Hard Press'd

by Linda Rae Blair

  “Good morning, Grace. Is Miss Jennifer at home?” Press hit her with one of his thousand-watt smiles. Like Lizzie, Grace still saw the awkward teenager, not the grown man and tough detective.

  “Yes, sir, Master Preston.” Grace was blushing but smiling at the visitor. “Please come in. Have a seat in the sitting room, and I’ll go get her for you.”

  “Thank you, Grace.” He headed for the sitting room where he had spent many hours during his sister’s adolescent and teen years. Steffi and Jenny had been friends for many years—not best friends, which would have been Macy for Jennifer and Samantha Saunders for Steffi.

  As family friends, the Saunders, Wyatt and Andrews families had spent considerable time together. The Roberts had not had that closeness with the other families—or anyone else that he was aware.

  “Press!” Jennifer Wyatt, a striking girl with sun-streaked, light brown hair, dark eyes, skin like peaches, and a voice like music came rushing into the room. Reaching for Press, she hugged him tightly.

  “Oh, how I’ve missed you! How have you been?” At approximately five-foot three-inches tall, she had to stand on tiptoes to kiss his cheek as Press leaned over to make contact possible.

  “Jenny, you look wonderful,” he said, as he straightened and turned her toward Trace. “Jennifer Wyatt, this is Detective Trace Evans, my partner.”

  “Miss Wyatt,” Trace blushed again and shook hands with her.

  “Detective.” She smiled back at Trace.

  “So, Press, is Steffi talking to you yet?” Jennifer laughed.

  Press cringed and Trace covered his grin behind his fist as he faked a cough.

  “Actually, we have reached a truce, Jen.” He smiled briefly. Then the smile vanished, and he saw her notice the change. “Jenny,” Press sobered, as he brought the subject around to the purpose of their visit. “We’re here on business—police business.”

  “Really?” He saw hesitation and then fear in her eyes. “I have a feeling we’d better sit down. Please,” she motioned to the large over-stuffed sofas that sat on opposite sides of the massive fireplace on the room’s long wall.

  “What’s this about, Press?” She knew her parents were okay—she’d spoken to them by phone just fifteen minutes ago—tucked away in a New York luxury hotel to celebrate her mother’s birthday.

  “Have you spoken to Mrs. Roberts this morning?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  Press could see the concern start to well up in her eyes. “Jenny,” Press leaned forward toward her, “there is no easy way to do this. Macy Roberts was killed last night.” He watched her carefully as the shock set its place on her pretty face. As it hit, tears streaked down her cheeks.”

  “Oh, Press! How can that be? Surely there is some horrible mistake! Please, you have to double check, Press. Here,” she said, as she rose and nearly ran to the table in front of the window, grabbed a picture frame and came right back to him.

  “You haven’t seen her for years, really. She has blossomed since you’ve seen her and done her hair blonde. Here she is with me last summer,” Jenny’s shaking hand thrust the frame in front of Press.

  He looked at the photo of two beautiful young women dressed in sundresses, beautiful and fresh faces enjoying themselves at a garden party. All the while he stared at the photo, the knowledge that one of them would never fall in love, marry, have children, enjoy success or happiness nearly broke his heart.

  Quietly, he looked up from the photo and said, “It was Macy, Jenny. I’m so sorry!” He stood and grabbed her as her knees started to buckle, then he held her while she cried it out. Finally, she pulled away from his arms.

  “I’m sorry, Press. She was my best friend—my very dearest friend,” she repeated quietly, as she returned to her seat across from the two detectives. “What happened?”

  “Someone shot her last night, Jenny.” He paused and let it sink in for her. “Do you know who she might have been with?”

  “No.” Jenny’s eyes were now glazed from the shock. “She…she called me yesterday morning. We were going to have lunch, but I remembered a paper I needed to finish before class today and I cancelled. Oh, God, Press! If I’d kept that lunch date, she might have told me what her plans were!”

  “Jenny, did Macy have a boyfriend—someone special in her life?

