He waited until his secretary had left the office and shut the door behind her, and then said, “No, I didn’t murder Colin. Yes, as a matter of fact I do have an airtight alibi.” He used the tips of his fingers to push an unmarked plain white envelope across the vast breadth of his desk. “That contains my itinerary for the past thirty-six hours. As you’ll see, I wasn’t alone for so much as a single minute. I’ve included the names and addresses and telephone numbers of everyone I was with during that time.”
Willows said, “No one’s accused you of anything, Mr. Hughes.”
“No, of course not. Your superiors wouldn’t like it if I sued your ass for libel, would they?” Hughes smiled to take the sting out of his words. He said, “If you don’t consider me a suspect now, you certainly will after you’ve had time to research my relationship with Colin.”
Oikawa said, “How did you know he was dead?”
“It was on the radio. Mary’s already fielded a dozen gloating phone calls. We’re expecting quite a few more.”
Willows put the envelope in his pocket. He sat down in the chair closest to the window. Oikawa hesitated, and then took the other chair. Willows said, “Why do you think we’d suspect you of Mr. McDonald’s murder?”
“The terms of our contract stipulate that, should one of us die, his share of the company is automatically transferred to the surviving partner.” Hughes spread his arms wide. The gesture was calculated and amateurishly theatrical. He said, “There have been times in our company’s history when that wouldn’t have meant much, other than the assumption of a truly horrendous debt, and a blizzard of vicious lawsuits.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“McDonald-Hughes Development is a parent company. Under the auspices of that company, Colin and I created many other, much smaller companies. Most of them were numbered companies, designed to have a lifespan limited to the amount of time it took us to finance and construct a particular building. Those numbered companies were our way of protecting ourselves from any lawsuits that might arise due to the city’s faulty construction codes, in the unlikely event the buildings’ envelopes didn’t prove sufficiently watertight to protect them from the ravages of the elements.” Willows said, “What’s your company worth now?”
“Thirty million, give or take.”
“So … ” The number had staggered Willows. He said, “Let me get this straight. When Colin McDonald was murdered, you inherited fifteen million dollars.”
“Approximately fifteen million. Give or take. Quite a lot of money, isn’t it?”
“How would you describe your relationship with Colin?”
“Strictly business.”
“You weren’t friends, as well as partners?”
“We were friends in the early days. Colin and I were both young, and we were both focused entirely on money, and the many truly wonderful things that money could buy. Neither of us was encumbered by what you might call a strong moral compass. We wanted fat wallets, and we didn’t care what we had to do to achieve our goal. But I would say that, as we grew older and more successful, I became a philanthropist, in my own small way. Whereas Colin went in the opposite direction.”
“That caused problems?”
“Not really. Not business problems, anyway. I worked hard, profits were up. That was pretty much all that mattered to him. You have to understand that Colin didn’t like or dislike people. He didn’t really see people as people, so much as obstacles to be surmounted. He believed emotions were a waste of time. Nobody liked him for the very good reason that he took what he could get out of you, and then he abandoned you, without apology. He was an emotional vampire. He was passionate about what he wanted, but once he’d got it, all passion fled.”
“You sound bitter.”
“Have you met Chelsea?”
Willows nodded.
Hughes said, “She’s a beautiful woman, wouldn’t you say?”
“Absolutely.”
“Chelsea and I were engaged, until about six months ago. We were supposed to be married at the end of the summer. As soon as Colin saw the diamond, he went after her.”
“How do you mean?”
“Tried to take her away from me. He did it, too. Took him less than a month. I wanted to kill the sonofabitch.”
Willows said, “He was wearing a wedding band. Was he married?”
“Not really. That must sound odd. He and Nancy never divorced. She lives in the same building, in the apartment directly below Colin’s. If you want to talk to her, you’re going to have to shout. She’s in Miami.”
“Florida?”
Hughes nodded. He said, “Her mother’s ill. Alzheimer’s. Nancy’s helping her move to a nursing home.”
“Do you know how we can get in touch with her?”
