Forgotten City

by Carrie Smith

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Mrs. Merchant died of a condition called noncardiogenic pulmonary edema. That means her lungs filled with fluid and she couldn’t breathe. Usually pulmonary edema results from a heart condition, but in the case of your wife, the medical examiner believes the cause was a drug overdose.”

  “In other words, Park Manor fucked up?”

  “Or someone wanted her dead.” She paused. He could feel her watching him. “We need toxicology to confirm the ME’s findings, but it does appear that someone added a concentrated dose of oxycodone to her nightly sedative.”

  CHAPTER 55

  The door opened and a woman barged into the interrogation room as if it were her private chamber. Codella watched the woman set an elegant briefcase on the table and pull out the chair next to Thomas Merchant. She sat, rested her hands on the table, and announced, “Pamela Martinelli, Mr. Merchant’s counsel.”

  “And Lucy Merchant’s sister,” observed Codella.

  “That’s beside the point right now, Detective.” Martinelli’s voice had a crisp, antagonistic edge. She wore a gray suit jacket and matching skirt, and her dark hair was short but elegantly cut. Judging from the crow’s feet around her eyes, Codella guessed she was in her late forties. “I’d like to know why my client is here.”

  “Why don’t I let your client explain.” Codella shifted her gaze to Merchant.

  He turned to Martinelli. “According to the detective, Lucy died of a drug overdose.”

  Martinelli turned to Codella. “A drug overdose?”

  “It needs to be confirmed by toxicology,” said Codella, “but that is the probable cause of death based on the postmortem exam performed this morning. The drug in question, oxycodone, was not being administered to any residents in the Park Manor dementia care unit. Therefore, it’s unlikely Mrs. Merchant’s death resulted from an accidental overdose. We’re treating this as a probable homicide.”

  “And why did you need to bring my client all the way up here to tell him that?”

  “I thought it best to speak in person.”

  Martinelli crossed her arms. “In an interrogation room?”

  “For the sake of privacy, Ms. Martinelli. Mr. Merchant came here voluntarily. This is not an interrogation, so I would appreciate if you didn’t try to interrogate me, either.”

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  “We have persons of interest.”

  “And should I assume that my client is one of them?”

  Codella watched the woman remove a legal pad from her briefcase. Martinelli had just learned that her sister’s death was a homicide—murder—and yet she expressed no emotion. Neither she nor Merchant evidenced any of the emotions she usually observed in the immediate family members of a victim—unbridled sorrow, denial, outrage, or angry demands for retribution.

  “Everyone is under investigation until this case is solved. I’m sure you understand that, Ms. Martinelli.”

  Martinelli cast a cool, dismissive look across the table. “Is there any other news you want to share before we leave?”

  Codella said, “Yes. There is one other thing.”

  “And that is?” Martinelli demanded impatiently.

  Codella leaned forward and kept her eyes squarely on Merchant. His was the only face she wanted to study when she spoke her next words. “Baiba Lielkaja, the Nostalgia Neighborhood care coordinator, is dead.”

  Merchant sat back and inhaled sharply.

  Pamela Martinelli gripped his arm.

  Codella stared at Merchant. “And you were having an affair with her,” she said as if it were a proven fact.

  Now Martinelli was out of her seat. “Stop right there, Detective, I want to speak to my client alone. Leave us. Now.”

  Codella pushed out her chair and stood. “I’ll give you five minutes. Figure out your next move, because I know what mine will be if you’re not honest with me. Your personal driver’s cell phone number is sitting on my desk. So are the names and numbers of your doormen. And I look forward to a nice, long coffee klatch in here with Roberta Ruffalo.”

  “Cut the intimidation routine, Detective.”

  “It’s no routine, Ms. Martinelli. Mr. Merchant knows who he’s been with and what he’s done. And he knows I can find out on my own just like that.” She snapped her fingers, and then she stepped out of the room and closed the door.

  CHAPTER 56

  Merchant took a deep breath. Baiba was dead. She was dead. He shook his head.

  “That bitch,” Pamela muttered.

  “Tell me about it.” Merchant stood and paced back and forth. He could still see Baiba yesterday afternoon pitching the Tiffany box into the stairwell. He could feel the box whizzing by his face. He could smell the citrus shampoo in Baiba’s hair when she finally calmed down and sat on his lap. He could taste her salty tears when she told him he had hurt her. He could hear himself saying, “Daddy wants you so much.”

  “Jesus Christ, Thomas. Focus!”

  Thomas looked Pamela in the eye. Thank God he’d summoned her. Codella might know how to deal with lawyers, but his lesbian sister-in-law was a whole other story. She’d gotten him through the Grand Hyatt thing, and if anyone could get him through this, it was her.

  “Tell me right now what I’m dealing with, Thomas. Is this another Jackie Freimor?”

  “I was seeing her,” he admitted.

  “Seeing her?”

  “You don’t want the gritty details.”

  “You’re right. I know you too well.” Pamela combed her fingers through her short hair. “Just tell me you didn’t kill her.”

  “Of course I didn’t kill her.” He loosened his tie.

  “You know this looks incriminating for you.”

  “Don’t tell me the obvious. Just get me out of this.”

