by Susan Fleet
He tried to imagine it. Peterson stayed in a hotel all week to avoid his wife. Even when he and Evelyn weren’t getting along, they'd slept in the same room every night, in twin beds.
“Did you and Mr. Peterson have any arguments recently?”
“No. I lived my life and Arnold lived his.”
Maybe. But Arnold’s philandering must have caused her considerable embarrassment. He could picture her having a few pops and getting into a screaming match with Arnold, maybe more than one. Maybe the fights got so bad she decided to kill him. She might love her kids, but any love between her and Arnold had died years ago. He had only her word that she’d been home last night. Had she tucked the kids in bed, driven to the Bienvenue and popped him? Possible, though it would have been hard to cover her tracks.
“Do you own a gun, Mrs. Peterson?”
Her mouth sagged open and she stared at him. “A gun? What would I do with a gun?” A brittle laugh. “Oh, I get it. You think I shot Arnold. Well, I didn’t. I don’t own a gun.”
Maybe not, but she wasn’t off the hook yet. If she got rid of Arnold, she wouldn’t have to put up with the ugly rumors, or other people’s pity.
“Why didn’t you leave him?”
Her lips twisted. “Last time I checked there isn’t a big market for middle-aged women with three children. Men my age want trophy wives. I have a beautiful home and my country club friends and status in the community. If I divorced him, I’d lose all of that. I might have money, but money isn’t everything.”
True, he thought, and some husbands fought like tigers to stop their wives from getting their money. So their wives killed them.
_____
“Thank you for coming, Detective Renzi. Have a seat.” Fenwick Holt gestured at the visitor chair in front of a massive mahogany desk with an inlaid leather top.
Irritated, Frank said nothing. Holt was acting like he’d invited him up to discuss a business matter, not a murder, shuffling papers around to show how busy he was. The self-important little twerp was maybe thirty-five and clearly not grieving. Why should he? Now that Peterson was dead, he was in charge.
Before he could zap Holt with a question, the phone rang. Holt swiveled his high-backed chair, grabbed the phone and said in an officious voice, “Babylon East Marketing, Fenwick Holt.” And after a pause, “We’ll distribute a statement to all media outlets in an hour. Thank you for calling.”
He stabbed a button on the executive phone. “Hold my calls, Marjory. Tell the reporters we’ll give them a statement in plenty of time for the early news.” He ran a hand over his dirty-blond military-style buzz cut. “Sorry for the interruption, Detective. It’s been crazy around here as you can imagine.”
He could imagine it all right, but The Babylon was still open for business. Downstairs he’d zigzagged past crowded gaming tables, roulette wheels and slot machines with dazzling electronic displays that emitted annoying sounds. On his way to the elevator he dodged gamblers clutching drinks and several uniformed guards. When he got off on the second floor, he’d passed the Babylon Security Center. An armed guard stood outside the door. Inside, Frank knew, eagle-eyed watchers scrutinized banks of video monitors to make sure nobody ripped off the casino.
“I understand your CEO is on vacation. Does he know about Peterson?”
“Yes. I texted his Blackberry. Mr. Weston and his wife are vacationing on the French Riviera.”
“And his reaction was?”
“Well, he was shocked, of course.”
“Can you elaborate?” You self-important prick.
“Detective Renzi, this may come as a surprise to you, but Arnold was on his way out.”
It sure was. “What do you mean?”
Holt pursed his lips like a prissy old maid. “He was about to be fired.”
“Fenwick, we'd save a lot of time if I didn’t have to pull every detail out of you like I was pulling bubblegum out of my daughter’s hair. Why was Peterson about to be fired?”
“He had a gambling problem. He asked Mr. Weston for an advance on his salary. When Mr. Weston asked why, Arnold said he had gambling debts.” Holt smiled tightly. “I don’t know how much he asked for, but Mr. Weston told me it was more than Arnold made in a year.”
Letting him know he was tight with the CEO. “Did you know he had a gambling problem?”
“No.”
“Was Peterson gambling here?” He couldn’t imagine it, but things were getting weird.
“No, he wasn’t stupid enough to do that. Arnold was into sports betting.”
