by Adam Mitzner
Wayne Fiske and Haley Sommers were a different matter, however. They had no good reason to explain their presence inside James Sommers’s place of business.
18
That forensic presentation was being made by the Assistant Medical Examiner, Erica Thompson. Gabriel found her something of a breath of fresh air from the sixtysomething grumpy white men who typically filled the medical examiner’s office. Not only was she smarter than most of her colleagues, she also explained her findings in a way that didn’t require you to be a medical examiner yourself to understand.
“Sorry about the delay in getting you this information,” she said. “We’ve been backed up like you wouldn’t believe. Also, I didn’t think too much was going to be different from what I saw at the scene. Which turned out to be pretty much the case. Like I said before, cause of death is blunt force trauma. The man’s head hit that coffee table at just the right angle and velocity. Or, from his perspective, precisely the wrong one. There were no drugs or alcohol in his system, so nothing that impaired him in any way to make the death blow easier to inflict. Time of death is a little narrower than originally estimated. The revised window is four p.m. to seven p.m.”
“If he was the caller to his wife’s phone at a few minutes before five, then we can shave an hour off the front end of that,” Asra said.
“If you can make that evidentiary assumption, then yes,” Erica replied.
“Even so, I was hoping for a time of death that might rule somebody out,” Gabriel said. “All of our people of interest are still in play during that window.”
“Sorry. I can only tell you what the science tells me,” Erica said. “But here’s something that might be of some interest to you. Remember I noted the scratch on his chin? Well, it is consistent with his being struck by someone’s fist. But he does not have any marks on his own hands.”
“Which means?” Asra asked.
“It wasn’t much of a fight,” Erica said. “The doer inflicted all the damage. And you were right about the sheets. Semen and female fluids galore. The semen is the vic’s. No big surprise there. Unfortunately, no matches in the database for his lady friend.”
“His wife says it was her,” Asra said.
“Easy enough to verify with a DNA sample.”
“You’re really not helping us, Erica,” Gabriel said jokingly. “Isn’t there anything that we can actually use to arrest somebody?”
“How about this? There was blood at the scene that did not belong to Mr. Sommers.”
“Whose?” Gabriel and Asra asked in unison.
“Don’t you think I would have led with that if I knew who left their blood at the scene?” Erica said with a raised eyebrow. “Once again, no database matches.”
The NYPD had access to the national criminal database of DNA, which was composed of the DNA of every unfortunate soul who became ensnared in the criminal justice system. It was hardly surprising that none of those folks hobnobbed with the Manhattan art crowd.
“My Spidey sense tells me that if you find the person who left that blood, you’ve got your killer,” Erica went on. “That’s because I think it’s a strong likelihood that the blood was the result of the killer punching the vic. Even if you’re the one that lands the punch, knuckles coming in contact with a chin have a tendency to bleed.”
Gabriel turned to Asra. “Do you remember anyone with a cut or scratch on his or her hand?”
“No,” she said. “But I do remember that Jessica didn’t take off her gloves, even when she was in the interrogation room.”
The doorman hadn’t buzzed up to announce his visitor. That was enough to tell Reid that the police were coming. Building security didn’t allow visitors to come upstairs unannounced. No exceptions. Law enforcement were different, however. Especially if the cops said that calling ahead would be construed as obstruction of justice.
The hard rap on his door only confirmed that conclusion.
“Reid Warwick? NYPD.”
Reid hadn’t yet gotten dressed, though it was nearly eleven. Last night had gone later than usual. Into this morning, truth be told. Luckily for him, he had told his companion that her company was no longer desired somewhere around 4:00 a.m., so at least he was alone now. He felt like hell, though, and looked even worse.
Meeting the police in this state was not ideal. Still, he didn’t have too many options. So, against his better judgment, Reid opened the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Warwick. You may recall, my name is Lieutenant Velasquez. This is my partner, Detective Jamali. We’re here to ask you to provide us with a sample of your DNA so we might be able to clear you as a suspect.”
“I thought I told you before. Anything you have to say, you should say through my lawyer.”
“What you said, Mr. Warwick, was that you feared that your cooperation with us might violate certain confidentiality agreements you had with your clients, and you wanted to consult with your attorney about that. We’re here just to rule you out as a suspect. Doesn’t implicate your clients at all to give us a cheek scrape’s worth of DNA. It’ll only take a second. Then we’ll be on our way.” The lieutenant shrugged. “Doesn’t even hurt. I promise.”
“Let me discuss that with my lawyer,” Reid said. “He’ll be back to you shortly if there’s anything he wants to share. I appreciate you both coming today.”
Reid extended his hand to indicate that the meeting was over.
The lieutenant grasped it. But rather than shake hands, he twisted Reid’s wrist, turning his palm down.
Reid didn’t have the foggiest notion why.
Haley’s first thought when she saw the two police officers standing at her front door was that Jessica had decided that the best defense was a good offense and had gone all in on pointing the accusatory finger at her. A beat later, she considered that maybe it was Malik who had turned, perhaps reaching the conclusion that even no-limits sex with her wasn’t worth prison time. Either way, she was in serious jeopardy.
