28
I told Tiffany I was on the way, and she hung up. Looking back, I saw that Ginny Mac was talking to my parents again. This time she was writing in her notebook and she had a photographer taking their picture. Damn. She was so distracted she didn’t see me slip past and back into the Knickerbocker Convention Center.
I dialed Amy on the run and gave her the news. On the fourteenth floor, all was quiet. Where was everybody? I approached Chesterfield’s door and knocked.
“Who is it?” Tiffany asked from the other side.
“It’s Shepherd.”
She opened the door and hugged me, her face pale, her eyes red and wet. She was dressed in another executive dress suit, this time dark gray. The room was filled with sunlight. The picture window curtains were wide open. The smell hit me in the face. Gunpowder. Tiffany took my hand and led me down the short hallway to the living room.
“Wait!” I said, grabbing her hand. “Tiffany, why are you here alone? Is anyone else here?”
“No. I don’t think so. I don’t know. I just called you.”
We seemed to be the only ones in the room except the Speaker of the House, Percy Chesterfield. His speaking days were over. The guy I was supposed to keep alive was on his back, dressed in creased suit pants, black dress shoes, a powder-blue dress shirt, and a red tie. The dead man who would never be president wore a frozen look of surprise, his eyebrows up, his mouth slightly agape.
Unlike Taliban KIAs or the victims of the Hacker, I had met this man before he was killed. It made it more difficult to be objective, more like when my own guys got whacked.
The politician’s deep tan was gone, his skin ashen. His expensive handgun was undisturbed in its holster on his left hip. A cigarette was still held between the first two fingers of his right hand, which rested on the carpet, but it had burned itself out. There was a bloody concave wound the size of a fist in his chest. In the center of the wound was a neat hole, about the diameter of a large grape. The crater and hole was surrounded by blackened, burned shirt. It looked like he had been killed by a heavy weapon, maybe a .50 caliber, at close range.
“This can’t be happening,” Tiffany said, still crying. “He didn’t answer, so I came over and… he was just lying there… I didn’t hear anything. Was it a bomb?”
“I’m not sure. It’s weird. It looks like a few different things. Did you call the cops? His security?”
“No… just you.”
“Do you want me to call NYPD?”
“Of course. I’ll call security. I just…”
“Tiffany, did you touch anything?”
“No. Wait, I came and I saw him and I rushed over and shook him… He was… cold… I’m not sure.”
She was in shock. I took a closer look at her. She had a smear of blood on her right cheek and one of her knees. She had knelt down and kissed the guy. Did she love him? I took out my phone and did a quick video of the room and the body and I began backing out. In the hall, I took a look in the bathroom and shot more footage. It was white, immaculate. I pulled Tiffany out into the hall and dialed Izzy Negron. I told him what I was looking at.
“What is it with you, Shepherd?” Izzy asked. “What makes you a shit magnet?”
“I think he’s been there for hours, Izzy.”
“Can you tell what did it?”
“Not sure. Maybe a shotgun. Big-ass hole, lots of blood and lots of powder burns.”
“Shotgun, point-blank?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m not sure. It’s weird. More like an IED.” I hung up.
Tiffany sat down on the hallway carpet and began crying again. I walked down to the checkpoint and hailed two of the EPS suits.
“Yessir?” one asked.
“You have a security situation, gentlemen. Percy Chesterfield is dead in his room. Call out the troops.”
They both looked at me blankly.
“What are you talking about?” the same guy said. “The last shift has him logged into his room for the night at twenty-three thirty hours last night. Wakeup set for zero nine hundred. In twenty-three minutes.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked them.
“Zero six hundred.”
“Change of plan, fellas. You guys are in the clear. He’s been dead for a long time, probably before you came on. I’m Shepherd, the guy from the private security firm. I suggest you get down there, secure the scene—but stay out—and call your bosses. All of them. NYPD is on the way.”
They looked at each other and dashed down the hallway. I went back to Tiffany.