Frank thought about Corrine’s statement: When they’d met in Chicago, Peterson had been recruiting athletes to endorse Gillette products. Lots of pro teams in Chicago: the Bears, Black Hawks, Cubs and White Sox. Maybe that’s when he started gambling. Big cities offered plenty of betting opportunities, legit and otherwise. He wondered if Corrine Peterson knew about the debts.
Holt ostentatiously looked at his watch. A busy man.
“Tell me about Peterson's schedule yesterday. Did he have any unusual appointments?”
“No.”
“I’d like to see his appointment calendar.”
Holt flipped a page in a leather-bound calendar and handed it to him.
“Thanks. I’ll need to keep this for a while."
Holt frowned. "Well, I don't know ..."
"I can get a court order, Fenwick, but why not play nice. I'll sign a receipt for it, let you off the hook. I'm sure your employer would want you to help us solve Mr. Peterson's murder."
Holt's mouth quirked. "Fine. Take it. I'll have to reconstruct his schedule from his computer."
"I hear Peterson made some enemies on his way up. Can you give me some names?”
“Who told you that, his wife?” Holt sneered. “She’s got no complaints, takes her fat ass to the country club every day to booze it up with her friends.”
He revised his take on Fenwick Holt: self-important, snotty, and misogynistic. “Do you know anyone who wanted Arnold dead?” Leaning on the word to shake him up.
Holt’s eyes widened. “No, I don’t. I mean, I’m sure some people didn’t like him, but I don’t know of anyone who’d want to kill him.”
“Seems like you’re next in line for his job.”
Holt’s jaw dropped halfway to his chest. “You think I killed Arnold?”
“Where were you last night between ten and midnight?”
“Home with my wife! Ask Linda. She’ll tell you.”
“I’ll do that.” He stifled a yawn, calculating how much sleep he’d get tonight. First thing tomorrow he had a meeting with his boss. He was willing to bet the NOPD brass and the local politicians were already leaning on Detective Lieutenant Morgan Vobitch. A Babylon East executive murdered in one of the French Quarter’s premier hotels? Hell, that was a sure thing.
And his suspect list was growing. If Peterson borrowed money from a loan shark, maybe the shark sent his enforcer to collect the vig and the guy killed him because he wouldn't pay. Great. Add loan shark to an angry widow, disgruntled co-workers, and a self-important asswipe lusting after the dead man's job. Throw in the jealous husband of one of Peterson’s girlfriends, the possibilities were endless.
“If you think of anything helpful, give me a call. I’ll ask your wife to confirm your alibi.”
Holt stared at him, looking less self-important. “Hey, you want names? Talk to Ken Volpe and Ivan Ludlow. They weren’t too happy when Arnold landed the Marketing Director position.”
Nothing like being a murder suspect to cause an attitude adjustment.
“Do they still work here?”
“Hell no. Arnold forced them out.” Holt shot him a sanctimonious smile. “They aren’t grieving over Arnold’s death, I can promise you that.”
_____
Outside The Babylon, he dug out his cell and called Miller.
“Yo, Frank, how'd it go with the widow? You think she killed him?”
“Hard to say at this point. Did you get anyth
ing from the hotel guests?”
“Got diddly. Two rooms on the sixth floor were unoccupied. The guy next door to Peterson's room went to Harrah’s last night, didn’t get back to his room till four a.m. The folks on the other side are on their honeymoon, went barhopping on Bourbon Street, didn’t get in till three. Nobody else heard a shot, no commotion, no screams. Wanna grab some lunch?”
He checked his watch. One-thirty, and he hadn't eaten. “Sure, but someplace close. We've got to watch the hotel security videos, remember?”
“Yeah. That'll be hours of fun. Better get me some Murine.”
He closed his cell and headed for the Eighth District Station. The first forty-eight hours of a murder investigation were crucial, and they had no leads.
What they had was a long list of people who might want Peterson dead.
CHAPTER 3
She stepped out of the stairwell and sauntered down the hallway.
A floppy broad-brimmed hat hid her face, but the grainy black-and-white video couldn’t conceal her athleticism, striding along in spike heels, a small purse slung over her shoulder. The spaghetti straps on her low-cut dress revealed well-toned arms, and the short skirt displayed her long muscular legs.
