The Guy Who Died Twice

by Lisa Gardner

  “Maybe because she was too busy being strangled to death?”

  D.D. conceded the point, took a sip of her wine. “The bruises around the woman’s neck looked awful,” she said. “It must’ve been terrifying for her at the time, regardless of her husband’s remorse later.”

  “My money is still on the wife,” Alex repeated.

  “Fair enough. But now let’s examine the good doctor.”

  Five hours earlier . . .

  D.D. was just exiting the kitchen—which smelled amazing—when Neil caught up with her in the hall.

  “You talk to the chef?” he asked, nodding toward the vast, Italian-marble, commercial-grade-appliance space.

  “Yep. Chef Dennis,” D.D. drawled, “concedes the murder weapon may have come from the kitchen. Or the butler’s pantry.”

  “Butler’s pantry?”

  “It’s its own space—basically the size of my kitchen—used to plate and serve all the meals. Has its own knifes, serving utensils, et cetera. Chef Dennis is guessing there were probably more than two dozen high-end German blades in the kitchen alone. He’s not sure, as he’s never stopped to count.”

  Neil stared at her.

  “In the good news department, the chef doesn’t use high-end German blades. He has his own chef’s set—some gazillion-dollar suite of ceramic knives that he meticulously wraps up and takes home with him every night. None of them are missing. That’s all he cares about.”

  “What did you think of the guy?” Neil asked. “Other than you like his cookies.” He reached over, brushed some crumbs from D.D.’s jacket.

  D.D. returned his look balefully. “He doesn’t even make the shortbread. Actually got hostile with me. He’s a chef, not a baker. Shortbread comes from a French bakery just down the street, one of Mrs. LaToile’s special requests. She swore her husband loved them. Adam thought his wife loved them. According to Chef Dennis, neither one touched them. The cookies are really a treat for the staff and”—she waved a hand to include herself and Neil—“guests.”

  “If I was a chef,” Neil said, “I wouldn’t stab my employer with one of my custom ceramic knives. Especially knowing there are dozens of other blades I could utilize without anyone being the wiser.”

  D.D. shrugged. “According to Chef Dennis, the household staff isn’t that big. Everyone knows about his special set, let alone that the kitchen, dining room, butler’s pantry, entire house, is filled with so much stuff, not even Mr. and Mrs. LaToile know how much stuff.”

  “Sounds like an opportunity for theft,” Neil commented.

  “Something to consider,” D.D. agreed. “Say a staff member has been pilfering for years. Maybe Mr. LaToile finally catches one, threatens to fire him or her. Except by all accounts, Mrs. LaToile manages the staff. And, apparently, they are quite well compensated. According to Chef Dennis, he makes more working thirty hours here than he did running a top restaurant in Boston. Plus, a fraction of the stress, and they don’t mind if he moonlights as a caterer for their other wealthy friends. Without being so crude, he basically implied that Mr. LaToile was a golden goose. Which staff member would be stupid enough to kill him?”

  “Phil says most of the staff has been working for the LaToiles for years, if not decades,” Neil provided. “Speaks to their loyalty.”

  D.D. nodded. “Chef Dennis is the newbie at two years. He was personally approached by Mrs. LaToile to work with Dr. Anil on a special diet for her husband. Reduce inflammation, increase serotonin. You are what you eat, and given Mr. LaToile’s history of depression, they wanted to make sure he ate exactly right. Though that doesn’t explain the shortbread. I thought sugar promoted depression—post–insulin crash and all that.” She shrugged, shamelessly pulled two wrapped cookies from her jacket pocket. “Good thing I have a mind like a steel trap.”

  Her youngest detective rolled his eyes at her. “So you think the chef is worth pursuing or not?”

  “I’d like to see his financial statements.”

  “Carol’s working on that now.”

  “It doesn’t matter how great a job you have or how well compensated you are if, say, you develop a gambling habit or drug addiction. The LaToiles being generous employers is only half the equation. Still want to know how steady the employees are. Having said that . . .”

  Neil waited.

