A Clean Kill awm-9

by Leslie Glass

  "Oh, no, I can find someplace to stay. Don't worry about me," Remy had said quickly. She couldn't believe he was taking the boys to the Plaza and telling them they were on vacation.

  "Remy, they need you. And I need you, too. You have to come with us."

  "To the hotel?" She didn't get it. How could she move to a hotel with them? It wouldn't look good. But she saw that determined expression of his and hesitated. He didn't seem to understand the significance of her being there with them.

  "Of course, to the hotel. The boys can't stay alone."

  "It won't look good," she almost whispered. She was afraid of thwarting him, and she held back on the heavy-duty protest.

  They'd been standing inside the front door of the house, where the stairway went up to the second floor and the echo from the marble floors was loudest. They had only a few minutes together. The police were watching. Wayne's Louis Vuitton suit bag hung by its strap over one shoulder, his duffel slung over the other. He shook his head, his face set in its Don't go there expression.

  "I'm sorry," she mumbled, hardly knowing what, of all the horrible things that had happened, she was sorry for the most.

  Then she cringed as his hand struck the air, brushing the awkward condolence away in a clear gesture that he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't mention Maddy at all. If he was sad or upset about what had happened to her, it didn't show. All she could see was anger at his situation. He'd packed his things and was leaving the house. Clearly, he expected her to be the one to lock up and set the alarm when the police were done. She wasn't sure when she'd see him again. She was dying to ask, but didn't want to sound like his dead wife—always asking where he was going and when he was coming back. Maddy's questions had irritated him so much that sometimes he'd just walk out to go to the bathroom or have a cigarette in the garden, and disappear until he felt like coming back. When he did return hours or even days later, he acted as if nothing had happened. It had made poor Maddy frantic.

  And now he was doing it to her. As she waited for some word as to when he would join his children, he just walked out. She'd seen him do it to Maddy over and over, but he'd never done it quite like that to her. She felt rebellion rise in her as she had so often before in that household. I'm not a maid, she told herself for about the ten thousandth time since she'd begun working there. She moved away from the door cursing Jo Ellen Anderson, who'd placed her here.

  When CI graduates left cooking school, occasionally they worked for a short time as a chef in a private house, usually for the suminer in a resort area. These were the kind of houses where more than one staff member was on hand to take care of the children, do the laundry, and clean the house. That was what Jo Ellen had promised her— a cushy cooking job with a restaurant owner who was opening a new restaurant and would soon give her a place there. That was two restaurants ago. CI students weren't maids. They weren't housekeepers. She'd never intended to work in someone's home.

  Now she was at the center of a murder. It was horrible! Her sweatshirt and jeans, even her skin, felt dirty. She hadn't changed since she'd done the unthinkable and stuck her hand in the shower to turn off the water that was pounding down on Maddy. The second she did it she actually felt death reach out and fill her pores. It was the most amazing thing. As soon as she turned off the water, the odor of death seemed to fill up the space. Maddy, who in life had smelled so amazingly lovely, always layered with perfume, was already beginning to decay. Maybe Remy had imagined it, but that was what she'd thought. It made her skin crawl even now. This was different from any other death in her experience. So many creatures had died in her hands—lobsters, shrimp, clams, and oysters, all kinds of fish. Chickens, when she was young. She'd even hacked off the head of a squirming eel once. She was used to carving up the carcasses of cows, calves, lambs, pigs. She knew what was under the scales and feathers and hides—what innards and eyes and brains looked like outside their hosts. Meat and organs had held no fear for her. Fresh meat was sweet. There was nothing sweet about death's alteration of Maddy Wilson.

  Remy's whole body pulsed with anxiety as she went to the boys' rooms to collect their things. The rooms had been decorated by a designer. Everything colorful and custom, even the windows and window treatments were fanciful. NASCAR racing and baseball. Ever since the day she'd arrived, she'd thought there was something wrong with all the spending—the lavish lifestyle. Her thoughts returned to her task. The family had gone on vacation so many times in the last six months that she could now pack up the boys quickly. They had their little duffels and their special toys. Then she raced downstairs and showered for twenty minutes, washed her hair, then dressed and packed a bag of her own. Jeans, jeans, sweatshirt, sweatshirt. She told herself not to think about the detectives who were watching her—where she went, what she touched. They followed her around and waited while she went to the bathroom to collect the toothbrushes. _

  Just before two, Wayne sent the driver to take

  their luggage to the hotel. She dropped the bags off, then picked up the kids and listened to their chatter in the car. Angus especially was full of the day's activities. He'd gone swimming and smelled of chlorine.