  Pamela tapped her fingers on the table. He watched her think for several seconds. “You had consensual sex,” she finally announced. “That’s it. No details. You’re a married man with an incapacitated wife, and you were trying to have a discreet relationship under difficult circumstances. A jury would sympathize with that. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Is there any curveball she could throw at us?”

  Merchant remembered the Tiffany box he’d left at Baiba’s apartment. Even if the police found it, how could they prove he’d given it to her on the day she died? If they traced it back to the flagship store, they would find that Roberta Ruffalo had charged the earrings to his credit card a week ago.

  “Well? Is there?”

  Merchant considered Baiba’s Monday night visit to his apartment. If Codella questioned Felipe or the doorman, they would acknowledge they had seen Baiba. But that was no crime. Codella could never know he’d given Baiba something in her drink. It wouldn’t be in her system now. That drug couldn’t be traced after four to six hours. “No,” he finally said. “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, if she does throw a curve, do us both a favor. Don’t try to catch it. Remember, anything you say in here can be used against you later, so let me do the talking. I’ll tell you when to speak and when not to. Understood?”

  She was a control freak like him, he thought. She probably controlled things in bed, too. It wasn’t at all hard to imagine his sister-in-law taking someone like Baiba over her knees for a little spanking. The question was, could she get Codella over her metaphorical knee right now?

  Two minutes later, Codella was back in the room staring at him with her penetrating blue eyes. Pamela broke the silence. “Look, Detective. My client admits he had a consensual sexual relationship with Baiba Lielkaja. There’s nothing illegal about that.”

  “How many times did you see her, Mr. Merchant?”

  Pamela nodded for Merchant to speak.

  “Only four times.”

  “When?” Codella asked.

  “I don’t remember the dates.”

  “Do you remember if you had consensual sex with her on Monday night?”

  “
Yes.” He returned her sarcasm with his own.

  “Is that yes, you remember, or yes you did have sex with her on Monday night?”

  “My client answered the question, Detective,” snarled Pamela.

  “Where did you have sex on Monday night?”

  “Where are you going with this, Detective?” Pamela demanded. “This Baiba person died yesterday, not Monday. She didn’t die as a result of her relationship with Mr. Merchant.”

  Codella seemed neither impressed nor intimidated by Pamela’s pronouncement, Merchant noticed. “Where did the two of you have sex that night?” she asked.

  “In my apartment,” he answered.

  “And how did she get there?”

  “My driver picked her up.”

  “Felipe, you mean?”

  She knew his driver’s name. She was letting him know she’d done her research. He might have underestimated her, he thought. “That’s correct,” he said, barely controlling his fury.

  “What time did she arrive?”

  “Around nine thirty.”

  “And how long did she stay?”

  “Felipe drove her home around one AM.”

  “And how would you characterize the sex you had?”

  Pamela broke in. “Enough, Detective. That’s a gratuitous question.” She leaned across the table. “He already told you the sex was consensual. That’s all you need to know.”

  Merchant watched Codella lean forward in response to this statement. “I was at her apartment today, Ms. Martinelli. I saw her body.” Then she opened the manila folder in front of her, pulled out two photos, and slid them across the table so they faced him. “Take a good look at your consensual handiwork.” She watched him closely. “Are you telling me she liked having your hands around her neck, cutting off her oxygen supply?”

  Pamela slammed her hand on the table. “That’s enough!”

  Codella completely disregarded her display of outrage. Her eyes remained on him like a relentless cameraman’s lens. “At what time exactly did you go to Ms. Lielkaja’s apartment yesterday?”

  There it was, Merchant thought. The curveball Pamela had anticipated. Pamela recognized it too and gripped his arm to keep him from speaking. “Quit fishing, Detective,” she said.

  Codella reached in her pocket and cracked open a fresh piece of Biotene gum. She slid it into her mouth and chewed. “Don’t get cancer,” she said casually. “The chemo gives you dry-mouth, and it never goes away.”

  “Cut the bullshit,” said Pamela. “Come on, Thomas. You’ve cooperated enough.”

  Codella spoke as he pushed out his chair. “The crime scene unit has been all over that apartment. We’ve got a cell phone, fingerprints, and neighbors who saw things, Mr. Merchant. We know who’s been there and who hasn’t. What time were you there?”

  Pamela tugged at his arm. “Let’s go, Thomas.”

  He got to his feet. His mind felt immobilized. Inert. Baiba is dead. He pictured her again, on his lap yesterday in her apartment, just before he left her. He could still feel her arms around his shoulders as if she would never let him go. “Why do I want you so much?” she had whispered as she moved on top of his thighs, her desire already erasing her memory of the pain he’d caused her the night before. Maybe it wasn’t desire that kept her coming back to him, he thought now. Maybe it was a terrible need—a need as deep as his own—that had nothing to do with him.

  Pamela put on her coat. “My client has been frank with you, Detective. In return, we expect you to respect his privacy. His wife has been incapacitated for a number of years. He’s a man trying to have some semblance of a life. We don’t expect to read about his sex life in the New York Post. Are we clear?”

  “You are,” answered Codella. “But I don’t know about your client.”