“Her mother’s maiden name was Roberts. She lives in South Grove.”
Hughes’ chair was on castors. He turned it so he could look directly out the window.
One of the first things Willows had learned as a cop was the value and threat of silence. He sat quietly, waiting. Several minutes crawled past, and then Hughes turned and looked directly at him. He said, “That’s it. This interview is over. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Willows said, “I thought you wanted to talk about Chelsea.”
“You’re mistaken. I wanted to lay things out for you, so you’d know where you stood. But I’m not going to talk to you again without seeking the advice of my lawyer, and you and I both know what he’s going to say. ‘Zip it, Michael!’”
Hughes pointed at the envelope in Willows’ lap. “As I said, everything you need to exonerate me is in that envelope. The names and addresses and direct-line phone numbers of all the people I was with during the past twenty-four hours.”
Willows slid a single sheet of paper out of the envelope. The number of people Hughes had spent time with during the thirty-six hours leading up to Colin McDonald’s death was impressively large. Willows recognized the mayor’s name, and the names of several lesser local politicians and other luminaries.
Hughes said, “I was at a charity benefit. I always mingle. People will remember me.”
The intercom chirped. He picked up his phone. “Morning, Richard. Yes, they’re here now. Zip it?” Hughes chuckled, and winked at Willows. He said, “That’s exactly what I told them you’d say.” He listened carefully for a moment and then said, “Yes, of course. Right this minute, promise.” He cradled the telephone, thought a moment, and said, “Richard wouldn’t approve of me telling you this, but you should probably talk to Jennifer.”
Willows thumbed the chrome button on the end of his ballpoint. Hughes said, “Jennifer’s a party girl. Gorgeous, totally uninhibited. Five stars, but very, very expensive.”
Oikawa said, “How do you know her?”
Hughes laughed. “In just about every way you can think of, detective. I introduced Colin to Jennifer about six months ago. They hit it off, in a businesslike sort of way. He mentioned her name, once or twice. I don’t know if they were still in touch. Chelsea’s the jealous type. Very emotional. She’d have torn Jennifer’s eyes out, if she’d believed that Colin was seeing her. On the other hand, Colin wasn’t known for his monogamous nature.”
Willows said, “What’s Jennifer’s full name?”
“Orchid. Jennifer Orchid. Cute, huh?” Hughes turned to the open laptop on his desk, worked the keyboard, and then turned the computer so Willows could read the address on the screen. As Willows wrote the address down in his notebook, Hughes punched buttons on his intercom. When his secretary came to the door, Hughes said, “That’s it, fellas. Mary will show you out. Good luck with your investigation. If you nail whoever did it, I’d appreciate it if you offered my sincere congratulations.”
Willows kept his mouth shut. Hughes’ sentiments seemed entirely appropriate, for a man so out of touch with himself that he paid for sex. Or was he being a prude? If you looked at it objectively, didn’t it make sense to buy
what you wanted or needed, if you weren’t prepared, or couldn’t manage, a meaningful relationship? Hughes was honest with himself. He had faced and defined his needs, and found a way to sate his appetites in a way that didn’t hurt anyone, or break any hearts. When he was single, Willows had fooled around, slept with a number of women he was physically attracted to but didn’t love. In his limited experience, sex was great, but sex when you were in love was incomparably better.
In the elevator, Oikawa said, “We going to drop in on Jennifer Orchid?” Oikawa didn’t rub his hands together, but his voice betrayed his enthusiasm.
The elevator reached the ground floor. They walked across the lobby towards the street. Hughes’ building had a revolving door. Willows liked revolving doors. He timed his approach so he was able to step into a wedge-shaped slot without slowing his pace. Oikawa hung back, and then made his move. On the sidewalk, Willows got out his cellphone and speed-dialled his home number. Parker answered on the third ring. Willows said, “Hi. I just called to say I love you.”
Willows waited out a tiny splinter of time that seemed to last forever, and then Parker said, “I love you too, Jack.”
“How’s your day going?”
“Okay. Hadrian seems fine. You left your lunch in the fridge.”