  "I can do the backstroke," he said. "Want to see?"

  "Me, too," Bertie said.

  He mimed the stroke in the backseat of the Mercedes, Bertie copying him. They had the open faces of children who'd never been hurt. Remy could not tell them they were on vacation.

  "Very good," she said about the swimming.

  "Going to the Plaza, yea," Angus said.

  They'd been to the Palm Court many times. They'd heard the history.

  "Will Eloise be there?" Bertie asked.

  "Eloise is on vacation." Remy could tell them that lie but not the other one.

  They looked for her among the palm trees anyway, then became absorbed with the tantalizing prospect of room service. Their order arrived after a forty-five-minute wait. But they were happy with their tepid hamburgers and soggy fries and finally settled in at a rolling table in front of the "TV.

  Remy was semi-alone for the first time all day and she immediately called Lynn.

  "Remy, why didn't you call me?" Lynn cried. She sounded just like her mistress.

  "Why do you think? I didn't have a chance," Remy said, now sounding like hers.

  "They said on TVTV you found her."

  Remy didn't say anything.

  "I've never seen a dead person. What did she look like?"

  "I'm not allowed to talk about it."

  "Come on."

  "I don't want to talk about it," Remy said. "They can listen in."

  "Do they think it's a break-in?"

  "Probably not. Look, I forgot about Leah. She must be very upset with all this. Tell her I couldn't talk to her this morning. They were fighting."

  "She thought you were snubbing her."

  "Well, I wasn't, Lynn. Maddy wanted to fire me. I had other things on my mind. Anybody could see that. Is she okay?"

  "Oh, yeah. She was here all day."

  "Poor you."

  "Oh, she's all right. I don't mind her. Sometimes she helps."

  "I'm at the Plaza," Remy said, changing the subject. "We have a suite."

  "Do you have your own room?" she asked.

  "What do you think?" Remy replied.

  "I think you don't," she said.

  In fact, Wayne's suite had two bedrooms and a living room, but Remy didn't want to discuss it. "How's Alison doing?"

  "She's freaking out. I've never seen anybody so freaked. She wants to fire me, but if I go, she'll have to take care of the kids. And that's not a possibility, now, is it?"

  "Lynn, you have to leave there."

  "I will. But what about you?"

  "Wayne promised me a job at Soleil. I don't have any doubt that he'll give it to me now. Maybe you could get a server job. Or you could work the front. I know he likes you."

  "Maybe," Lynn said slowly.

  "You're pretty enough."

  "Look,
Remy, you're in trouble. Alison's telling everyone you killed Maddy. I'll bet she told the police. I know she told Jo Ellen. Leah said Jo Ellen told her to stay away from you."

  Remy's heart did that skiddy thing it had been doing all day. "But I didn't do it," she whispered. Other things, yes. That, no.

  "Then you shouldn't stay there," Lynn said. "You shouldn't do everything Jo Ellen tells you to."

  "Jo Ellen has always been good to me," Remy said firmly,

  "I don't know about that, but I'm scared."

  Remy tried to think of something reassuring to say. Since she was the one who looked like a killer because she'd slept with her boss, she thought she was the one who could use some comfort. None, however, was forthcoming. Lynn wasn't going to be any help. "I have to go," Remy said suddenly. One of the boys had spilled his drink. "I'll call you later."

  Nineteen

  There was no private women's room for high-ranking female officers at Midtown North, or at any other Manhattan precinct for that matter. Police stations were all built long before there were female sergeants, lieutenants, captains, and chiefs, before female officers went out on patrol. There were bathrooms for the public and for female uniformed officers, but ranking officers did not like to use them. In the days when April had worked very unpleasant crime scenes, chased bad guys, and routinely got her clothes ripped up and smelly, she'd kept a change of clothes in her locker and made do with the facilities. Now she dressed at home in Westchester and didn't worry much about how she looked at work.