  Martinelli moved to the door.

  “I still want the answer to my last question,” said Codella. “What time did he go to her apartment. And I’ll talk to everyone until I get my answer.”

  Merchant opened his mouth again, but Pamela said, “Shut up, Thomas. She’s bullshitting you.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Novotny grabbed her arm before she could follow Muñoz into interview room A. “What’s that tall dick doing here?”

  She faced him. “He’s with me.”

  “He’s not one of us.”

  “No, but I can trust him. He doesn’t go rogue.” She yanked her arm free.

  “Fuck you, Codella.”

  “Not in a million years, Novotny.” She went in and closed the door in his face.

  Brandon was slumped in a straight-backed chair, and he didn’t look at her. A navy knit cap was on his head. His cheeks were red from the cold. He jiggled his legs like a small boy who needs the bathroom. “Do you want something to drink?” she asked. “Something hot?”

  “I’m fine.” He shook his head. “I just don’t like police stations, okay? Let’s just get this over with.”

  Codella and Muñoz sat across from him. “So you’ve been to police stations before?” she asked.

  “Once or twice.”

  Codella remembered what Hodges had said: Your background checks won’t turn up any criminal records on our employees. “When have you been to a police station?”

  “When I was a kid.”

  “What took you there?”

  “I don’t see how that’s important,” he said.

  “Why don’t you let us decide that?”

  He glanced from her to Muñoz and back. “My father beat me up. Okay? I had to give a statement.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “That must have been difficult for you.” As soon as she said it, she realized she was projecting her own emotions onto him. She was the one who’d found it difficult to tell a police officer the truth about a murderous father and a physically abusive mother.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” Brandon said. “He was a fucking bastard.”

  Codella studied him again. Outwardly he looked so vulnerable, but he was tough, too, it occurred to her now. There was really no telling what he was capable of, and it would be wrong to underestimate him. “Do you know why I asked Detective Muñoz to bring you here?”

  “I suppose you plan to blame Lucy’s death on me, right?”

  “When we spoke this morning, Brandon, you didn’t tell me everything.”

  He fiddled with the zipper of his green parka. “What do you mean?”

  “You told me you were at Baiba’s apartment yesterday during the day. You didn’t tell me that you went back there at night.”

  Brandon stopped playing with the zipper. He didn’t move or speak.

  “Someone matching your description entered Baiba’s building last night at eight o’clock. That person went in behind a couple that lives in the building. They gave a detailed description, Brandon. They described you.”

  She watched his face closely. It remained impassive.

  “What do you have to say?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “So I went back. So what?”

  “Why did you go there?”

  “Because—” He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

  “Try me.”

  “You brought me all the way up here for this?”

  Codella glanced at Muñoz. Either Brandon didn’t know Baiba was dead or he was pretending not to.

  “I left her apartment around two thirty,” he said. “I went to Park Manor. When I got there, I found out you’d been over there asking questions. I got scared. So I left. I went to a diner and started thinking about Baiba and Merchant and how Baiba gave me three thousand dollars a week ago. I got thinking that maybe she set me up—like I told you—that she used me to kill Lucy so she could be with Merchant. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to look her in the eyes and ask her some questions.” He paused.

  “And did you ask her those questions?”

  “No. She wasn’t home. So I left.”

  Codella leaned in to him. “Br
andon, Baiba is dead.”

  She and Muñoz watched his reaction. At first just his brow furrowed. Then his head started to shake slowly. His eyes narrowed as if he were confused. And then he started to cry. “No,” he whispered. “No.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” said Codella.

  “How?” Tears streaked his face now. Were they tears of sorrow or the tears of someone guilty and repentant?

  “We’re waiting for forensics.”

  “And you think I did it?”

  “Put yourself in my position, Brandon. You didn’t tell me the truth.”

  “How can you say that? You didn’t ask me about last night. I didn’t think it mattered. I omitted one little piece of information. I never lied to you. I’ve been more truthful than anyone else has been about the things that matter!” He folded his arms on the table and buried his face in them. And now he was sobbing openly.

  Codella silently signaled for Muñoz to step out of the room. When he was gone, she reached across the table and laid her hand on Brandon’s arm. “Were you in love with Baiba?” she asked very softly.

  His hands tightened into fists, but he didn’t lift his head. “She was my friend. That’s all. Or I thought she was my friend.”

  Codella kept her hand on his arm. “Were you in love with her, Brandon?”

  He jerked his arm away, pushed out his chair, and knocked it over as he stood. “Quit asking me that!”

  Codella pressed on. “You loved her. You were in love with her.”

  “No!” he said, but the protest sounded hollow. She knew she was right. And she knew that she needed to act just like the detective who’d interviewed her the night her father murdered Joanie Carlucci twenty-six years ago. She hadn’t wanted to admit anything, either, and he’d known that. In the end, he’d had to say all the terrible truths she didn’t want to acknowledge. Just shake your head if I’m right. He picked up the bat. He hit the woman with the bat. He hit her many times.

  Now Codella said all the things Brandon couldn’t bring himself to say. “Baiba disappointed you deeply yesterday when she told you about Merchant. She broke your heart, didn’t she?”