make it clear. It’s not the red – it’s the blue. Breakfast is on you. Ten o’clock. The St Louis Pancake House. You’re buying.’
‘No, wait! Becky, you have to tell the police what you know.’
‘Bye, sweetie.’ There was a click.
‘She hung up,’ I said.
All five of them were crowded around me, listening – Mario, Stu, Tawnee, Will and Greiman. Greiman’s ears were positively flapping, he was listening so hard. I knew he’d caught every word.
‘Don’t bother having breakfast with her,’ Greiman said. ‘I’ll bring her in for questioning before that.’
I bit back a smile at the thought of the fastidious Greiman cooped up in his unmarked car with the odiferous Becky. But maybe her hotel had a shower.
‘All right, everyone, show’s over,’ Greiman said. He led Stu, Tawnee and Will down the dingy hall to separate interrogation rooms.
As soon as they were gone, Monty rushed through the door. The Forest lawyer was out of breath, and lugging a heavy black briefcase. I was pleased to see he wore a hand-tailored gray suit and blue-striped tie. Monty, a six-foot-two hunk with dark brown hair, looked impressive – no matter where you lived.
He seemed surprised to see me. Pleasantly surprised.
‘Angela!’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
I told him briefly how I was mixed up in Jessica’s death and what I knew. ‘Your client Stu wants to go home to California,�
� I said, ‘and Greiman wants to keep him here.’
Monty was too professional to make a face at the mention of Greiman’s name, but the two had a long, unhappy history.
‘Has he arrested Stu?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘We just found out Stu was secretly married to Jessica Gray. He didn’t tell Greiman.’
Monty raised an eyebrow. ‘Whoa. I bet Greiman hit the roof.’
‘I’ve never seen him so mad. He threatened to arrest Stu for interfering with an investigation.’
‘No way he can do that.’
‘The whole entourage wants to go home. Can you help them?’
‘I’m here to represent Stu,’ Monty said, ‘but I don’t see why they can’t leave as long as they’re not under arrest. There’s no way, absent an arrest or a court order, the police can force those people to stick around. The cops can ask them. They can suggest it would be better if they stayed, with all the publicity about Jessica’s death, and having to get her body or ashes back to California. But even a court order could not keep them in town. It would just impose penalties and a mechanism to get them back if they left.’
‘Oh. That’s good news for them.’
‘Thanks for the update, Angela. Now, I need to see my client.’
Monty straightened his blue tie and squared his shoulders. The Forest couldn’t have a better person representing us.
‘Good luck,’ I said. Monty presented himself to the desk sergeant and was shown down the hall.
Mario shifted uneasily on his wobbly plastic chair. ‘What’s going to happen?’ he asked. ‘I’m a foreigner.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re a US citizen. You have a thriving local business.’
‘None of that matters. I’ll be the Cuban outsider if there’s trouble.’
He was right, and nothing I could say would make him feel better.
‘I hope Tawnee will be OK now that Jessica is dead,’ I said.
‘And Will, too,’ Mario said. ‘He is very nice. And I get out to LA sometimes.’
I suspected Mario might have had a fling with Jessica’s make-up artist, but he wouldn’t dish. I tried to talk about his salon, Killer Cuts, but those conversations were stillborn. Mario had his styling case at his feet, crammed with his tools – scissors, brushes, blow dryers and more.
‘Want to put your case in my car?’ I asked.
‘No, I’ll keep it with me,’ Mario said. ‘I need to call my shop and tell Raquel I’ve been delayed.’
While he talked business with his assistant, I worked on my DI report and finished it nearly two hours later. I’d just emailed it in when Monty came down the hall with Stu. Jessica’s husband looked like he’d been beaten with a rubber hose: his suit was rumpled and his oily hair stood up on end. Even his shirt was partly unbuttoned. I couldn’t tell if Stu’s disarray was from the shock of Jessica’s death – or his own fears for himself.
‘You’re free to go,’ Monty said.
‘You’ve already been paid,’ Stu told him. I thought he sounded cold to the man who’d just freed him. ‘Do I owe you anything else?’
‘No, that’s it,’ Monty said. Stu didn’t thank him and there was no handshake. Monty left.
‘I’ll wait here until Will and Tawnee are free,’ Stu said.
‘Did the detective give you a hard time?’
‘Not really. It was easy,’ Stu said, and shrugged. He buttoned his shirt and tried to smooth the wrinkles in his jacket. He stank of vomit. ‘The local man handled it. No big deal.’
At least he didn’t call Monty a yokel.
‘What’s the best hotel here?’
‘The Chouteau Forest Inn,’ I said.
‘Think I can get reservations?’
‘In February, no problem. I thought you were anxious to go back to LA.’
‘I need to stay with my wife.’
Why the sudden change of heart? An hour ago, Stu couldn’t wait to leave. And why was he calling Jessica ‘my wife’? He never used those words when she was alive.
Greiman charged down the hall and said to Mario, ‘You! You’re next.’ The detective glared at Stu. I suspected Greiman was boiling with rage. Impotent rage. He’d wanted a quick arrest and his chief suspect was walking out the door.
Mario was trembling as he picked up his styling case. ‘It will be OK,’ I said. My words sounded unconvincing, even to me.
