“Really?” I said. “What does he do for work?”
“He’s a bartender. Works at a night club called Cinderella.” Carter cleared his throat. “It’s a gay bar.”
“Is he married to a woman or a man?” I asked.
“A woman I presume. Her name is Heather. As far as I can tell, she’s unemployed at the moment. Neither of them has a criminal record.”
“Okay,” I said. “So Heather and Ryan Frazier moved back to Boston six months ago. Any idea why?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Maybe it’s not important,” I replied. “What about Charlie Cox?”
“He and Gregory were roomies at UConn in the late eighties. He’s forty-six, lives in Connecticut. No wife. No kids. He works for a company called Aldridge Corporation. He’s been a salesman there for over ten years and he travels all over New England, mostly Boston and Manhattan. He has no criminal history but a few DWI’s. I just sent you an email with all the information and a few photos I found online. ”
It never ceased to amaze me how fast Carter could acquire information. “This is a huge help,” I said. “Thanks.”
“I’m not done,” Carter said. “I made a few calls and found out that Charles was in Boston from April second to the fourth.”
I paused to catch my breath. “No shit. He was in town when Melanie died?”
Carter chuckled. “Yep.”
“A woman named Amy Chang leases an office next to Melanie’s. She was there on the night of April third. Let’s show her photos of Ryan and Charlie. Maybe she’ll remember seeing one of them that night.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Back on my laptop, I opened the email from Carter and clicked on the attachment. The first link led me to a Facebook page for Ryan Frazier. The profile picture showed a couple in their early forties. Ryan looked similar to Gregory but, unlike his older brother, he had a full head of brown hair neatly trimmed. He was handsome in an effeminate sort of way. His wife next to him or, rather, I assumed it was his wife, had straight blonde hair and blue eyes. Both of them were very attractive. Ryan Frazier’s profile was set to private so I could not peruse any of his pictures. I clicked on his wife’s page and her photos were private as well. Too bad. I was intrigued by this couple and wanted to see more.
The next link brought me to Charlie Cox. He didn’t have a Facebook page but he did have a profile on LinkedIn. His photo surprised me. For a guy in his mid-forties, he looked much younger. He had red hair parted on the side and not a strand out of place, like it was all stuck together with Elmer’s glue. His skin was pale and freckly, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses.
I printed out photos of both Ryan and Charlie and tucked them into my bag. I decided I’d better get to bed. Tomorrow would be a long day.
Chapter 9
Tuesday, June 24
The next morning, Carter picked me up at 8:30 am and we made our way through the sluggish rush hour traffic on 95 North. We arrived at Melanie’s office around 9:45 and parked in the lot adjacent to the building. It was a two-story brick structure with a fancy, gold sign on the front, Park Place Suites.
Inside the foyer there were two doors. The one on the right was Suite A, Melanie Barr Frazier and the one on the left was Amy Chang, Suite B.
When I knocked on Suite B, an Asian woman in her thirties appeared behind the door. Lucy Liu immediately came to mind. Her long, silky black hair was wrapped into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore perfectly creased tan slacks, an ivory blouse, and a mocha scarf.
“Good morning,” she said in a soft soothing voice, like someone teaching a meditation class. “May I help you?”
“Amy Chang?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“My name is Sarah Woods and this is Carter. We’re private detectives. Do you have a few minutes to talk?” I gestured to the office across the hall from hers. “This has to do with Melanie. Her daughter Candice said we should talk to you.”
At the mention of her name, Amy shook her head slowly. “Poor Candice. How is she doing?”
I shrugged. “She seems to be dealing with her mother’s death as best she can.”
She nodded. “Yes, I suppose there’s not much else she can do. Why don’t you both come into my office and make yourselves comfortable.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I immediately felt like I was walking into a dream world. Sunlight poured in and cast a warm glow over everything in the room. The plush furniture was adorned with overstuffed pillows in various shades of lavender, beige and cream. The walls were painted in a tranquil shade of butternut.
“What is your business, Ms. Chang? You have a lovely office.”
“Thank you,” she said, indicating a sitting area near the window. “I’m a hypnotherapist. Been doing it for ten years or so. And please, call me Amy.”
“What a fascinating field to work in,” I said.
I noticed Carter made no comment about it. I got the impression he wasn’t as impressed as I was.
Once we all got comfortable, Amy asked, “Now, how can I help you? I was under the impression that Melanie’s case was solved. The drug dealer is in prison, right?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Jasmine Thompson is serving five years for involuntary manslaughter. Did you know that Melanie smoked pot?”
Amy pursed her lips and nodded. “Melanie told me that she bought joints from a woman named Jasmine. She’d come here to the office on Friday nights to deliver the stuff. I never actually met the woman.”
“Candice told us that you were here that night of April third. Can you describe to us in your own words what happened?”
