Spilled Blood

by Michael R. Davidson

  Strachey took a few unenthusiastic puffs on his cigar and then laid it in the marble ashtray on his desk where it went cold and died. “I think we both should be at the courthouse tomorrow morning, and then, with some luck, we can see him.”

  *****

  The Mecklenburg County Courthouse is conveniently located a stone’s throw from the jail in another of those triangular Lego block buildings that give Charlotte’s Government Plaza its character or lack thereof. At ten o’clock in the morning Padruig Nessmith was arraigned before the Honorable Elizabeth Cartwright in a small courtroom on the third floor. It was still drizzling rain when Krystal and Strachey parked and walked inside to find seats just behind the defendant’s table. Most of the other seats were occupied by media representatives. Gavenia sat in a back row twisting a handkerchief between her fingers.

  Padruig’s attorney, Matthew Holmes, was already there looking somber in a navy-blue suit, crisp white shirt and red striped tie. They had met Holmes only once when they first took the case, and the man had seemed grateful they were on the team. Krystal found his soft North Carolina drawl disarming. He had explained that Padruig was as stubbornly close-mouthed with him as he was with them, something he attributed to pride. He was unhappy with his client, but his firm had been associated with the Nessmiths for decades, and this was a burden he was obliged to take on. He had called Strachey the evening before to ask them to attend the arraignment.

  Holmes stood to greet them. Shaking his head of carefully coiffed silver hair as he extended his hand to Strachey, he said, “I’m glad to see you here. Thanks for coming.”

  “We would have come anyway,” replied Strachey. “Do you have any more information?”

  Holmes looked grave. “I’m afraid not. I’m sure you know as much as I do. I can’t understand why Padruig wasn’t straight with us. We could have taken steps to mitigate all this, but he lied, and that damages his case. It makes it look like he had something to hide. Has your investigation turned up anything helpful?”

  Krystal shrugged. “He’s too unsympathetic to have friends, if he ever had any at all. Most of the people we’ve interviewed have already made up their minds that he’s guilty, and the media aren’t helping things.”

  Holmes’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, that sounds about right. I would have been surprised if you had found anything. I’m not convinced he can be convicted solely on the evidence of a traffic camera photograph, but it will be rough sailing, nevertheless. He’s the only suspect the police have. But if he didn’t do it, someone else surely did. If you could discover another suspect, it would take some pressure off Padruig.”

  “That would be the ideal,” agreed Strachey. “If Padruig wants us to continue, we can expand the investigation.”

  “I spoke with him earlier today,” said Holmes. “He wants you to continue. He won’t admit it, but he’s worried as hell.”

  At that moment the Judge entered the chambers and the bailiff announced her. When she was seated, Padruig’s case was called.

  Two bailiffs emerged from a side door with a manacled Padruig Nessmith between them. He was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit that was clearly a size or two too large and made his thin figure seem even smaller. His face was inscrutable though his lips were white with what might have been repressed anger. His dark eyes swept over Krystal and Strachey before he turned and sat next to Holmes.

  The arraignment was swift. The judge took Holmes’s plea for bail under advisement, but Padruig would have to spend at least another night in jail. The judge also ordered a psychological evaluation which caused the color to rise on Padruig’s neck.

  CHAPTER 8

  Krystal found Gregory Davis’s house in a mixed neighborhood of older homes with neat lawns and lots of trees and decorative foliage. The Davis house was a single-story brick trimmed clapboard with a carport on one side under which was parked a white Honda Civic with a bicycle rack mounted on the rear. Two bikes hung from hooks in the carport ceiling. Krystal was a veteran at interviewing bereaved families, but it never got any easier. In this case, at least, she was not the notifying officer. She parked in the macadam driveway under the branches of a large oak tree and stepped out of the car. There was a sidewalk leading from the driveway to a brick semi-circular cement pad under an awning with three steps leading up to the front door. The space between the walk and the house was filled with azaleas and roses that blazed colorfully in the bright sunlight.