  Mike, however, had his own bathroom and everything he needed to keep himself in tip-top sartorial condition. She remembered that at the end of the day as she headed to the East Side in her own car. She would check in with Fish and then reapply her makeup in Mike's bathroom. She looked forward to the private moments. Dealing with Fish, on the other hand, would be a delicate balancing act.

  Mike's precinct building was smaller than Mid-town North's. April had worked on cases in the building in the past but had made a point of staying away from it ever since Mike had taken command there. She knew the CO's office was on the first floor around the corner from the front desk, but she didn't go there right away. Instead she clipped on her ID as she entered the building, then climbed the stairs to the detective unit to face the music with Fish. About twenty-five people were gathered in the room already crowded with desks. She was not surprised to find her husband, no longer in uniform, sitting in on the briefing. He gestured to her as she came in.

  "You all know Lieutenant Woo," he said, leaving off his own name, then—seeing it on her ID—adding it back on. "Sanchez. Glad you could make it."

  She nodded, not letting on that no one had invited her.

  Minnow raised his hand in greeting. "Lieutenant," he said.

  She recognized most of the faces. "Hi”

  "Ted, go on," Minnow said.

  Ted Bell was a skinny guy with a freckled face and a shock of red hair. He returned to referencing the time charts—reviewing what they knew and had mapped out the victim's last twenty-four hours. He finished and turned to April.

  "Lieutenant, do you have anything to add?"

  She hadn't expected to address the whole team and cleared her throat, wishing for a cup of tea. She started with the time line. "Seven forty-five a.m. Remy Banks and Wayne Wilson left to take the kids to play school. Mrs. Wilson called her friend Alison and Jo Ellen Anderson, her employment agency contact. Alison didn't take her call. Mrs. Wilson did speak with Jo Ellen, though. Have you contacted her yet?"

  Minnow shook his head and made a note.

  "Okay. Eight a.m. Derek Meke, her trainer, arrived. Derek said she'd been upset about something that had occurred at breakfast, and had fired Remy. According to him, they had a normal session and he left her at nine. He stopped for a Snapple on the corner at nine-oh-five. His partner at his gym places him in the studio on Fifty-sixth Street at nine twenty. I spoke with Remy Banks several times this morning. She said she got the boys dressed and fed them their breakfast. Mrs. Wilson came in as they were finishing. There was an argument. Then Remy accompanied their father as he drove the boys to play school, while Madeleine Wilson stayed home to have a gym session with her trainer."

  April paused, looked over at Fish, who nodded for her to continue.

  "After dropping the kids off, Remy visited Soleil with Mr. Wilson to see a new oven and walked home from there. When she returned to the house, she heard the shower running and went immediately into the gym, looking for Mrs. Wilson. No one answered, and after a few minutes she looked in and saw the body. The faucets are just inside the door. She didn't have to go in to turn them off. She did not go into the shower, just dialed 911. The call came in at nine forty-five. We think she didn't enter the shower itself because the floor outside it was dry. It was dry when I saw it, too. Apparently no one went in until CSI arrived. You let her off the hook—where is Remy now?"

  "She's at the Plaza with the two little boys," Ted said.

  April raised her eyebrows. "And Wayne?"

  "He's with them."

  "Hmm. What about Derek?"

  Ed Minnow smiled, acknowledging that April had gotten to the trainer first. "He gave us the same story he gave you. Mrs. Wilson fired Remy and told her to get out by noon. He seemed pretty shaken up by the death. He cried. We've been monitoring him.- He went home, and hasn't moved since. What's your take on him?"

  April had been standing outside the crush of people with their hips parked on the corners of desks. Minnow jabbed a big guy out of a chair and pushed it over for her. She sat down.

  "They had a close relationship. He was her guru. Gave her vitamins and massages." She ducked her head, lifting her shoulder at the same time to indicate her suspicions about the nature of the massage. A few laughs echoed around the room. Who got massages? Not them. April went on.

  "He has a little club of women he caters to in this way. One of his clients was Mrs. Wilson's best friend. Oh, by the way, everyone called her Maddy. Her friend, Alison Perkins, liveSat the same address two blocks away from the Wilson house. I talked to her at length this afternoon."