She stopped at Room 635 and tapped on the door.
Frank glanced at Miller, standing next to him behind the Hotel Bienvenue security chief. Miller mouthed: Bingo.
Frank asked the security chief to pause the tape. Seated on a padded swivel chair, Stephen Taylor hit a button on the video control board. A balding man in his fifties, Taylor wore a dark business suit and reeked of cologne. The scent was overwhelming in the eight-by-six-foot cubicle. Crammed with equipment, the viewing room sported three tape decks, two sixteen-inch flat-screen monitors, a heavy-duty computer on a metal desk and an ink-jet printer on a stand beside it.
Frank noted the timestamp. At 10:14, the woman had entered Room 635, Arnold Peterson's room. Moments ago, they had watched Peterson enter the room at exactly 10:00 p.m.
“Okay, Mr. Taylor. Start the tape.”
The video sprang to life, the door to Room 635 opened and Ms. Incognito stepped inside. An adrenaline-fueled buzz hit his gut. They had something, but he didn’t want to get too excited.
“Could you fast-forward the tape, Mr. Taylor?”
Taylor hit a button and images of the hall whirred by on the monitor. No one entered the hall from the stairwell. No one got off the elevator. No one entered or left any of the rooms. The tape kept rolling.
Antsy with anticipation, Frank focused on Room 635. At last, the door opened. Ms. Incognito stepped into the hall and closed the door. Taylor paused the tape and Frank noted the time. 11:30 p.m.
“She was in there more than an hour,” Miller said.
“Shall I continue the tape?” Taylor asked.
“Not yet. Can you print out a freeze-frame when she leaves the room?”
Taylor got on the computer. Seconds later the printer spewed out a sheet of paper with a black-and-white nine-by-six-inch image.
"Thanks," Frank said. "We’ll want more, but for now let the tape roll. I want to see what she does.”
They watched her walk down the hall. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry, sashaying past the elevator. She opened the door to the fire stairs and disappeared. Frank toted up his impressions. Sexy. A long-legged stride. Confident. Athletic. Was she a hooker? The dress had a short skirt and a low-cut neckline, but the outfit was classy, not chintzy-looking. The shoes and the purse looked stylish. Expensive. Maybe she was Peterson's girlfriend. If she was a hooker, she was a high-priced hooker.
“Let’s fast-forward the tape,” Miller said, his voice a low rumble in the cramped cubicle, “see if anyone else leaves the room.”
Images of the hallway whirred past on the monitor. No one left Peterson's room. No one appeared in the hall until 12:17 a.m. when a security guard left the elevator and trotted down the hall to Room 635.
“We’ve seen enough for now,” Frank said. “Could you rewind the tape to where she comes out of the stairwell and print some freeze-frame photos?”
Taylor hit Rewind, paused the tape when the woman appeared and printed a photo. Frank examined it. Only the lower part of her face was visible. The rest was hidden by the hat brim and her sunglasses. Ms. Incognito was taking no chances, wearing a floppy hat and shades, walking with her face angled away from the security camera. As though she knew it was there.
Girlfriend or hooker? A tough call. If she was Peterson's girlfriend, she might not want her face on a security video for any number of reasons.
Taylor handed them three more shots of the woman. Miller studied them a moment and said, “Long hair. Looks light colored, maybe blonde.”
“Could be a wig,” Frank said.
“Nobody else in or out of the room.” Miller looked at him, deadpan, but his eyes had a familiar mischievous look.
He waited for the zinger. A former LSU middle linebacker, Kenyon Miller was a mean presence on the job: six-foot-six, two-forty, all the more menacing because of his dark skin and shaven pate. Not only that, he was college educated and street-smart. Not only that, Miller had a wickedly-warped sense of humor, a welcome asset in a job that often involved revolting sights and smells, not to mention dangerous situations. All in all, a terrific partner.
"Frank," Miller said, “did you check under the bed last night?”
He cracked up. Humor didn’t erase the horrors they encountered, but it often allayed the tension. “No,” he said, “did you?”