“My name again is Lieutenant Velasquez. This is Detective Jamali. May we come in?”
She remembered the lieutenant. He was hard to forget. Straight from central casting.
She also recalled his partner from the last time. The one who hadn’t spoken very much.
“I’m sorry, but I’d rather you didn’t.”
The moment the words left her mouth, Haley realized that she should have sent the police away entirely, rather than merely deny them entry. She needed to shut this down before she said anything that could incriminate her—lie or otherwise.
“We’ll talk here, then,” Lieutenant Velasquez said. “We’re here to ask you to provide a DNA sample. It will allow us to clear you as someone who was at the crime scene at the time of the murder. It’s a simple swab of your cheek.”
He smiled at her. His C’mon, look how good-looking I am. Don’t you trust me? smile.
Haley knew that trick well; she had often used it herself. More times than she could remember. And nearly every time, she shouldn’t have been trusted.
“No, thank you. I would also appreciate it if you didn’t visit me again.”
“If that’s how you want to play it, Ms. Sommers. But I have to tell you that you’re making a mistake.”
“Won’t be the first one of my life,” she said.
From the small opening she’d left in the doorway, she saw Lieutenant Velasquez extend his hand. The gesture struck Haley as odd. She couldn’t recall having shaken hands with him before.
Fearing if she opened the door any wider, they’d force their way in, she said, “Goodbye” without shaking his hand.
The police officers didn’t move.
“Before we go, can we see your hands, Ms. Sommers?” Detective Jamali asked.
“My hands?”
“Yes. Just put your hands out.”
The detective demonstrated the pose. Like she was a doctor who had washed her hands before surgery, waiting for someone to put gloves on her.
Haley looked
down at her knuckles. Nothing seemed odd about them. She stuck them through the door so the police could confirm that assessment.
Detective Jamali leaned in for a closer look. “You don’t have any cuts, Ms. Sommers. Why do you think that you might have left your blood at the scene of your ex-husband’s murder?”
Haley didn’t understand the accusation. “Blood?”
“That’s what we’re trying to match with your DNA,” she said. “Exclude is more accurate. If you’re not a match, we know you didn’t leave any blood there. That’ll exclude you as a suspect. And that’s something you really want to happen because we know you were next door to Mr. Sommers’s office on the day of the murder. The waiters at Sant Ambroeus told us you’re a regular there. Like to sit at the bar and look out the window. Quite the coincidence that the window provided a clear view of your ex-husband arriving and leaving work every day. And, according to the folks at Sant Ambroeus, the timing of your arrival at your friend’s place can’t be right.”
All that time she spent having sex with Malik had apparently been for naught. Not completely for naught, of course, but it hadn’t achieved Haley’s intended purpose of providing her with an alibi.
“How long do you think your friend is going to keep covering for you after we explain the jail time he’s looking at for being an accessory after the fact in a murder?” Lieutenant Velasquez chimed in. “But the good news is that being a stalker is one thing, but it doesn’t make you a murderer, right? You were at that restaurant lots of times, and James Sommers never died after any of those visits. But if we can’t exclude you because your blood isn’t a match for the blood at the scene, what choice do we have but to assume it’s yours?”
Haley would have loved to prove that she hadn’t left any blood in James’s office. But her DNA would go beyond that. It would prove that she was in the office, something that they had no evidence of now.
Or at least, none that they were admitting to. They claimed they could only place her next door.
And even though they were telling her that she’d be excluded if she hadn’t left blood at the scene, she didn’t believe that for a second. It was one thing for her to be stalking James from the safety of a nearby restaurant. Quite another for her to be in violation of a restraining order and breaking and entering into a murdered man’s office.
“So what’ll it be, Ms. Sommers?” Detective Jamali asked.
Haley’s heart was going a mile a minute. She willed herself to remain calm, at least on the outside.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Actually, I’m not even sorry. If you want anything, you need to call my lawyer.”
She closed the door on them. It occurred to her when the catch clicked shut that she hadn’t even given them a lawyer’s name to call.
Since James’s death, Jessica hated being in the loft. Truth be told, even when her husband was alive, she’d never felt entirely comfortable at home without him. Now, with no hope of James coming through the door ever again, the emptiness of her home frightened her all the more.
There wasn’t a single spot within its three thousand square feet where she could breathe. Certainly not her bedroom with its reminders of James, or the living room with art all over the walls. Owen’s room made her even more depressed. He should be home now, filling their loft with the sound of his violin, or at the very least, holed up in his room on his computer, not lying in a hospital bed at Sloan Kettering.
As a sign of how on edge she was, the knock on her front door made her jump so high she thought she might have hit the ceiling. She checked the peephole before opening the door. She was glad she had. It wasn’t a condolence call, which had been her first thought. On the other side of the door were Lieutenant Velasquez and Detective Jamali.
“Sorry to bother you, Ms. Sommers,” Lieutenant Velasquez said. “May we come in?”
They all assembled in the living room. Jessica could tell that Detective Jamali was looking hard at her hands. She quickly placed them under her legs, out of view.