  Her knock was answered by a slim woman in her early to mid-30’s with long, dark hair, a pale complexion, and startling green eyes. She opened the glass-paneled door and looked inquiringly at Krystal. “Yes?”

  “My name is Krystal Murphy.” She handed the woman her card. “Are you Mrs. Gregory Davis?”

  The woman studied the card, reading it carefully as though she did not understand the words. “You are detective?”

  The accent was heavy and certainly derived from somewhere well beyond the Elbe. “Yes,” said Krystal. “My company has been hired to investigate the circumstances of the deaths of your husband and the other victims.”

  Mrs. Davis chewed on the information for a moment before asking, “You work with police?”

  “We are cooperating with the police, but we are not affiliated with them. We’re a private investigative service. May I come inside so we can talk?”

  The woman didn’t budge but returned her attention to the card, silently sounding out the words with her lips. “Why are you investigating this?”

  “We’ve been hired by a member of the other victims’ family.” Krystal did not like dissimulating with the wife of a victim, but Mrs. Davis’s hesitation worried her, and, after all Padruig Nessmith was a member of the victims’ family. “It’s very important, Mrs. Davis, that I speak with you.”

  Mrs. Davis raised uncertain eyes to Krystal. “I am not sure,” she said. “I cannot right now. Is not good time.” She stepped back inside and closed the door, leaving a surprised Krystal staring at her own reflection in the glass. She raised her hand to knock again but changed her mind. The woman did not want to talk.

  *****

  “We really need to talk to her. I just don’t understand her attitude.” Krystal failed to keep the frustration out of her voice.

  She’d gone straight back to the office following her fruitless visit to Gregory Davis’s wife and sat facing Strachey across his desk. Floor to ceiling cherry wood bookshelves lined two walls and two soft leather-covered wing chairs sat in the corner facing one another over an antique table with a brass reading lamp. Across the room with the window behind it stood the ornate mahogany desk. A crimson oriental rug glowed in the light streaming through the windows. A vase of fresh cut flowers sat in the middle of the table, colorful in the afternoon sunlight.

  Strachey lit a short cigar as Krystal related her experience.

  “You say she speaks with an accent?” he asked.

  “Yes. She sounded like one of those Russians in the movies.”

  Strachey took a drag on the cigar and exhaled blue smoke that drifted in shifting layers in the beams of light before being sucked into the ventilators in the ceiling. “Hmmm. Could be a Russian mail-order bride, I suppose. Funny that Captain Curry didn’t mention it. What’s her name?”

  “Natalie, Natalie Davis.”

  “Natalie, Natalya, Natasha. Interesting. Russians have a healthy distrust of the authorities, especially the police. I suppose that could explain her reluctance.”

  “I don’t know. She was more wary than she was hostile, like talking to me was something she wasn’t supposed to do.”

  “Curious. We’ll need to get back to her. Maybe Curry will help smooth the way. In the meantime, we need to talk with Davis’s fellow workers at the bank.

  *****

  The H.P.H. National Bank had its own skyscraper on South Tryon Street in the center of Charlotte. Krystal entered the cavern-like lobby, all polished black marble and brass fittings. She’d been in Charlotte long enough not to be overwhelmed
by the sheer size of the place or the ostentatious gold-toned chandeliers suspended from the twenty-foot ceiling. The bank intended the lobby to impress, and it usually did the job. There was a rank of turnstiles across the far end guarding the elevators and a reception counter manned by four people along one wall. Krystal approached the counter and identified herself. “I have an appointment with Mr. Stevens.” She’d called earlier in the day to request a meeting with Davis’s supervisor and been directed to Kim Stevens, who had identified himself as the head of the Internal Audit Division.

  The honey blonde behind the counter flashed a set of brilliant white teeth that probably paid for her dentist’s vacation to the Bahamas and asked for her identification. “A driver’s license will be fine,” she said.