“Well,” Taylor said, swiveling his chair to face them, “actually . . .”
Instantly alert, Frank said, “What?”
“There’s a fire escape outside the window of Room 635. That’s why Mr. Peterson rented it. He said he didn’t want to be trapped on the sixth floor if there was a fire.”
Miller rolled his eyes. “Great. Let’s go see it.”
Five minutes later Taylor let them into Room 635. The room was cool now, but a faint unpleasant odor lingered. Only the box spring remained on the four-poster double bed. The forensic techs had taken the mattress and bedding. The hotel wouldn’t be renting this room anytime soon.
Frank went to the window and pulled back the drapes. Two latches on either side of the casing were open. "It's unlocked. Kenyon, you got a pen?"
Miller handed him a felt-tipped marker. Using Miller's marker and his own ballpoint pen, he eased open the window. It slid up smooth as silk, without a squeak. He leaned out and took a look.
A wrought-iron fire escape bolted to the rear of the hotel zigzagged down to the second floor. Below it was an alley lined with green dumpsters.
He backed away so Miller could take a look.
“Better get the techs to come back and dust for prints,” Miller said.
“Can I close the window?” Taylor asked.
“No, leave it,” Frank said. “We’ll need to take that security video.”
“Yes, sir. Did you want to watch the other tapes now?”
Miller shot Frank a look that said, No way. Aloud Miller said, "Let’s watch the tapes for the lobby, do the rest tomorrow.”
After Frank put in a call for the forensics team, they watched the videos that covered the hotel entrance. Several women entered and left the hotel between ten p.m. and one-thirty a.m., but none wore a floppy hat and a dress with a mini-skirt and spaghetti straps. Frank bagged and tagged the tape with the mystery woman, told Taylor they’d be back tomorrow and they left.
Inside the elevator they took turns yawning. Neither of them had gotten much sleep last night. Now it was four o’clock. Almost seventeen hours since Ms. Incognito with the confident long-legged stride entered Peterson’s room and did whatever she did. If she shot Peterson and left the hotel, she wasn’t on the security tapes that covered the entrance. Another puzzle to solve.
“Man, the fire escape was a curveball,” Miller said. “Maybe Peterson's wife hired her so she could blackmail him. Maybe the shooter used the woman to get Peterson in
a compromising position."
He thought about it. Most widows begged him to find their husband’s killer, but not Corrine Peterson. The spouse was always the prime suspect, but her anguished expression when he asked why she hadn’t filed for divorce remained an after-image in his mind. At forty-five, Corrine figured her options were limited. Maybe she was right. Would he date her? Doubtful.
They were almost the same age, but she was angry and bitter. He figured he had a lot of good years left. Besides, he had Kelly, a woman he cared deeply about, and they still had great times in bed. This morning he'd woken up with a hard-on. He was looking forward to seeing her on Friday. But if they didn't get a lead on the Peterson case, he might have to work. Bummer.
"She's not your typical grieving widow, but I don't get the sense she killed him. Peterson had gambling debts. Maybe he didn't pay the vig."
"Frank, you really think Peterson told some mobster to go fuck himself, and the guy shot him?”
“Hey, right now anything’s possible."
“My money’s on the woman. Coulda had a mean little gun in that fancy purse she was carrying. Mm, mm, mm. A female hitter. That's a first for me.”
"Me, too. Maybe she's Peterson's girlfriend. It’s obvious she didn’t want to be seen, used the stairs instead of the elevator to avoid running into anyone. But the fire escape opens up a whole new scenario. We can't discount the possibility that someone else got in and out of the room that way.”
"Frank, you're making it too complicated. Did you see The Last Seduction?”
“Yeah. Great flick. Linda Fiorentino was something.”
“No kidding. She was hot, before it was hip to be hot," Miller said. "She also knew how to use a gun.”
_____
He left the Holt residence at 5:30 and got in his car. According to Linda Holt, Fenwick had come home at seven Wednesday night, after which they ate dinner, watched TV and went to bed. Pictures of Jesus and religious statuary decorated the Holt living room. Linda wouldn’t lie to him in front of the Virgin Mary, would she?