“We’re here because we’re asking everyone for a DNA sample so we can officially exclude them as suspects. That will allow us to focus our efforts on other people, like Reid Warwick and Haley Sommers, both of whom refused to provide us a sample of their DNA.”
“Why do you need anyone’s DNA?”
“We’re trying to see who was in your husband’s office at or around the time of the murder,” Detective Jamali said.
“I’m in and out of there all the time,” Jessica said. “I told you I was there the day before he died.”
“We understand that,” Detective Jamali said. “Still, it’s protocol that we get everyone involved to provide DNA. If for no other reason than to confirm it’s your DNA on the sheets in the bedroom.”
“Who else’s could it be?”
“Forgive me for saying this, Ms. Sommers, but it’s possible your husband washed the sheets after you left and then was with another woman. Perhaps this Allison, who we haven’t yet been able to find.”
Jessica supposed that could be true. But even if it was, she didn’t want to know. Not now. Not anymore.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I just don’t want to think about James being unfaithful. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Lieutenant Velasquez looked as if he understood. “There’s another reason too. We believe that your husband and his killer might have been involved in a physical altercation, which is what led to his death. Perhaps a blow that knocked him down. Or maybe tripped him. We came to that conclusion because there was blood left at the scene that was not your husband’s. We believe it will match the killer.”
“I didn’t hit my husband, if that’s what you’re insinuating. And he never lifted a finger to hurt me.”
“A DNA test will prove that, then,” Detective Jamali said.
“I don’t need to prove anything to you. I know.”
“Ms. Sommers, it hasn’t escaped our attention that you’re keeping your hands out of view,” Lieutenant Velasquez said. “Why is that?”
Jessica didn’t reply. Not audibly, at least. And certainly not by revealing her hands.
Lieutenant Velasquez sighed loudly. His way of expressing displeasure. “Help us, Jessica,” he said.
His use of her first name didn’t go unnoticed. She told herself not to get drawn in. They weren’t there to help her. Not really.
“I need for you both to leave now,” Jessica said.
Rather than get up to leave, Detective Jamali said, “Was your ex-husband in James’s office recently?”
“Wayne?”
“Yes.”
“I . . . Why are you asking?”
Lieutenant Velasquez jumped in. “It’s a simple question. Was he or wasn’t he?”
“He was,” she said.
“When? And for what purpose?”
“I feel like I’m being interrogated here,” she said.
“We’re asking about your ex-husband,” he said. “His fingerprints were at the crime scene. That struck us as odd. Now you’re telling us that he was there, and we’re wondering for what purpose he would be visiting your husband.”
“Please, you need to leave. Now.”
“I don’t understand,” Lieutenant Velasquez said, looking as if he truly didn’t. “Is there something you haven’t told us? Something you’re hiding? Because that’s the only conclusion we’re going to draw if you stop cooperating with us.”
“If you can’t rule me out because I loved my husband and would never hurt him, then I don’t want to participate in your investigation any longer,” Jessica said. “I’ve told you everything I know about the night of James’s death. There’s nothing more for us to discuss. I need to grieve now. In peace. I don’t expect to speak to you again.”
“We weren’t talking about you, Ms. Sommers. I was inquiring about your ex-husband. He’s a suspect. Are you protecting him?”
“I’m sorry—you both need to leave now.”
Lieutenant Velasquez stood. He
still looked completely blindsided. It had to be an act, of course. He understood perfectly well why Jessica had changed her tune. He had said it himself: there was something she was hiding.
Jessica moved toward the door, careful to keep her hands out of sight. The police officers followed a step behind. She opened the door in the hopes that it would cause them to vacate sooner. Before he passed out of her home, however, Lieutenant Velasquez said, “You’re making a big mistake here, Ms. Sommers.”
She shut the door behind them without responding. Then she prayed Lieutenant Velasquez was wrong.
Authority figures reminded Wayne of his father, and that was never a good thing. Still, he thought he was ready for the police’s arrival.
Jessica had called forty minutes earlier. They went through her interaction with the police in step-by-step detail.
“Don’t even let them in the house. I regret doing that,” she said. “Just tell them at the door that you do not want to be involved.”
“I know what to say,” Wayne said, annoyed that she thought he needed to be spoon-fed in this way.
Then, when the time came, he screwed up his first line, allowing the police officers to enter his house.
“Thank you. We won’t be long,” Lieutenant Velasquez said.
“What can I do for you both today?” Wayne asked, sounding a bit too chipper for the circumstances.
“We’re going back to people who knew Mr. Sommers to obtain a DNA sample,” Detective Jamali said. “It’s just a scrape of your cheek. Takes a second. Doesn’t hurt.”
She handed him a wooden stick. The kind that reminded Wayne of the spoon that came with Dixie cups when he was a kid.
“Do I have to do it?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, what was your question?” Lieutenant Velasquez asked.
He had an intimidating stare. Wayne remembered how his father would look at him like that.
“I asked you if I can legally say no to your request,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
“I don’t see why you would do that. Unless, of course, you’re afraid that providing your DNA might incriminate you.”