“Jesus Christ!” one of the security men shouted.
“What the fuck?” his partner asked.
They began keying their radios, issuing very agitated reports, as if Chesterfield had only just been killed. The callbacks said they were locking the place down. I suggested to Tiffany we open her door. She rummaged numbly through her purse and handed me a gold keycard. I tried it in the lock but it didn’t work. I told her that was Chesterfield’s key. She handed me a white one and that worked. I sat her down in her living room.
“I thought he was going to be the next president of the United States,” Tiffany said.
“A lot of people thought he might become president,” I agreed. “At least one of them didn’t like the idea.”
“I told him he would be safe if he stayed inside the hotel,” Tiffany said.
“I was the one who had you do that,” I reminded her.
“And now he’s dead,” Tiffany concluded. “Who did this?”
“I don’t know yet. But I will find out. I promise you.”
She began to cry again. I turned away, took out my phone.
“What can I help you with, Shepherd?” Siri asked.
“Siri, who did it?”
“I don’t know, Shepherd. Who?”
29
Tiffany slowly came out of her fog and began making phone calls to alert staff, arranging for others to intercept and notify Chesterfield’s wife and family before they left Virginia to come to the convention.
“This is a valuable media chip, before the news breaks,” Tiffany told me. “Do you want to break it in the Daily Press so we can cash that in whenever we need it?”
“Sure,” I said. “I guess. Okay, I’ll do it now.”
I quickly interviewed Tiffany, typing her quotes into my phone. She talked about finding the body. I reminded her that I would quote her as a source, not by name.
“Of course,” she said, her eyes far away.
It was a clever public relations move but Tiffany was running on autopilot and did not seem to realize her job no longer existed. I called Mel at the paper.
“Mel, I need rewrite. We need to break something exclusive on the web. It won’t keep until morning. But it’s a contract. The source wants a chip for when she needs it.”
“Yeah? Nice of you to check in, your majesty. If you’re calling about your girlfriend Ginny Mac’s cork-sacking story that just popped up on the Mail’s website—you’re too damn late!”
“What story?”
“It’s on your flapping phone, if you bother to look,” Mel said.
I looked and opened the email.
“I HATE NEW YORK”
Daily Press Reporter’s Lefty Parents Hate Us
It was a twisted interview with my parents, in which their political views were skewed to make it seem like they hated the city, as opposed to the Tea Party radicals currently in residence. It was trash; routine Ginny Mac and New York Mail character assassination. The pen is nastier than the sword.
“Well, that’s garbage, Mel, but I don’t have time for that now. I need rewrite.”
“Yeah? What’s the big dastardly deal? New pole-packing pet column? Poodles mess toward Mecca?”
“Speaker of the House Percy Chesterfield, the next GOP presidential candidate, has been murdered in his luxury Manhattan hotel suite on the eve of the convention.”
“Fork my grandmother!” Mel wailed. “Don’t humping h
ang up!”
I didn’t. I repeated my sentence and a lot more to a rewrite reporter before the noise of approaching cops invaded Tiffany’s room and I had to hang up. I emailed my video of the crime scene to myself. Just in case.
I hung out in the hallway while the police cleared the rest of the murder suite, the bedroom and bathroom, and backed out to allow the CSI guys in. I noticed Izzy Negron had arrived, along with Phil D’Amico, and they were talking to other NYPD detectives about video and pointing to security cameras in the hall.
“That’s the guy,” one of the security suits said, pointing at me.
“Yeah, I know who he is,” Izzy said. “I doubt he’s a suspect, but if I find out he is, it will be my pleasure to pass it on.”
“Hey, Izzy.”
“Well, Shepherd, here we are again.”
“This isn’t the same,” I told him. “I wasn’t working on a story. I’m working as a private detective. With Amy Massi.”
“For the murder victim?” Izzy asked.
“Actually, they’re working for the GOP, for the party,” said Tiffany.