  Jenny sat still for a moment. “I think so. As best friends, we told each other everything! You know how girls are,” she giggled with a touch of hysteria in her voice. “But there was something she wasn’t telling me. I didn’t push her—knew she’d tell me eventually. She always did. Now…”

  “Did she ever mention anyone you hadn’t heard of before?”

  She thought for another moment. “Yes, she did. We were at Lynn Haven Mall about a month ago—a movie and window-shopping, you know? We saw this gown in the window of that little formal shop up on the second level—my brain is a total blank right now, I can’t think of the name of the place. Anyway, she got so excited about it. She said, ‘David would love that!’”

  She looked up at Press, “I asked her, ‘Who is David?’. But all she did was smile at me and change the subject.”

  “David. Anything else you can think of?” Press hated drilling the girl at a time like this, but he had to focus on Macy now, not Jenny.

  “No, I’m sorry, Press. My mind is so foggy right now, I can’t think straight.”

  “You’re in shock, Jenny. You need to get food into your body and rest. If anything else comes to you later, just call me. Okay?”

  “Yes. Yes, I will, Press. You mentioned her aunt. She knows then?”

  “Yes, we told her early this morning.”

  “I’ll call her later—see if there is anything I can do for her. I suppose George is out of town again.”

  She’d said it in such a nasty tone that it took Press by surprise. Jenny had never had a mean bone in her body. “Yes, he is, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask, Jenny?”

  “Something wasn’t right there, but she never explained it. Whatever it was, she was not about to talk about it—ever! It drove her crazy how often he left her aunt alone. Business always came before her, before his family.”

  “Do you think he’d been abusing her—or perhaps the aunt?”

  “Oh, no. I think she would have told me that. She would have known I would help her—Mom and Dad would have helped her! No. It was something else—something she couldn’t share, even with me.” She looked up at Press as they stood again. “Maybe she didn’t share as much with me as I thought.” She sounded so sad.

  “Oh, I think she did, Jenny, but everybody has something they want to keep absolutely private for some reason or another.” Press gently squeezed her arm.

  “Jenny, if you think of anything else or if there is anything you need—please just call me. I’m here for you!” Press said, as he hugged her again and handed her one of his cards before leaving.

  When he and Trace got back into the car, Press turned to his partner. Did you notice anything different between Mrs. Roberts’ reaction to the news and Jennifer Wyatt’s?”

  “Yes. Jennifer Wyatt felt we had made a mistake—wanted us to be sure Macy was dead—was shocked at the idea! Mrs. Roberts was more concerned about how it happened—it didn’t seem to surprise her as much that it had happened,” Trace explained.

  “You are right on the button, partner! You may make a detective yet,” he smiled at Trace and started the car. “And why is it that her best friend didn’t know about the boy friend, but the aunt did? Obviously, it wasn’t a close-knit family.”

  The rest of the morning was spent talking to wait staff at Jewish Mother’s, lunch of she-crab soup and sandwiches at the Purple Cow, a walk-by of the scene in the daylight, a stack of paperwork and a trip to the morgue to speak with the ME.

  16

  Norfolk, VA

  Day 1

  1:30 PM

  Gladys Williams was the Chief Medical Examiner for the Tidewater Branch of the Virginia State Coroner�
��s Office in Norfolk and had been with the coroner for nearly twenty years.

  While she reported to the State Medical Examiner’s Office in Richmond, she had refused promotion to stay in Norfolk where her family lived. She was an acknowledged expert in her field and had worked on dozens of cases assigned to Press.

  Gladys was proud to be the first black female ME in Virginia, and she was a personal favorite of Detective Preston Andrews.

  At about five-foot-two-inches, she was almost as round as she was tall, with a mop of black dreads that stuck out in every direction when not tamed by her surgical cap. Her huge black eyes smiled as easily as the heavily-glossed, generous mouth with which she had been blessed.

  Her wit and interest in a wide variety of topics made her very popular with her colleagues. As a person, she was loved and admired by everyone who knew her, and her outrageous sense of humor was easily provoked.

  “Hi, Doc!” Press said to the ME, as he and Trace walked into the examination room where Macy Roberts’ autopsy was in progress.

