Killer Takes All
Page 17
Saturday, March 12, 2005
4:30 p.m.
Spencer cleared the room. He ordered everyone to stay on the premises, including Kay and Leo.
He studied the scrawled message.
The roses are red now.
Judging by the fluid, uneven quality of the letters, Spencer judged the message to have been written with a paintbrush, dipped into paint or some other liquid.
He didn’t know for certain what it meant, but he had a pretty damn good idea.
Somebody, very probably, was dead.
“That blood?” Tony asked, referring to the substance used to write the message.
Spencer squatted and touched the W, then brought his finger to his nose. Earthy. Distinct. Not like paint. He nodded to his partner even as he rubbed it between his fingers, checking the viscosity.
“I’m thinking. See the way the color is darkening as it dries?”
“Could be animal blood,” Tony offered.
Could be. But his guess was no, it wasn’t.
“Get the techs over here, ASAP. I want this tested and in evidence. And I want the place dusted for prints.”
He turned. Stacy stood in the doorway. She motioned toward the message. “You saw a sketch for this, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
She frowned. “You’re thinking the playing cards are dead.”
“I have no proof-”
“We’re not talking proof. In the story Alice in Wonderland, Alice happens upon two playing cards, the Five and Seven of Spades, painting white roses red. Based on the pattern set with the dormouse that would mean that whoever represents these characters is dead.”
He didn’t reply. They both knew he didn’t need to. Of course that’s what he thought.
“If our artist is the killer, why leave the playing cards instead of the real deal?”
“Obviously, the drawing didn’t find its way into our perp’s hands. Because we got to Pogo first.”
Tony snapped his cell phone shut and crossed to Spencer. He spoke low, so only Spencer could hear. “If it is blood, the deoxidization process will help us narrow down the time this was done.”
Spencer nodded. “That’ll help us eliminate certain persons.”
“Exactly.”
“You want to question? Or should I?” Spencer asked.
“It’s your show, Slick. Go for it.”
They exited the office and crossed to Kay and Leo. They sat on the bottom stair, Leo’s arm around his ex-wife’s shoulder.
“I need to ask you a few questions. Are you up to that?”
She nodded. “I’ll try.”
Spencer opened his spiral notebook. “Who had access to the house today?”
“Who didn’t?” She dragged a hand through her hair. “This place is like Grand Central Station, even on a Saturday.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Sure.” She let out a long breath. “The family. You, your partner and Stacy. The full-time staff, Mrs. Maitlin and Troy. The yardman was here this morning as well. Barry.”
“How about Clark?”
“He’s off on the weekends.”
“Who else?”
She rattled off a list of people who had been in and out during the course of the day. Her personal trainer and manicurist. Postman had delivered. FedEx, too.
“On Saturday?”
“It’s a delivery option. Costs extra, of course.”
“Could anyone have gotten in and not have been noticed?”
Kay looked at Leo, cheeks pink. “I told you we should consider a video security system. How many times?”
“No one was hurt, Kay. If you’d just calm down-”
“Calm down? They were in the house, Leo!” Kay launched to her feet, her hands clenched into fists. Spencer sensed she was not only frightened but furious at her ex-husband as well. “How am I supposed to calm down?”
The man looked flustered. “They’re just trying to scare us.”
“Well, they’re succeeding!”
Spencer stepped in. “Take a deep breath, Mrs. Noble. We’ll figure this out.”
She nodded, visibly struggling to calm herself. “Go ahead.”
He questioned her a bit more, then turned to Leo. “How about you, Leo? When were you last in your office?”
He thought a moment. “Two this morning.”
“At 2:00 a.m.?”
“That’s right.”
Spencer frowned. “But not since then?”
“No. I slept late. I’m slow to wake up.”
“He rarely gets to his office before noon,” Kay said. “Today he didn’t bother because of the game.”
“And you didn’t enter his office this morning?” he asked Kay.
She cocked an eyebrow. “Why would I?”
“Deliver papers. Answer the phone. I can imagine any number of reasons, Mrs. Noble.”
“I’m not a secretary, Detective.”
Spencer narrowed his eyes, irritated by the woman’s haughty tone. He thought about pressing her, then discarded the thought, thanked them and turned his attention to the other members of the household, Mrs. Maitlin first.
“You doing okay?” She nodded. “I need you to retrace your steps this morning, leading up to you entering Mr. Noble’s office. Can you do that?”
She nodded again. “I was bringing fresh flowers to the office.”
“Is that something you do every Saturday?”
“No, usually on Friday. But I didn’t make it to the flower market yesterday.”
“So you went today?” She indicated she had. “You were out of the house how long?”
“An hour.” At his expression, she darted a quick peek at her boss. “I went through the Starbucks drive-thru. The line was long.”
“What time was that?”
She glanced nervously at her watch. “I don’t know, between nine-thirty and ten-thirty.”
“Had you entered the office at all this morning?”
“No.”
He noted that her eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Not even to remove the old flowers?”
“I did that yesterday.” She clasped her hands together. “The blooms last a week, without fail. Mr. Noble doesn’t like wilted flowers.”