Parker’s tone was slightly recriminatory. Willows couldn’t count the number of times in the last year she’d stayed up late to make him a bag lunch, and then found he’d left it in the refrigerator when he’d gone to work. He said, “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll eat it tomorrow.” He flinched when Hadrian shrieked into the phone.
Parker said, “Sorry. His diaper needs changing, I have to go.” Willows said, “I might be later for dinner. I’ll call as soon as I know when i’ll be home.”
Parker said, “Goodbye, Jack.”
She hung up before Willows could tell her again, a little more forcefully, that he loved her.
Chapter 12
Alone again, unnaturally
Sting was deep into “Every Breath You Take” when the pastel spots behind the bar flickered and dimmed. The music faltered, the beat slowing weirdly, to a lame-ass crawl. A moment later the glass-enclosed shower lost pressure. Water dribbled out of the shower head and splattered too loudly on the plastic floor, then stopped. Charlene glanced across the rows of mostly empty tables at Eddy. He was hard to see, because the stage lights were working fine, and she was half-blinded by the glare. She made a gesture, what’s up? Eddy spread his hairy arms wide, gave her an exaggerated shrug, went back to polishing lowball glasses.
The music picked up. The spots behind the bar brightened. Water spurted out of the shower. Charlene swung around the pole, shook her butt with calculated enthusiasm. A drunk in gynecology row waved his arms, trying to attract her attention. The guy had been soaking it up all day long. The first time he’d waved at her, she’d sauntered over with a great big show-me-the-money smile pasted across her face, and the cheapskate bastard had lurched to his feet and tried to shove a quarter down her g-string. What did he think, just because she was a stripper, she was stupid enough to forget what he’d done?
The music faltered again, as if it had stumbled off a curb, and then faded to an irritated silence. The shower dried up. The lights over the bar died too. Eddy flicked switches, opened up the electrical panel, and poked around in there like he knew what he was doing. The lights came back on, but not the music. The other stripper, a girl from Halifax that Charlene doubted was more than sixteen years old, sat down on the edge of the stage and started popping her gum, blowing shiny pink bubbles. The guys liked that, and gave her a good round of applause, pretty noisy considering there weren’t that many of them, a dozen at the most. Charlene circled the pole. Her lower back was bothering her again, and she didn’t want to cool off.
The girl from Halifax slid off the stage. She ruffled a pensioner’s thinning hair and walked away.
Charlene said, “Hey, where you going?”
The girl shrugged, and kept walking. Somebody outside the range of her vision booed loudly. It was hard to slur a boo, but he’d done it. Charlene told herself that if they started throwing stuff, she was out of there, and if they fired her, that was fine too, and she didn’t care what Anders said. Continuing that train of thought, she promised herself that if the sonofabitch hit her, she’d walk out on him. The world was jam-packed full of assholes, and she knew from a lifetime’s worth of slow learning that she could always find herself another one, when she was in the mood.
After a while, Eddy found a portable radio. He carried it over to the stage and plugged it in, fiddled with the dial until he found a local station that played hard-rock music.
Charlene walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, startled. She said, “I’m not going into the shower with that thing plugged in. Electrocuting myself isn’t part of my job description.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe you should’ve read the fine print.”
She had to laugh. Eddy joined in, so pleased with his little joke that he had to wipe the tears from his eyes. She gave him a peck on the cheek and went back to work, bumping and grinding to a tune she’d never heard before and hoped she’d never hear again.
Her shift ended twenty minutes later. By then the girl from Halifax was back at work, her eyes a little unfocused, a fan of white powder on her upper lip. Charlene went over to the bar. Eddy had her vodka tonic waiting. She knocked the drink back, and he asked her if she wanted another. She said no, just like she always did, and told him she was going upstairs. Eddy nodded. He wasn’t a big fan of Anders’, and wasn’t shy about saying so.