Amy repositioned herself in her chair and smoothed out the wrinkles in her pants. She stared out the window with a disconcerting expression. “I don’t usually make a habit of seeing patients after business hours, especially on a Friday night, but I’d made an exception. It was an hour long session that ended at eight-fifteen. After my client left, I was getting ready to leave when I noticed Candice walking up the steps. I thought it was odd. I assumed Melanie had left for the day. Minutes later, I heard the screams from inside Melanie’s office and I had no idea what had happened. I rushed over there and saw Melanie on the floor. Candice was giving her CPR. She asked me to call 911 and I did.”
“Did you notice the joint on Melanie’s desk?” Carter asked her.
“Yes.” Amy took a deep breath, let it out, and continued. “Once the paramedics rushed her off to the hospital, the police showed up and asked me all kinds of questions. I told them about Jasmine and the marijuana because I’d heard stories before, about people overdosing on cocaine laced joints. I never would have guessed that someone actually put a poisonous plant in the joint. Melanie was well liked and highly respected. No one seems to know why Jasmine wanted to kill her.”
“I assume you’ve met Melanie’s husband?” I asked.
“Gregory?” she said. “Actually, I met him at her funeral. But not before then.”
“So Gregory didn’t make a habit of coming to the office to see Melanie?”
“No,” she said. “He never came here.”
I reached into my bag and took out the photos I’d printed out from the Internet the night before. I showed Amy the images of Charles Cox and Ryan Frazier. “Ever seen these guys before? We’re trying to find out if anyone saw either of them loitering around here on the night of April third.”
Amy examined the photos and shook her head. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen those people before. Who are they?”
“Gregory’s brother and a close friend from college.”
“If one of these men came by to see Melanie, I wouldn’t have seen him during my session,” she said. “I keep all the shades down for privacy.”
“I understand,” I said.
Glancing around her room, I noticed a framed photo on her desk. I guessed it was Amy’s family. Her husband was tall with blonde hair and blue eyes; a striking contr
ast to Amy’s petite, dark silky hair and brown eyes. Their two young girls were a beautiful mix of them both.
Carter cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Ms. Chang, can you tell us about your relationship with Melanie?”
“We were friends,” she said. “But Melanie was a private person. I don’t think she had much of a social life. She and I never really went out to dinner or anything like that. But we talked almost every day here at the office.”
“What did she tell you about Gregory?” Carter asked.
Amy shrugged. “She and Gregory were having problems. Honestly, I think she came here to avoid him.”
“Did Melanie talk about why her marriage was struggling?” I asked.
“They had grown apart. She was conservative and he was a spender. I mean, she never bad-mouthed him, although she used to poke fun at his unfortunate problem, as she liked to call it.”
“Unfortunate problem?” I asked. “Could you explain?”
“Well, it’s kind of embarrassing, but she often referred to him as Mr. Stubby.”
I swallowed. “Meaning he has a small penis?”
“Very small, apparently. Whenever I was in her office and Gregory called her on the phone, she’d roll her eyes at me and wiggle her pinky finger. I’d crack up every time she did it, because it was so out of character for her. She was usually so serious. But every once in a while, she’d do something like that and I’d pee my pants.”
I glanced at Carter and noticed he was trying to conceal his grin. I couldn’t help but smile, too. I turned back to Amy and said, “Melanie was working on an autobiography. Did she ever talk to you about that?”
“A little. She wasn’t keen on writing it, but they offered her a sizeable advance. In fact, I don’t think she ever completed the first draft. Her agent kept calling her everyday, hounding her. That woman was a pain in her ass.”
An idea popped into my head. “Was Melanie planning on writing a segment about her husband’s unfortunate problem?”
“I have no idea,” she said. “I can’t imagine she’d publish that. Her poor husband would be mortified. I think most men would be. Don’t you agree?” Amy looked at Carter in curiosity.
He shook his head and put a hand up as if to say, don’t ask me.
As much as I enjoyed seeing Carter blush, I had to keep this conversation going. I asked Amy, “Did Melanie ever talk about getting a divorce?”
“It came up a few times, but Melanie said she’d never get a divorce.”
“Why not?”
“Well, she never admitted it, but I think she was afraid of the ramifications; that it would be bad for publicity.”
“I spoke with Gregory yesterday,” I said. “He told me that Melanie was having an affair. Do you know anything about that?”
“Melanie?” Amy shook her head emphatically. “No way. She wasn’t the type to screw around.”
“Melanie’s schedule is on her laptop. On the day of her death she had an appointment at 9:00 with the initials C H. Any idea for whom or what those initials stand?”
Amy furrowed her brow. “No idea. I remember she was out of the office all morning and didn’t come back until around three. I knew she had a massage around lunchtime, but she never told me where she’d been earlier.”
“Candice gave us a key to go into her mother’s office and look around,” I said. “Have you been in her office since her death?”
“No,” Amy said. “I don’t have a key.”
“If you have a few more minutes, you’re welcome to accompany us. We might have a few more questions for you once we start looking around.”
She glanced at her watch. “My first client won’t be here for another ten minutes. I’ll join you.”
Melanie’s office looked very similar to Amy’s, but with a darker feel. The desk— a rich, stained mahoganythat could have been an antique— seemed to take up most of the room. The walls were painted a dark shade of eggplant and the carpeting was a drab grey. There were no comfy sofas or pillows. The few paintings on the walls didn’t appear expensive or valuable. If they were, Gregory probably would have taken them.