  Gladys Williams stood hands on hips and dressed in her favorite bright red scrubs—she’d refused to wear the drab surgical green for years, and no one would think to argue with her. Today’s selection—this changed daily—was of little purple do-dads clipped in her expansive hair-do. Her raspy voice boomed out in the exam room. “Hello there, handsome! I wondered when you and Super Boy would be in to see me.”

  “Super Boy?” Trace asked as he reddened to full blush.

  Press grabbed a stool and sat down to laugh before he could collapse. The morning had left him emotionally and physically drained. Gladys was just the right medicine to relieve the strain.

  “Yeah, sweetness. Didn’t you know that’s what they’re calling you?” Gladys said, obviously enjoying his reaction.

  “Oh, man!” Press, tears now running down his chiseled jaw, was still laughing. “Gladys, that’s priceless! I hadn’t heard that one yet.”

  Gladys was grinning from ear-to-ear and Trace, red-faced, waited for her explanation.

  As she took her hands off her knees and pulled herself together, she said, “Oh, man. That’s the best laugh I’ve had all week! Honey, they call this here hunk,” she nodded toward Press, “Super Dick—not for the obvious reasons.” She winked at Press. “But because he can solve damned near anything! So it follows that his new, young sidekick would be Super Boy!”

  “Oh, great!” Trace said under his breath. His blush almost matched that of his partner.

  “You wouldn’t prefer Little Dick, would ya?” she asked.

  “No!” Trace’s face was now as red as Gladys’s smock.

  “Don’t worry about it, partner—at least yours can’t be misunderstood. The less you fight it the faster it’ll die down,” Press really tried to get his laughter under control. “Believe me, they can call you a lot worse—and probably will before your career is over! Everybody worth a damn around here has a nickname.”

  “Yeah,” Trace gulped. “Like Dipshit?”

  Gladys hooted. “So he got to meet Perkins, heh? Heard ya’ll had a run-in with him this mornin’.”

  “That was fast! You never miss anything, do you, Gladys?” Press now had himself back under control, and he was feeling much better than he had when he’d entered the morgue.

  Trace couldn’t resist asking, “What do they call you, Gladys?”

  She smiled at the kid with an I-know-everything smile and one hand perched on her ample hip and answered, “Iron Maiden.”

  She offered no explanation, and Trace sure as hell wasn’t going to ask for one.

  “Well, Gladys, back to business.” Glancing over to the table, Press’s demeanor sobered, and he nodded toward the body. “What have you got on Macy Roberts?”

  “I just finished with her.” Gladys’s voice lowered as she moved over to the table and drew back the sheet covering Macy. The pretty green eyes were now closed, the lovely well-styled blonde hair was no longer shiny or well-styled, her beautiful porcelain skin was now a very pale green-gray and perforated by two round holes—one between the eyes, the other in the throat.

  Rigor had come and was now gone. A good mortician would have an easy job of making her a beautiful girl for display, despite the way she died, Press thought sadly.

  “Too damned young, Press. Somebody dispatched her very coldly and very quickly.” Gladys directed Press’s attention to the wounds as she explain, “The first shot was the one in the throat—aimed downward and lodged in the spine. It was followed very quickly by the one between the eyes. That one went out the back of the skull, but since she was already dead, blood loss was minimal.”

  “She probably hadn’t had time to even react to the first shot when the second one was fired. Not that she could have—that throat shot severed her spine.”

  “Both shots were so up close that any debris went behind her—you can see the powder burns.” Gladys showed them where the nine-mil slug severed the spine. “If she did survive a few seconds, she certainly didn’t feel anything when the second one hit her.”

  “That second one was a through-and-through to the brain.” Gladys rolled Macy over and showed them the exit wound in Macy’s skull. “She was completely helpless after that first shot. Our shooter just laid her down on the sidewalk and kept on going.”

  The room had gone absolutely silent except for Gladys’s commentary.

  “The skull shot ruined the slug—CSI found it on the sidewalk. The throat shot can be compared, if you find the weapon.”