  With the formalities completed, the blonde handed her a plastic badge marked “Visitor” in bright red letters against a white field. There was a magnetic strip along one side of the card.

  “Just run the card through the scanner at the turnstile,” instructed the blonde. “Then take the elevator to the third floor.”

  It turned out that the elevator from the lobby only went to the third floor, and when she stepped out, she found herself in what she later learned was the “security lobby.” Krystal reflected that it was harder to get into this bank than into FBI Headquarters in Washington. She again identified herself, this time to a serious young man behind a counter and was instructed to take a seat because there would be a short wait.

  Along one wall facing the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Tryon Street was a suite of chrome framed couches and chairs upholstered in black leather and low, glass-topped tables displaying a variety of surprisingly up-to-date magazines. Krystal groaned inwardly, hoping this did not augur a long wait.

  She was not disappointed. Within a few moments a man in a navy-blue suit, white shirt, and colorful Hermes tie emerged from the elevators behind yet another row of turnstiles. He consulted briefly with the man behind the counter, who pointed at Krystal. The man strode toward her, hand outstretched. “I’m Kim Stevens. Won’t you come with me?”

  She guessed Stevens’ age at somewhere between forty and forty-five. His six-foot frame was well-proportioned, and he sported a tan most likely acquired on the golf course.

  He led her back to the counter where she exchanged the plastic visitor’s badge from the lobby for another plastic card marked “Escort Required,” and Stevens directed her to the turnstile. Stevens wore his security card around his neck on a narrow chain lanyard. They each swiped their cards and went through the turnstile to the elevators. Inside, Stevens punched a button for the 12th floor, and they glided silently upward.

  They emerged into a large open space occupied by cubicles with about fifty people milling about among them. Stevens led her to an office in the far corner and invited her to sit in yet another chrome and black leather chair. The office was utilitarian but upscale with a magnificent view of north Charlotte out the window.

  Stevens introduced himself as the head of the Internal Audit Group which in turn was under Risk Management in the bank’s hierarchy. “I understand you want to talk about Gregory Davis. It is a tragedy what happened to that young man. He had a promising future here at the bank. He was intelligent, a dogged investigator, and his mathematical and accounting skills were topnotch. It’s a loss for us all.” The words were appropriate, but the delivery was rote, leading to the conclusion that Stevens had had no emotional investment in Davis.

  She pulled a small leather-bound notebook and a ballpoint pen from her bag. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Stevens. What can you tell me about Mr. Davis? Did he have any enemies that you know of?”

  “Enemies?” Stevens appeared surprised by the question. “Not that I know of. He was personable enough, and I’ve never heard a word spoken against him. He had only been with us a little over a year, and he was evidently highly recommended. He did not come in via the usual process. The bank’s top management simply announced he would be working in this office, and he appeared one day for work. He was described as a forensic accountant. Other than that, I have no idea where he might have worked before, although he did speak with an accent. That’s a little strange, of course, but there was nothing to complain about in his work. He was highly competent.”

  As Krystal’s mother might have said, there was something ‘off kilter’ here. “You mean he didn’t fill out an application?”

  Stevens shook his head. “No. As I said, he was assigned to the position by the bank’s management. It was a surprise to me.”

  “So, you have no paper on him, nothing about his background, maybe an application form?”

  “Well,” said Stevens, “everyone was sure he was Russian, of course, although he never referred to his origins one way or the other. He was pretty tight-lipped about it.”

  “You’re telling me that a guy named Gregory Davis was Russian?”

  “We didn’t think that was his real name, or maybe he anglicized it when he immigrated. Wherever he came from, he was a hell of a forensic accountant.”

  “Can you tell me what he was working on at the time of his death?”

  Stevens rubbed his chin. “Well, not really. First of all, there is bank confidentiality meant to protect our customers, and secondly our auditors work independently - it’s the management style we’ve adopted.”

  Krystal was not sure she understood what this meant. “How about his computer? Is it possible to check what’s on it?”