“Okay,” Izzy replied. “And you are?”
I introduced Tiffany to Izzy. He nodded to his partner Phil, who also introduced himself. Izzy took me out into the hall.
“Okay, Sherlock. Walk me through it while CSI does their thing,” Izzy said.
I explained how Tiffany had called me and when I arrived at the scene I had realized she was alone, and that I had called him and alerted security, who had no clue, thinking Chesterfield was safe inside the security zone.
“Where were you before you got the call from Tiffany?” Izzy asked.
“I was outside, talking to my parents,” I told him.
“When did you see Chesterfield last?”
“The night before, with Tiffany, in his room, with the security team.” I noticed evidence techs were in Tiffany’s room now. They took pictures of her and samples from her cheek and knee. Then they took her pocketbook and began going through it.
“Why were you hired?” Izzy asked.
I took a breath. Before I could tell him to wait for my new boss, I was interrupted.
“To run down a shitload of death threats,” Phil answered, fresh from talking to Tiffany. “And there may be a link to that Brooklyn militia crew the feds are looking for—top of the Hot Sheet this morning, boss. And maybe even some asshole we just locked up for weapons possession—a political star on FAX TV. Littleton.”
“That’s true,” I agreed.
“Oh, man. Why can’t it be simple?” Izzy asked. “Why can’t it just be a jealous wife, standing there with the gun in her hand?”
“Maybe it’s all on the security video?” Phil suggested. “As soon as we get that—”
“Don’t jinx it,” Izzy cut him off.
30
When the CSI guys had done their bit, they cleared out of Chesterfield’s room and Izzy and Phil went in. Izzy always insisted on being at the scene alone—just himself and Phil— before the full evidence collection process began. I put on a pair of gloves and followed them in.
“Where the hell are you going?” Izzy snapped, turning his head. “I need privacy.”
“I was admitted to your secret crime scene sessions on the last case—and this time I was hired by the victim.”
Izzy looked at Phil, who shrugged. Izzy grunted and turned away. Phil put his finger to his lips. I shut the door behind us.
“Okay, Percy,” Izzy began, addressing the corpse. “You were probably in here alone and someone came to the door, right? You didn’t bother putting on your jacket or putting out your cigarette, no emergency.”
Izzy was always on a first-name basis with his dead people.
“Maybe you looked through the door peephole, maybe you didn’t because you’re well-protected. But once you open the door, you’re still cool with whoever it is, right? You stroll nice and easy back into the living room, puffing on your coffin nail, having a nice chat. Whatever happens, happens so fast you never drop your butt, never reach for that expensive forty-five in your holster there. Percy, why the fuck did you just stand there while someone shot you?”
Speaker of the House Percy Chesterfield did not respond.
“Grasa, muda y feliz,” Izzy said to the dead man. “Somebody put a big fucking hole in you, amigo. Why? One of your patriotic Anglo compadres?”
The dead man remained silent. The bloody hole in Chesterfield’s chest, and the crater around it, made it look like he had been hit by a small asteroid.
“What did he use? A shotgun?” Izzy asked without answer. “The muzzle blast torched your tie and shirt. Looks like your blood put out the fire, right?”
I looked the remains up and down. The victim seemed completely unharmed everywhere else. I looked at his shoes; polished, pointing straight up. But the carpeting was raked in a few ridges below the heels. I moved closer and craned my neck to get a better view.
“What?” Phil whispered.
I pointed wordlessly to the carpeting. It looked as if Chesterfield had been dragged backwards for an inch or two, his heels leaving marks in the rug.
“What is this?” Izzy asked.
Phil and I knew he wasn’t talking to us. Izzy squatted down at Chesterfield’s feet and eyeballed the carpet marks, the shoes, the soles, the heels, the socks. He stopped and gently lifted the hemmed cuff of the right trouser, carefully folding it up. He looked at the socks some more, took out a pen and poked in various places, as if he was defusing a bomb. When he finished, he did the other leg, leaving the socks under the cuffs exposed. He nodded to Phil, who took pictures.