Who did? Lucky bastard.
“So you entered the office with the flowers?”
“Yes.”
Something in her tone and body language led him to believe she wasn’t being completely honest with him. “You carried the flowers to the office, then what?”
“Opened the door. Stepped inside and-” She pressed her lips together. “I saw the cards and drawing and went to get Mrs. Noble.”
“And where was Mrs. Noble?”
“In her office.”
“Where are they now?”
Her expression went blank. She blinked. “Pardon?”
“The flowers. They’re not on the desk.”
“I don’t know where…the kitchen. On the counter, I think.”
“We were playing White Rabbit in the kitchen. I don’t recall seeing them.”
“Mrs. Noble’s desk,” she said, sounding relieved. “I went to get her and set the vase on her desk. They were heavy.”
Spencer pictured the scenario as she’d described it. “Thank you, Mrs. Maitlin. I may need to ask you a few questions later.”
She nodded, started off, then stopped. “What did it mean? Those cards, the writing?”
“We’re not sure. Yet.”
The evidence techs arrived. Spencer greeted them and pointed toward the office. He glanced back at the housekeeper to find her staring at the team, expression pinched, cheeks pale.
She became aware of his gaze, spun on her heel and walked away. He watched her go and frowned. She was keeping something from him. But what? And why?
Spencer went in search of Troy, Leo’s driver and guy Friday. He found him washing the Mercedes. He caught sight of Spencer and straightened. “Yo,” he said.
“You have a minute?”
Spencer waited while the man shook out a cigarette, lit it and took a drag. He flashed him a bright white smile. “Filthy habit. But I’m still young, right?”
Spencer agreed he was. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary today?”
He sucked on the smoke, eyes narrowed in thought. “Nope.”
“See anybody who didn’t belong?” Again the man indicated he hadn’t. “You were out front all morning?”
“Washing and waxing the Benz. Do it every Saturday. Mr. Noble likes his wheels to look sharp.”
Spencer glanced toward his Camaro, parked at the curb, desperately in need of a wash.
“That your ride?” Troy asked, indicating the Camaro.
“Yeah, it is.”
“Sweet.” He snubbed out the cigarette. “I wasn’t here all morning. Mr. Noble sent me to fetch some things for your game.”
“When was that?”
“Between eight and ten-thirty. Give or take. I ran out for a sandwich around noon.”
For an hour this morning both the housekeeper and driver had been off the property.
“Thanks, Troy. You going to be around all day?”
He smiled and picked up the chamois. “Gotta be here in case the boss man wants me.”
“Slick?”
Spencer turned at the sound of his partner’s voice. He waited as Tony ambled up the walk. “Get anything?” he asked.
“Not that matters. Old lady across the street complained about comings and goings over here at all hours. Swore the Nobles were into something illegal.” He paused. “Or were aliens.”
“Great. And this morning?”
“Quiet as a tomb.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.” He glanced at his watch. “You done here?”
“Not quite. Need to question the yardman. Tag along?”
Tony agreed and they headed out back. The gardens were lush and well kept; the sheer volume of beds to tend, staggering. Certain times of the year, such as now, they probably required full-time attention to keep them looking the way they did.
At the moment, the yardman was on his knees in the southern-most corner of the property, planting annuals. Impatiens, Spencer saw as they reached the man.
“Barry?” Spencer asked. “Police. We need to ask you a few questions.”
Not a man, Spencer saw as the kid turned. Little more than a boy.
Barry frowned at them, then removed his headphones. “Hey.”
Spencer flashed his badge. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
Several emotions chased across the kid’s face: Suspicion. Curiosity. Fear. He nodded and stood, wiping his hands on his denim cutoffs. He was tall, gangly and thin. He’d yet to fill out his frame.
“What’s up?”
“You been here all day?”
“Since nine.”
“Talk to anybody?”
He hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “No.”
“You don’t seem so sure.”
“No.” His cheeks turned pink. “I’m sure.”
“See anybody?”
“I was on my knees, facing the fence all day. Do you think I saw anybody?”
Touchy. “These all planted today?” Spencer indicated the border of impatiens.
“Yeah.”
“Pretty.”
“I think so.” He smiled but the curving of his lips looked wooden.
“You go inside today, Barry?”
“No.”
“What’d you do, take a piss in the bushes?”
“Pool house.”
“What about water and food?”
“I bring everything I need.”
“Did you see anybody you didn’t recognize today?”
“Nope.” He glanced toward the house, then back at them. “Mind if I get back to work? If I don’t finish today, I gotta come back tomorrow.”
“Go ahead, Barry. We’ll be around…if you think of anything.”
The kid returned to his work. Spencer and Tony started toward the house. “He was awfully defensive for somebody who’d kept his nose in the dirt all day,” Tony said.
“My thoughts exactly.” Spencer’s cell rang; he picked up the call. “Malone here.”
He listened, then asked the dispatcher to repeat what she’d said. Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he wished he hadn’t.
“We’re on our way.”
He looked at Tony, who cursed. “What now? It’s friggin’ Saturday.”