  Stevens smiled condescendingly. “Same thing. We are bound by law to protect the confidentiality of our files. You would need a warrant to check any of them. But, none of our specialists have a single computer assigned to them. They don’t even have individual cubicles. When they come to work, they can work at any station that happens to be open. Of course, there are what we call concentration rooms where they can go to discuss matters privately. Otherwise, it’s a completely open floor.”

  This explanation was even more confusing. According to Stevens, the fourth largest bank in the United States permitted their employees to work on anything they liked and did not require them to report on what they were doing to management, presumably until they had reached a conclusion of some sort. She suspected there were a lot of coffee breaks during the workday. But she wasn’t ready to give up just yet. “You mean there is no record at all of what Davis was working on at the time of his death? That just can’t be.”

  “Oh, his work is stored in the central memory bank, of course. It’s password protected, just like all the others.”

  “Have the police asked for access?”

  “No, and I doubt they will.They just didn’t seem too interested when they were here,” he said breezily. “They only came around once.” He glanced at his watch.

  It seemed there was not much more Stevens could or would say. She thanked him for his time and was escorted back to the ground floor, her head churning with chaotic thoughts. The police had only paid what appeared to have been a perfunctory visit to Davis’s place of employment? Presumably they also had spoken with his wife. They had concentrated all their efforts against Padruig Nessmith.

  She walked from the bank back to the PSI offices mentally turning over what she had learned. Gregory Davis was a Russian just like his wife. So, she probably wasn’t a mail-order bride as Strachey had speculated. But how was this relevant to his murder, if it was relevant, at all?

  CHAPTER 9

  Ruth Scatterfield was working on a new flower arrangement at the reception desk when Krystal returned. She looked up to greet her. “Afternoon, darlin’,” she drawled. Krystal had a vision of her covered in syrup. “Y’all look worried.”

  Krystal did not appreciate being called ‘darling’ by anybody, but Ruth was a sweet person, and of an older generation, so she’d decided she could tolerate it. “Is Bob still in?” she asked.

  “He’s here,” Ruth beamed and checked her watch. “It’s about four o’clock, so I suppose he’s just lit his pre
-drink cigar. It’ll soon be cocktail time.”

  Strachey had adopted the habit of inviting Krystal, Amy, and Ruth to his office for drinks in the afternoon. There was a wet bar discreetly installed inside a closet in his office to which he had the only key.

  “We might need something to drink this afternoon,” said Krystal.

  “Oh?” Ruth’s eyes grew large behind her glasses.

  “Just had a strange meeting at the bank I have to tell him about.”

  She passed through the doors to the office spaces and found Strachey’s door open. The aroma of an expensive cigar wafted into the hallway despite the special ventilation in his office ceiling. She thought of Captain Curry and his open window.

  She poked her head through the door. “Can we talk, boss?”

  Strachey looked up from a file folder on his desk and removed his reading glasses. The glasses were a recent addition to his wardrobe, and he didn’t like people to see him wearing them. He didn’t like the streaks of gray that were appearing in his hair either. His wife insisted it made him look distinguished, which was the last thing he wanted. He was in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up and tie loosened.

  Square jawed and tanned, he was a very handsome man, and he made the little girl who resided somewhere deep inside Krystal quiver just a bit when they were together.

  She plopped into one of the chairs in front of his desk. “I just had a strange encounter with Davis’s boss at the bank.”

  “You obviously can’t wait to tell me about it,” he smiled and drew on the Montecristo No. 2.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t learn very much. His former boss says Davis was well-liked, an excellent worker with a future - a crackerjack forensic accountant, whatever that is. He worked in the Internal Audit Division. Unfortunately, his boss wouldn’t or couldn’t tell me anything about what he’d been working on. Seems they run a very loose ship over there, but the rules say they can’t share client information. He said we’d need a warrant for that. But there’s something else. It seems Davis was a Russian.”