  "Alison . . . ?" Pens poised above pads.

  "Perkins. Spelled the usual way," April said.

  Ted added the name to the chart.

  "You'll add your reports to the file," Minnow said officiously.

  "Of course," April said. "Now, getting back to

  Derek for a moment. He would be the obvious one, given the time frame. Mike, you pointed out earlier that if.he and Maddy had a falling-out at the beginning of the session, he would have plenty of time to kill her and clean up before Remy got back. Remy had orders never to disturb Maddy until Derek was gone, and she didn't knock on the door until around nine forty-five."

  "What about the murder weapon?" Minnow interjected. It was clear he didn't like this scenario.

  "Nothing on that yet," April said.

  "Exactly. He didn't go in with a plan to kill her," Minnow agreed.

  "It was a rage thing. Maybe he lost it," Ted said.

  "No way." The Fish seemed to want to eliminate Derek.

  April changed the subject. "Who's on the bank records?"

  A pretty Jamaican with a head of plump braids raised her hand. "Mrs. Wilson took out eight hundred dollars from one ATM yesterday at eleven fourteen, and eight hundred from another a block away at eleven forty-five," she said in a lilting island accent. "Looks like she averages about five thousand a week in cash."

  "That's a lot of walk-around money. Someone should ask her friend about that," Minnow said.

  "I'll do it," April said.

  "Drugs?" Mike said.

  "Maybe. The ME will have to determine that." April kept her suspicions to herself.

  "What about sex? Was Derek her boyfriend?" Fish asked.

  "Not her boyfriend, but they had something going." Suddenly April noticed that the DA on the case was in the room. "Hi, Ben, how ya doin'?"

  "Not too bad." He smiled.

  He was t
he old guy, an associate who'd never graduated and moved on. Most DAs stayed for a few years, then moved into private practice as defense lawyers. Ben Hurd, however, had vowed to stay on as an assistant DA until he was kicked out. He was a legend, a short, nerdy, bald man, completely forgettable in the looks department, who knew every important case all the way back to New York City's dark ages. He was the historian of the office. Every new DA was treated to his long discourses on prosecuting the bad guys. When he came to the cops—which wasn't often because usually the cops came to him—he didn't say a lot. He just listened to the conversation with his head swaying from side to side, a little like a snake's. And as soon as the investigation got to a place where he was ready to go, he struck. He was a man with a reputation.

  "I want to throw two more things into the pot here," April said. "First, Remy told the responding officers the shower was on when she found Maddy, and that she turned it off. This is important because of the effect the running water would have on the body and how it would affect the time frame. We need to take a careful look at that. And second, we need to know where Remy was during the hour and forty-five minutes after she left the house with Wayne and whether she could have come back forty-five minutes earlier." That was it. April didn't have anything more to add at the moment. They moved on to other reports.

  Twenty

  All afternoon and evening the news was filled with the Wilson murder. Photos of Maddy Wilson at Fashion Week, at Restaurant Week, at social events that were immortalized in W and Town & Country, and all the foodie magazines, were shown everywhere. She'd been a skier and a fashion plate, a popular figure. Speculation was rife about what had gone wrong in the Camelot where she'd lived. Intermixed with the story of the murder on Beekman Place were clips of Wayne Wilson, when he'd been a celebrity chef during the first half of his career. He was the former husband of ballerina Jenny Hope, and the owner of four French bistros—an important person in the food world.

  It was the story of the day, bigger on national news than strife in any war-tom country and more important—on the TV scale of importance—than suicide bombings in the Middle East, hostage situations in Africa, stock market misconduct, and the prostitution of young girls in the Far East all put together. The brick house, the roped-off street, the police vehicles clogging up the entire area. The body bag being carried out to an ambulance, CSI with their bagged and boxed evidence in hand as they hurried out to their vehicles. Images the public had come to know as well as the parade of movie stars in revealing dresses on award nights. Crime and celebrity were the candy the country craved. And here it was, if not with nationally recognizable faces, at least with people who were well-known and prominent in their city. It was a feeding frenzy and there was a lot of material to disseminate.