“Percy, it’s hard to tell with your socks and pants on but your heels are just out of your shoes. Was whatever hit you so strong it partially knocked you out of your shoes? What the hell was it?”
Izzy didn’t wait for a reply. He turned toward Phil and made a flip-flop motion with his hand. They both crouched down and lifted the body until they could see the back before gently replacing the corpse on the carpet.
“No exit wound,” Izzy noted. “Whatever killed you is still inside you, Percy. Good man. We need that.” He examined the shattered chest, particularly the dozens of burn marks on the skin, including the neck and face.
“What’s with all these powder burns?” Izzy asked.
Phil and I remained quiet, waiting. Izzy turned to us, annoyed.
“Hey, I asked you guys a question. What’s with all this stippling? Looks like a hell of a lot to me.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t think you were talking to us. I’m not sure. I agree, it’s a lot for a civilian weapon.”
“What? You think this is military?” Izzy asked. “Like what? Like, a grenade?”
“Don’t think so. Not sure. Possible, I guess. More like a fifty cal, but…”
“What about a fifty-caliber rifle?” Izzy asked.
“A fifty would have gone right through Chesterfield and through the wall. Also, probably ripped him in half,” I told him. “Unless someone lightened up on the charge. But the size of the gun… Plus no one heard a shot.”
“Not exactly a concealable weapon,” Izzy admitted. “And given that everyone seems to be carrying guns in this place… Doesn’t matter. Percy’s got the bullet, we’ll get it. The lab will tell us. We should have security videos. The killer will be the one carrying the fifty-caliber monster gun, Watson.”
31
I looked at Chesterfield’s cigarette hand. You couldn’t smell the burned flesh where it had fried his skin but you could still detect the fireworks odor lingering in the air. I looked at the smoke detector on the ceiling. The shot should have set it off but it had been deactivated. Hell of a coincidence.
“Listen, Izzy,” I said, as we left the room, “there’s a few weird things you should know about.”
“Like what?”
“Like we just convinced Chesterfield and his security team to keep him out of the public eye because we were worried about snipers and other
things.”
“What other things?”
“Like anything militia-type people could arrange— snipers, bombs, RPGs. Then, when I saw all these bozos in the hotel with assault rifles, we told Chesterfield he wasn’t safe here. He had to get rid of the heavy metal or leave.”
“What did he say?”
“He was sleeping on it. Never got his answer.”
“Somebody sent him a message first,” Phil said.
“Chesterfield got killed here, behind all the security, in his room—with his gun untouched on his hip. I don’t believe in coincidences any more than you guys do. They shut off the smoke detectors in his room last night. I was there.”
“That’s against the fire code,” Phil said.
“Interesting. Why did they do that?” Izzy asked.
“I think it was his idea. He kept setting it off because he was too busy and famous to go to a public smoking area.”
“So?” Izzy asked.
“He was dead for hours,” I said. “That means whatever weapon killed him did not set off his smoke alarm—because it was shut off. The question is did they know in advance that the alarm was off?”
“Oh, man. I smell the gunpowder,” Izzy said.
“Right, gunpowder, not cordite, like in ammo. Weird. There’s more.”
“Why can’t you just stick to pets?” Izzy asked.
“I’m here as a private detective, not as a reporter,” I said. “Well, also as a reporter.”
“You have a state PI license?” Izzy asked.
“Ahh… it’s pending. Hold it. I just thought of something.”
We went back to Tiffany’s room and I asked her who Bob and Abner were.
“Remember? The Speaker said he would text them about his smoke alarm being disconnected so they could do the same?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Bob Blanchette of Alabama and Abner Hatfield from South Carolina. They all have the same arrangement in the Capitol building—so they can smoke.”
“They did the same thing in Washington?”
“Yes.”
Shoot Page 11