Amy stood very still, her eyes roaming around the room. “This is so surreal to see the empty office. Every morning, Melanie would invite me in for a cup of coffee. I miss that so much.”
Carter walked behind the desk and began opening drawers and searching inside them.
I circled the room a few times, taking in the décor, and stopped at a bookshelf to the right of the desk. I walked over and found a copy of Sex Positions for Mind-Blowing Orgasms. I flipped through the pages with interest. Sure enough, Jasmine Thompson and her husband were photographed nude posing in various positions, some of which caused the temperature in the room to rise.
“Have you ever met Greta Stone, Melanie’s agent?” I asked.
“Only once,” she said. “That woman came here looking for Melanie.”
“Did Melanie forget they had a meeting?”
“I don’t think so. Truth is, Melanie was trying to avoid her because Greta was on her case, kept calling her and bugging her about the new manuscript. Melanie would do anything to avoid a confrontation.”
“What was your impression of Greta?” I asked.
“She’s high strung, boisterous and rude. I could see why Melanie wanted to avoid seeing her face to face.”
I returned the book to the bookshelf and scanned the other titles. Mostly psychology related volumes. “Do you know if Melanie kept a copy of her work in progress on an external device?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t on her laptop?”
“No,” I said. “Did Melanie have a different computer that she did her work on?”
“The only laptop I ever saw was the MacBook.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s the one I have.”
When Carter appeared by my side, he gave me the thumbs down. “No luck, Sarah. I checked everywhere.”
“Okay. We should probably hit the road, anyway.”
“How is Candice doing, by the way?” Amy said to me as we exited Melanie’s office and locked up. “I keep meaning to call her.”
“Well, you should call her,” I said. “I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”
Amy smiled and shook my hand and then Carter’s. “Good luck with your investigation.”
I offered an appreciative smile. “Thanks. We appreciate that.”
Amy handed me a business card. “My personal cell number is on there. Feel free to call me anytime.”
Chapter 10
While Carter drove the fifty-eight miles to the Framingham Correctional Facility, I called Greta Stone. Her secretary informed me that Greta was not in her office and asked for my name and number. I told the woman that I’d call back later.
I had got in the habit of never leaving phone messages. Most of the time, people don’t call back, especially if it doesn’t benefit them in some way. The best practice—and a valuable one I’d learned from Carter— is to meet people face to face, whenever possible.
“Hey Carter, what if Melanie was planning to write a segment in her book about her husband’s small weenie? Maybe Gregory found out and wanted to make sure she didn’t write that book. But then again, it’s a silly reason to kill someone.”
Carter laughed. “Never underestimate the power of a man’s ego.”
“Yeah, I know guys can be very sensitive about the size of their genitalia, but size doesn’t matter to women as long as they know how to use it.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Is that right?”
“Yep. Unless a woman has a cavernous vagina, a small Johnson is not a big problem.”
“You mean a small problem?” he teased.
“Whatever.” I could feel my face getting hot. I lowered the window for fresh air. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Mind if we grab some fast food before we visit Jasmine? Visiting hours don’t start until noon and we’re ahead of schedule.”
“Sure. What are you in t
he mood for?”
I was going to say hot dogs, but decided not to press my luck. I was done with the penis jokes. “Roast beef sandwich sounds good to me.”
* * *
The Framingham Correctional Facility looked like my old high school or, rather, the insane asylum, as my friends and I liked to call it. The massive, brick structure had a foreboding feel to it. Probably had something to do with the barbed wire fence surrounding the place.
Carter and I walked into the entrance and right up to an information desk. A sallow looking fellow was seated behind the desk. He lifted his head slowly, as if annoyed.
“Can I help you folks?” His said in a clipped tone.
“Yes,” Carter said. “We’re here to see an inmate. Her name is Jasmine Thompson.”
He studied us for a few seconds, sizing us up. “Are you her attorneys?”
“Private detectives,” he said. “We would like to request a private meeting room, if possible.”
The man sniffed and turned his attention to the computer. He punched in some numbers then asked us to fill out a form and show ID. He directed us to the security checkpoint.
Once we were thoroughly patted down and practically strip-searched, we were led to the visiting waiting area, which resembled a hospital waiting room with magazines and a large flat screen TV. About fifteen minutes later, a uniformed guard escorted us to another private room, where we loitered yet another twenty minutes sitting on hard, metal chairs that were cemented to the floor.
“Have you ever done this before?” I asked Carter.
“Sure,” he said. “When I was a cop, it was a monthly occurrence. Never a pleasant experience.”
Finally, the door opened and Jasmine walked in. The guard informed us that we had fifteen minutes and left us alone.
Jasmine just remained standing, staring at us with a blank look. Her black, curly hair was tied back into a net. Her pale face was void of make-up, and the dark circles under her eyes aged her about ten years. The orange jumpsuit she wore was a size too big. I couldn’t imagine the food here was anything to brag about.
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