  “Guy never stopped moving the entire time I was in there. Chef Dennis has clearly been prepping for hours, and even with his employer dead upstairs, he mostly cares about dinner. To say he’s passionate about food would be an understatement. I’m not sure a person with that kind of singular focus could be bothered with murder. It would take attention away from his precious cauliflower couscous and cumin-dusted scallops.” She paused. “I got to see the dinner menu. Any chance we can drag out our on-site investigation for three more hours?”

  Neil considered the matter. They were homicide detectives who mostly lived on takeout. Compare that to cumin-dusted scallops . . .

  “We might have a break,” he volunteered, his tone genuinely regretful. “Phil has some concerns about Dr. Anil. Had me run his license. Turns out, the good doctor has been holding back on us.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Dr. Anil,” D.D. began fifteen minutes later, “can you tell us how Mr. LaToile first became your patient?”

  She and Neil had found the doctor still sitting with Mrs. LaToile in the rear sitting room. The doctor had moved his position on the sofa to be as close to Mrs. LaToile as possible, leaning his head toward her as both spoke in low tones. Neither appeared to be eating or drinking. Both pulled back sharply as Neil and D.D. walked into the room.

  Now Dr. Anil darted a look at Mrs. LaToile. “He was referred to me by a colleague, given my expertise in dealing with acute depression.”

  “Fifteen years ago?”

  “Approximately, I would say. Long enough,” the doctor conceded, “I can’t give you an exact date.”

  D.D. gestured toward Neil, indicating for him to take the lead.

  “Dr. Anil, are you aware that fifteen years ago, you weren’t licensed to work in the United States?” Neil supplied smoothly.

  Mrs. LaToile had returned to fingering her scarf, staring at her roses. She didn’t say a word but left Dr. Anil to flounder.

  “A mere oversight,” he managed at last. “I grew up in France, had a practice in Paris before moving to Boston. I assure you, my credentials are impeccable. But transferring from one country to another . . . sometimes there can be a lag with the licensing boards.”

  “What about your driving history?” Neil followed up smoothly.

  The doctor flushed. “I don’t understand.”

  “The four DUIs? Or is it five? I can’t remember now. And interestingly enough, three of them predate your ‘move’ to Boston.”

  “I spent time in the area before I decided to take up residence here,” Dr. Anil replied stiffly.

  “Doing what? Touring the bars?” For a detective who looked like a twelve-year-old kid, Neil could be tough when he needed to be.

  Dr. Anil didn’t answer right away. He clasped his hands, stared at the tea service.

  Mrs. LaToile surprised them all by answering for him. “You had a drinking problem, Rajeesh. Just tell them. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  D.D. and Neil exchanged glances.

  “I am an alcoholic,” Dr. Anil admitted at last. “It’s one of the reasons I left France. But I’ve been sober for fifteen years now. Also, I fail to see the relevance of such personal information to today.”

  “Did Adam LaToile know?”

  “Of course. My colleague who made the introduction . . . I encourage honesty in my patients. Naturally that must start with myself.” But there was something in the way he said the last line that struck D.D. as off. Maybe too practiced. Even rehearsed.

  “What brought you to
Boston?” she pressed.

  The doctor eyed her warily. “Friends.”

  “Who took you out drinking?” Neil again.

  “I take responsibility for my own issues with alcohol,” Dr. Anil responded, his face still shuttered.

  “So, fifteen years ago, you decided to move your practice here, sober up, and what? Open your doors with such prestigious clients as Adam LaToile?” Because that’s what D.D. couldn’t wrap her head around. That the doctor had moved under less than credible circumstances, hadn’t even gotten his medical license in the US, and yet ended up with someone such as Mr. LaToile, who could’ve hired anyone he wanted.

  “Mr. LaToile was referred to me directly by another therapist. I might have issues with drinking, but that doesn’t mean I’m not good at what I do.”

  “What’s the name of the other therapist?” Neil asked.

  For a moment, Dr. Anil stared at them. In the silence, D.D. could already hear his lie forming. For most people, the truth came quickly. Deception, on the other hand . . .

  “I would have to look at my notes,” he said at last.

  “You’re not friends with this amazing colleague anymore?”