Charlene knew something was wrong when she reached the top of the stairs, because the door to their apartment was wide open. Anders was a cautious man. He had explained to Charlene that, since he was a pimp and sold drugs and guns, he would be a fool not to maintain a level of paranoia that was certifiable. She hadn’t argued with him, because he was right. The door had two deadbolts, a safety chain with inch-thick links, and a steel safety-bar that fitted into a metal slot built into the floor. It would be faster and easier to chew through the wall than try to knock the door down.
Charlene walked slowly down the hall. She’d slung a faux leopardskin cape over her nudity and was still wearing her high heels. She deliberately made a lot of noise as she made her way towards the open door. If somebody was in there, she wanted to give them plenty of time to climb out a window.
When she was only a few feet away from the door she loudly said, “I already called the cops. You better get the hell out of there, unless you want to get arrested.”
There was no response.
She said, “You hear me? I said I already called the cops. They’re gonna be here any minute, I can hear the sirens.”
She made her way down the short hallway and poked her head cautiously around the door. Anders lay face up on the floor. His arms were spread wide. A gun lay on the floor by his right hand. The bullet had gone in one temple and out the other. Maybe somebody had shot him, but at first glance it looked to Charlene as if he’d shot himself. All evidence to the contrary, she found that hard to believe.
Anders wasn’t the suicidal type, except for his choice of lifestyle. He liked to fool with his guns, though, and accidents did happen.
Charlene knelt down for a better look. A line of blood had flowed from the gunshot wound down Anders’ forehead and through his arched eyebrow and right across the bulge of his eyeball. The man had flown away into the void, and he wasn’t coming back. Ever.
She said, “You dumb fuck.”
He’d fallen on the coffee table and snapped off a leg. She felt a curious twirling thrill of satisfaction. She’d always hated that goddamn table.
She walked past the body towards the bedroom. He counted his stash daily. As of yesterday’s accounting, his net worth included a few thousand dollars in cash and half a dozen small gold coins he’d claimed were worth five hundred apiece, plus a thousand dollars’ worth of coke, and a few other odds and ends,
bits and pieces of jewellery and a couple of watches, one of them a gold-coloured Patek Phillipe he’d told her was worth at least five hundred bucks.
Any lingering doubt in Charlene’s mind about whether Anders was murdered or committed suicide vanished when she poked her head in the bedroom door. Housecleaning wasn’t her strong suit, but the bedroom looked as if it had been pole-axed by a tornado. Or maybe a hurricane. Truth was she never could tell the difference.
The bed had been flipped over, the bedding balled up and tossed against a wall, the mattress slashed, and the stuffing ripped out. The ceiling fixture had been smashed, and there was glass everywhere. The bedside table had been stomped to splinters, the highboy’s drawers had been yanked out and overturned, all her clothes were dumped on the scruffy carpet. Charlene righted the highboy. She tried to put a drawer back, but it wouldn’t fit. She scooped up an armful of expensive clothes — exotic outfits she danced in, and had spent a lot of time and thought putting together — and neatly folded everything and put it in the drawer.
She filled all five drawers and then, by a simple process of push and shove, fitted the drawers back into the highboy. One of her all-time favourite outfits was missing — a really cute black-leather cowgirl suit that she’d had custom-fitted and then spent weeks decorating with glass beads and sequins. She’d just got the suit back from the dry cleaners, and now it was gone. Obviously, whoever had shot Anders must have taken it. Charlene vaguely entertained the thought that Anders might have been killed by another stripper. It wasn’t all that stupid an idea, given his wandering eye and total lack of moral fibre.
She went into the kitchen. Nothing that was capable of being shattered or broken had been overlooked. Glass crunched underfoot. Struggling not to burst into tears, she grabbed a table knife off the Formica counter and made her way back to the bedroom. The tiny closet had been ransacked. She kicked tangled clothing and coat hangers out of her way, crouched down, and used the knife to pry a foot-long piece of baseboard away from the wall. A hole had been roughly hacked in the lathe-and-plaster behind the baseboard. Anders’ secret hiding place that she wasn’t supposed to know about. She chipped a nail pulling out a red-painted metal box about a foot wide by eighteen inches long by six inches high.
A Cloud of Suspects Page 14