With that, Officer Blake Cameron came in with Rex, his K-9 partner. Rex was truly a king, a magnificent Belgian Malinois with huge dark ears. Rex was bigger than a German Shepherd and his eyes glowed with intelligence. He was a certified drug-sniffing dog, and Officer Cameron bragged Rex’s nose was incredibly accurate. ‘He can sniff out the tomato on a ham sandwich,’ he liked to say.
‘Hi, Blake,’ I said. ‘Hi, Rex.’ I politely held out my fist for Rex to sniff, but the massive dog ignored me and went straight for Mario’s case. He pawed it and whimpered.
‘He’s alerting,’ Officer Cameron said. ‘There are drugs in that case.’
‘No!’ Mario said, but the blood had drained from his face.
‘Open it,’ Greiman said.
‘Do you have a warrant?’ I asked.
‘Since when did you turn into a lawyer?’ Greiman said. ‘You can get fired for hindering an investigation. Especially one that you’re involved in. Open that case, Mario Garcia, or I’ll file a complaint and Angela will get fired.’
‘Don’t do it, Mario,’ I said. ‘He’s bluffing.’
Mario opened his case.
‘Do I have your permission to search this?’ Greiman asked. ‘Remember what happens to Mizz Richman if you won’t let me.’
‘No!’ I said.
‘Yes!’ Mario said. ‘I give the permission.’ His voice trembled with fear.
Inside, among the brushes and hair clips, Greiman found a black tube of lipstick. ‘Chanel,’ he said. ‘Your color?’ It was crammed with purple football-shaped Xanax tablets. An aspirin bottle held Percocet tablets. A lot of Percocet, maybe two hundred.
‘You got a prescription for these?’ Greiman asked.
Mario turned paler and said nothing.
Greiman read Mario his rights. The detective’s next question was a hammer blow: ‘Why did you give Jessica Gray Xanax and Percocet?’
‘She was nervous,’ Mario said. ‘She needed to relax.’ I kicked him in the leg to shut him up and said, ‘Mario didn’t understand your question.’
‘The hell he didn’t,’ Greiman said. ‘Your friend Will said you gave Jessica drugs.’
Will? The cute red-haired make-up artist Mario wanted to see on his next trip to LA?
Mario looked like he’d been punched. His good friend and maybe lover Will had betrayed him.
‘Mario Garcia, you’re under arrest for possession of two controlled substances with the intent to distribute both,’ Greiman said. ‘That’s at least two felonies. And if the tox screen shows these killed Jessica Gray, the next charge will be murder one.
‘Now, Angela, get the hell out of here.’
I left in defeat. Greiman got what he wanted – a quick arrest. He didn’t care if Mario didn’t have a motive to kill Jessica. Greiman would invent one.
TWELVE
Damn Greiman. I watched him snap metal handcuffs on Mario. Handcuffs! Mario was already inside the police station. Did Greiman think the hairstylist was going to overpower him with a curling iron?
Mario’s handsome Latin face was distorted with terror. I figured he must be having flashbacks to his time in Castro’s totalitarian Cuba, when homosexuals were hunted down and shot.
I fought to keep my temper. ‘Greiman, there’s no need for that. Mario is a businessman. He’s not going to flee. He has a stake in the community.’
‘He has the perfect business to sell drugs.’ I hated Greiman’s self-righteousness. ‘As soon as I get a search warrant, I’m going to find them.’
Mario started to protest, then saw the warning shake of my head and shut up.
‘Not
a word, Mario,’ I said. ‘Not till your lawyer, Montgomery Bryant, arrives. I’ll call Raquel and let her know what happened.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, as Greiman dragged him off.
I stormed through the station, silently damning Greiman for his theatrics. Outside, I heard Stu whining into his phone: ‘I have to find some way to get her home. I’m not sure when they’ll release her body or how I’m going to transport her, but I have to leave this freezing shit-hole.’
If he’d asked me, I could have told him which undertakers would do the best job of sending Jessica home, but the hell with him. He was the real killer, not Mario. Stu deserved to rot in jail – a Missouri jail.
I got into my car – my private phone booth – and called Monty Bryant. I was grateful when the lawyer answered on the second ring. He must have heard the tension in my voice.
‘What’s wrong, Angela?’ he asked.
‘It’s Mario. He’s been arrested for drugs. Possession and distribution.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
I realized I was on a cell phone. ‘Maybe I’d better come to your office.’
‘Give me an hour,’ Monty said. ‘I’m with a client right now.’
Good, that gave me enough time to stop by Killer Cuts. I was in the parking lot ten minutes later. The salon’s sleek black leather-and-chrome interior was quieter than usual: a stylist was blow-drying a customer at one station and a manicurist was gossiping quietly and painting a young woman’s fingernails acid green.
Raquel, Mario’s Cuban-American assistant, was booking an appointment at the reception desk. While I waited for her to get off the phone, I sat in a black leather chair and paged through Vogue. Finally, she hung up. I lowered my voice to almost a whisper and said, ‘Mario’s been arrested for possession of drugs.’
‘No!’ Raquel said. ‘I told him he was getting careless. He’s been making buys in the parking lot in daylight.’
‘He had Percocet and Xanax in his styling case.’
‘Oh, shit.’ Raquel’s red lips trembled and a tear threatened her perfect eye make-up. ‘What are we gonna do?’