  “The person retired.”

  “And now you can’t even remember his or her name? Do you remember if it was a him or her?” D.D. asked helpfully.

  Dr. Anil regarded her stonily. “Her. Elizabeth . . . I would have to look up the last name. Fifteen years is fifteen years.”

  “And prior to that, you were in France,” Neil said.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. LaToile has a place in Paris,” Neil provided.

  “He and Martha have many places.”

  “You never saw each other there?” D.D. piled on.

  “I’m sure we have . . . in the past fifteen years.”

  “But not before Mr. LaToile became your patient?”

  “If our paths had crossed, it would’ve been just in passing.” Hedging, D.D. thought. The good doctor was hedging his bets. Which told her that he had met Mr. LaToile in Paris before moving his practice to Boston.

  Had he moved his practice here because of Mr. LaToile? A single über-wealthy client would certainly justify the transition. Except, of course, Dr. Anil had clearly also had a drinking problem. Why would someone with Mr. LaToile’s resources take on a doctor who had problems of his own?

  D.D. turned to Mrs. LaToile. “Did you know Dr. Anil lived in Paris?”

  “Of course. His history is no secret. He has worked with Adam for fifteen years. I imagine they both know everything about each other.”

  “Did you meet Dr. Anil in Paris?”

  “Fifteen years ago? I didn’t even know Adam then.”

  “That’s right. You’ve been married ten years, is it?”

  “Yes. We met the year before we were married. Bridge club.”

  D.D. stared at the woman. She had that sense again. That nothing in this house was as it seemed. And bridge club. She’d heard that from Phil, who’d heard it from the driver, Charlie. Was it weird that everyone used the same phrase? Not playing cards, or at the house of a friend, but specifically, bridge club.

  Liars tended to fall into two camps. Those who held back—the Dr. Anils of the world—and those who were overly detailed—like Mrs. LaToile.

  Either way, neither one was being completely honest.

  A noise across the room. D.D. glanced up to find the maid, Paulette, standing in the other doorway. How long the stern-looking woman had been there, D.D. had no idea, but judging by the way she was regarding Mrs. LaToile and Dr. Anil, the maid had been listening. Watching. Why?

  “More tea, ma’am?” she spoke up now, crossing deftly into the sitting area. It was the first time D.D. had heard her speak; she noted the lilt of a foreign accent. French? she wondered, given the name Paulette. But if so, the doctor’s French accent was certainly stronger.

  “No, thank you, Paulette. I’m sure these detectives were just leaving.”

  “No, I’m sure we’re not,” D.D. countered bluntly. “If fact, I need everyone to stay on the premises, including you, Dr. Anil. The ME is preparing to remove Mr. LaToile’s body from the bedroom. Afterwards, we’ll have many more questions to ask, and I expect all of you to be present to answer.” She turned to Neil. “Find me Carol.”

  Back at home on the sofa . . .

  “Hang on,” Alex interjected. “I get keeping everyone on the premises. Dragging everyone down to HQ will only make them start lawyering up.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But what about physical evidence? Aren’t you compromising the scene by having everyone remain in the house?”

  “Yes and no. Truth is, given that my primary suspects are the woman who lives in the house and the staff who work in the house, any physical evidence that points back to them can easily be explained away. Say we discover that the maid, Paulette, left a thumbprint on the handle of the murder weapon. Well, she’s the one who handles the silverware. Or the manservant, Manuel’s, partial palm print is on the bedpost? Well he’s the one who helps Mr. LaToile into bed.”

  “And yet, if you found the gardener’s prints—”

  “Ernesto.”

  “If you found Ernesto’s prints on the knife, that would be harder to explain,” Alex reasoned.

  D.D. shrugged. “He used the knife to slice cheese for his lunch, or grabbed it to cut open a package in the garage. Again, any good defense attorney is going to dismiss my physical evidence. Basically, I have a closed-room mystery—or closed-house as the case may be. Everyone has a reason to be there. Everyone can explain why there might be trace evidence of his or her presence in the master bedroom. Face it, physical evidence isn’t going to do me any good.”