  “There’s a small bruise on her left shoulder,” she said, as she carefully rolled the body just far enough for Press and Trace to see the small round bruise. “Somebody grabbed her tight enough to leave a mark.”

  Press looked closely. “There’s some sort of impression, but it’s too faint to make out.” He straightened up and looked at Gladys. “Maybe a ring or button? Or a cuff link?”

  Tsking to herself, she laid the body flat again. “We took photos. State Forensics has them now. If they can get any better detail, they’ll let you know.”

  “Could it be linked to that broken strap on her dress?” Press asked.

  “Hum.” Gladys thought briefly and then moved toward Trace.

  “Here, Super Boy. Put your hand on my left shoulder and place your fingers to match the marks on our young lady’s.” Gladys turned herself so that he could position his fingers appropriately.

  Trace hesitated slightly, and then did as instructed. This caused him to place his body alongside Gladys’s to prevent awkwardness in his arm position.

  “I’ll be damned,” Press quietly swore. “Our killer had his left arm around her shoulder and gripped her so hard that it left bruises, as well as that imprint, and caused the strap on her dress to snap.” He looked again, more closely this time, at the bruises on Macy’s shoulder.

  “Killer was an idiot, if you ask me,” Gladys offered with disgust in her voice.

  “How so?” Press asked.

  “Could easily have shot himself in the arm with that first shot. If it hadn’t lodged in her spine, that is.”

  Press thought about this, and had them demonstrate the hold again. “You’re right! Gladys, can you tell if this was a small man or a woman?”

  “No…with the trajectory of the chest shot, it could have been either a woman or an average-sized male. No fingernail impressions, so the nails would have been clipped short.”

  “Well, whoever it was, the killer was smaller than either Trace or me, but from the position…I’d say taller than Macy.” He reached over and placed his fingers on the bruises, and his hand was slightly bunched up rather than spread out.

  “Yeah, no more than five-ten—vic had higher-than-normal heels on those shoes of hers. And strong,” Gladys added. She exhaled another frustrated sigh at the thought of a beautiful young woman having her life snuffed out this way.

  “Nothing under her nails, no broken nails. Even though her panties were in place, we did an exam on her. No sperm but she
had had intercourse within the last twenty-four hours—probably used a condom. No signs of rape.”

  Press and Trace looked at each other and back at Gladys. “You running a tox screen?” Press asked.

  “Done—should be back tomorrow. Seems the Chief called the head of the lab and put it in front of the line. I’ll call you as soon as I get the results.”

  “The Chief?”

  “Yeah. Somebody pulled some strings,” she said, smiling wisely.

  “Well, Trace, let’s go see what the Crime Scene crew got from the car.”

  “Thanks, Gladys!” Turning to Trace, Press slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Super Boy. After we check with CSI, we can get some dinner—my treat. It’s been a long day.” He would have sworn he heard a low growl from the slightly green cop.

  “Bye, boys!” Gladys bade them farewell as she frowned down at what little was left of Macy Roberts, and then respectfully covered her again before putting her in a drawer. “Too damned young!” she said again quietly.

  17

  Virginia Beach

  Day 1

  8:00 PM

  A very weary Detective Andrews got home about 8:00 PM and desperately needed a run to release his tension. As he entered the house, he found himself greeted by Jones, who put both huge, furry front paws on Press’s shoulders and the huge tongue slurped a big wet kiss on his face before Press could protect himself.

  “Ugh, Jones! What have I told you about all this kissing stuff? Yuk. Have you been eating fish again? Huh?” He ruffled both hands through the shaggy coat that covered the big animal’s head.

  “Glad you never talked to me like that,” a laughing female voice came from the stairwell to the bedrooms.

  He had been physically braced against Jones’s onslaught, but emotionally unprepared for hers.

  “Oh, hi, Sherry. What are you doing here?” He saw her tense and damned himself for being caught by surprise.

  The perky little blonde made her way toward Press and managed to boot the dog far enough away with her knee that she could reach up and get a friendly kiss of greeting from Press.