“Walter Pogolapoulos is dead. Washed up on the banks of the Mississippi River.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Oh, it gets better. The Mississippi River at the Moonwalk. A tourist from Kansas City found him. Apparently, the mayor is shitting purple bricks.”
CHAPTER 34
Saturday, March 12, 2005
6:00 p.m.
By the time they reached the French Quarter Moonwalk, the scene had been entirely cordoned off. Like bees to honey, a crowd had been drawn to the crime-scene tape and police cruisers.
Spencer angled the Camaro into a spot along the railroad tracks. He popped the glove box, retrieved the jar of Vicks VapoRub he kept there and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
He looked at Tony. “Ready to do this thing?”
“Let’s go.”
They climbed out of the Camaro. The Moonwalk, a promenade developed atop the levee at the French Quarter, lay between Jackson Square and the Mississippi River, the Café du Monde and the Jax Brewery shopping complex.
Spencer swept his gaze over the area. Damn inconsiderate of Pogo, washing up here. In terms of visibility, few spots beat this one. In terms of unwanted heat, the spot was even worse. Anything that touched tourism, the city’s biggest industry, attracted attention. The governor’s. The mayor’s. The media’s.
The mayor would come down hard on the chief, who in turn would climb his aunt Patti’s frame. Who, in turn, would put the screws to him and Tony.
Shit rolled downhill.
He and Tony were about to be hip deep in brown muck.
They crossed to one of the uniforms at the perimeter and signed in. “Fill us in.”
“Tourist found him. He got good and sick.” He pointed toward the cruisers. Spencer saw that the back door of one of them was open and a man was sitting sideways on the seat, head in hands. “My partner’s baby-sitting him.”
“Toto,” Tony murmured, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
The uniform snickered. “They caught the smell over at Café du Monde, thought it was somebody’s garbage.”
Spencer reached into his jacket pocket for the jar of Vicks. After helping himself to a smear, he held it out to Tony. He, too, smeared the goop under his nose.
They climbed the stairs to the observation area. Tony was winded when they reached the top.
He stopped to catch his breath. “I’m too old and fat for this shit.”
“I’m seriously worried about you, Pasta Man. Join a gym or something.”
“I’m afraid it’ll kill me.” They crossed the tracks, then climbed the stairs up the levee. “I’m not too far from couch-potato status. I don’t want to blow it now.”
“Don’t want to keel over before you get that gold-toned watch and pension, right? Think about that gym-”
That’s when the smell of the corpse hit them. Spencer glanced at his partner and saw the man’s eyes were watering.
They descended the stairs, then picked their way to the river’s edge. Spencer spotted Terry Landry, DIU from the Eighth. He’d been his brother’s partner before Quentin had decided to leave the force.
Landry caught sight of them and met them halfway.
“Terror,” Spencer said, greeting the man with the nickname he’d been given as a rookie. A hard-partying hothead, he was stuck with the label.
“Don’t go by the ‘Terror’ anymore, kid. I’ve settled dow
n. Mended my ways.”
“Yeah, right.” Tony shook his hand.
“It’s true. My Thursday night AA group is my new, favorite party.”
“That our vic?” Spencer asked, pointing to a misshapen form on the rocks covering the riverbank.
“Yup. Wallet was in his pocket.”
Spencer tipped his face up to the purpling sky. “Going to have to get some lights over here.”
“On the way.”
“Did you check his pulse?” Tony asked, smirking.
“Oh, yeah,” Terry answered. “I gave him mouth to mouth. Now it’s your turn.”
It was Homicide humor. Checking for a pulse, standard operating procedure, was unnecessary in a case like this one. Spencer and Tony picked their way toward Walter Pogolapoulos’s remains. The artist’s throat had been slit. The wound formed an obscene gaping smile. The decomposition process was well underway, sped up by the warm water.
“Sometimes I hate this job.”
Tony glanced over his shoulder, toward the Café du Monde. “Either you guys want some beignets?”
“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” Spencer fitted on gloves and crossed to the corpse. He squatted beside it, ran his gaze assessingly over the body, the area around it. He had to strain to see in the gathering dusk.
The vic looked pretty beat-up, though that didn’t surprise him. It was often the case when victims had been dumped in water. They were dragged by the current, scraped against the bottom, gouged by tree branches and sharp rocks and generally banged around. He’d even seen them chewed up by boat props and nibbled on by fish.
The pathologist would differentiate between pre- and postmortem wounds; a body in this state was way beyond his abilities.
From what he could see, it didn’t appear the killer had made any effort to weight the body. Either he hadn’t known that putrefaction gases brought a body to the surface in a matter of days-they called such vics floaters-or he hadn’t cared.
Still, Pogo had popped up a bit ahead of schedule. He hadn’t been dead-or submerged-long enough to have developed adipocere, a yellow, rancid smelling and waxy substance seen on most floaters. Spencer glanced at his partner. “Perp must’ve dumped him upriver. River currents are strong, brought him down here. What do you think? Up toward Baton Rouge? Or Vacherie?”
“Maybe. Pathologist might shed some light on it.”