  “More’s the shame,” Alex said, given that was his specialty.

  D.D. rolled her eyes, continued her thinking: “The key to the case is going to come down to human elements. I have an entire household with opportunity, so what about motive? Money is always good.”

  “The wife,” Alex repeated.

  “Spouse,” D.D. muttered. “But, yes, she remains the most obvious choice. Of course, there’s also revenge to consider. Sadness and guilt. Those are the two words used to describe Adam LaToile, right? What if the guilt wasn’t just in his head?”

  “He really did something.”

  “Then there’s jealousy. Certainly, the doctor and Mrs. LaToile seemed a bit closer than strictly necessary. Or maybe Manuel harbored secret feelings for Mrs. LaToile and, having had to pull Mr. LaToile off her the night before, had had enough. Or Ernesto had secrets. Or Paulette was carrying on with Mr. LaToile and wanted to end things without losing her job. I don’t know. But I have one house, seven suspects. One of them did it. If we can just figure out why . . .”

  “You’ll find your killer.” Alex nodded. “So, next stop is Carol, who you said was running financials. How is Detective Manley these days?”

  D.D. nearly growled at him. She wasn’t a big fan of the petite detective who’d taken over her role on Phil and Neil’s squad. Or maybe she simply had jealousy issues of her own.

  “She’s a solid detective.”

  “Excellent, I’ve heard.”

  D.D. stuck out her tongue at her husband. “Okay, fine. And, yeah, Carol discovered something interesting.”

  Four and half hours earlier . . .

  “Phil’s intel was correct,” Carol delivered in a rush. She and D.D. were tucked against the wall in the upstairs landing outside Adam LaToile’s bedroom. Ben was loading the body on a gurney as they spoke. The staff, D.D. noticed, was now congregated at the base of the stairs, pale faces uncertain.

  They reminded D.D. of pallbearers, waiting to pay their respects. Or maybe to see for themselves that the terrible news was true. Even Chef Dennis had drifted out of the kitchen, wringing a tea towel over and over again betw
een his massive hands.

  The only people who were absent were Mrs. LaToile and Dr. Anil. Neil had promised to keep an eye on them in the rear sitting room, which seemed to be Mrs. LaToile’s location of choice. Was she purposefully avoiding this part of the process? Or with everyone distracted, were she and the doctor working on getting their story straight?

  They were hiding something. D.D. just couldn’t figure out what.

  “Salaries are excellent. I mean, if I wasn’t a homicide detective, I’d totally look at becoming a maid for the LaToiles.”

  D.D. raised a brow at Carol’s pronouncement.

  “The chef alone is making several hundred thousand dollars. Manuel the manservant, eighty grand. Paulette the maid, eighty-five. Charlie, one hundred and fifty, plus health insurance, to drive a car. I can drive a car. I do drive a car. I still don’t make that kind of money.”

  “Apparently, you need to be driving a Rolls Phantom.”

  “The staff is well compensated,” Carol repeated. “Which begs the question why would any of them do anything to ruin a good thing. It’s not like they can run out and find another position that pays as well as this one.”

  “The chef could,” D.D. corrected mildly, but she was also remembering Dennis’s point—not without incurring a lot more stress. And if he moonlighted as a caterer for the LaToiles’ wealthy friends, how many of the other staff members also picked up odd jobs from people who had more money than common sense? “Taxes, W-9s, all in order?” D.D. asked now.

  “By the book. Literally. Mrs. LaToile gave me permission to contact her accountant and authorized him to send me copies of all their recent financials and tax returns. He e-mailed the data in a matter of minutes.” Carol held up her phone, which displayed a pdf of some kind of financial document. “I wish all our murder suspects were this forthcoming.”

  “Agreed.” But now D.D. was frowning. Could a murder suspect be too forthcoming? She wouldn’t have thought so, and yet . . . The immediate access to Adam LaToile’s personal psychiatrist. The waiving of his doctor-client confidentiality. Full access to the house, the staff, and even the LaToiles’ accountant. If was as if Mrs. LaToile was going out of her way to prove she had nothing to hide. Which, of course, only made D.D. more suspicious.