by Sasscer Hill
But you’re already involved, an inner voice whispered.
No, I’m not!
Deny all you want. It won’t change anything.
Calixto glanced at me. “Come join us, Fia. Can I get you a drink? You look like you need one.”
I could wear a bag over my head and the man would still read my thoughts like they were lit with neon. “Vodka tonic, please,” I said as I sat in a chair next to Miss Jamaica.
“Hello,” she said softly, extending a manicured hand. “I’m Julissa Jolivet. You were at Violet’s today, weren’t you?” Her smile was hard to resist.
“Yes.” I was surprised she’d noticed me in the shop.
“I almost bought that dress last month. You look beautiful in it.”
“Thanks,” I said, and told her my name. I felt bad for previously dismissing her as self-centered and empty-headed. So much for my detection skills. Glancing after Calixto, I saw he was caught in a line at the bar. I turned back to Julissa.
“You were Miss Jamaica two years ago?”
“Yes, I was.” Her tone seemed wistful.
“Are you up here on a promotion tour?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I don’t do that anymore. I am traveling with my—my gentleman friend.”
My interest kicked up, and when I saw the Rastafarian heading toward our table with his eyes on Julissa, I knew. “You’re with Darren?”
She started slightly. “Yes. Darren Onandi. How did you know?”
Before I could reply to her question, she saw the Rastafarian and stood abruptly. “I’m afraid I have to go. It was very nice meeting you, Fia.”
I didn’t like the tension radiating from her. “Is everything okay, Julissa?”
After a brief sigh, she said, “Yes, everything is fine.”
The Rastafarian jerked his head toward the house, grasped Julissa’s arm, and led her away. I stopped myself from following them. I didn’t like seeing her manhandled, but she hadn’t asked for help, and it was none of my business. I left it alone.
Again, I glanced at Calixto, still stuck in the bar line. He caught my eye, and raised his palms in a what-can-I-do shrug.
The problem could be fixed by raiding Joan’s living-room bar, but thinking about her had been a mistake, like thinking about the devil. She came through the patio door, scanned the crowd, and spotted me, making a beeline in my direction. She passed the Rastafarian and Julissa who kept going until they disappeared into the house.
As Joan drew closer, I stood quickly. Her face was white, her eyes wide with something like shock. I grabbed my purse and rushed toward her. We met halfway to the house, where a woman in a pink dress with her husband in matching pink-and-green-plaid pants crowded between us.
“Joan,” the woman gushed, “what a magnificent event. Everything is just—”
“Not now, Charlotte!” Joan steadied herself, then plastered on a smile. “I’m having a crisis in the kitchen. If you’ll excuse us?”
Not waiting for Charlotte’s response, Joan clutched my hand, her grip clawlike.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You have to come. Something terrible has happened!”
I rushed with her into the house. Behind us I heard Charlotte say to her husband, “Well, I’ve never been treated so shabbily. You would think…”
Her voice faded as Joan and I reached the patio doors and dashed inside. I expected to find an explosion in the kitchen, possibly an injured caterer, but Joan hurried past the kitchen, across the main hall and sped toward Rich’s study.
Outside the room, her stride faltered. She stopped and turned to me, her face so pale I was afraid she would faint.
“I can’t go back in there,” she said. “Please, Fia, you were a cop. You know how to handle these things.” She became silent, rooted to the floor. She gestured toward the study. “Please.”
I stepped into Rich’s office to the middle of the plush Oriental and stopped, my senses on high alert. The room was empty. No sound, no rustle, no one breathing. Careful not to touch anything, I stared at the leather couch, Rich’s paw-footed desk, and the bookshelves behind. The room appeared undisturbed, the heavy curtains still drawn.
But a heavy metallic odor overpowered the residual scent of the Rastafarian’s marijuana. The smell came from the bathroom, and I dreaded what I would find there.
15
I walked cautiously across the carpet toward Rich’s bathroom, careful not to touch anything, wishing I had my Walther. But who brings a handgun to a garden party? Outside the door, I stopped and stared inside.
It took a moment to recognize him. He lay in the bathtub, covered with blood. His throat was so severely slit, his head was barely attached. I fought against the nausea that rose in my throat. You’re a cop, Fia. Get a grip.
Once I drew a tight enough rein on my emotions, I recognized the suit. It was, or had been, white linen. Matt Percy. The fabric was soaked with his blood, the coppery smell so strong it was almost unbearable. No murder weapon was visible. I backed out of the doorway, pulled my cell from my purse, and called 911.
When the male dispatcher answered, I quickly relayed who, what, when, and where. The “why” I couldn’t tell him, but I suspected it had something to do with the phone call that had left Percy so agitated.
Glancing around the study, I did not see a single drop of blood. There had been no bloody footprints in the bath. The killer must have worn plastic coverings over his clothes and shoes. Premeditated. Who could carry plastic sheeting into a garden party without being noticed? The caterers. Members of the band. Any woman with a large purse and, of course, the owners of the house.
“I’m securing the scene the best I can,” I told the dispatcher who was still on the line.
“Yes, ma’am, and please stay with me until the patrol officers get there.”
“Of course.”
Spinning with an overload of adrenaline and nothing to use it on, I exited the room, and pulled the door closed behind me. I stood with my back against it, facing Joan. “I have to stay here until the police come.”
“The police? Oh, Fia, no!”
Good old Joan, asking for my help with a murder, yet thinking I wouldn’t call the police? I put a shushing finger to my lips, then spoke into the phone.
“Sir, how far away is the nearest patrol car?” Joan needed to understand the dispatcher was listening.
“Five minutes.”
“Thank you.”
Always quick to regroup, Joan said, “This is so terrible, Fia. I’m not thinking straight. I need to find Rich.”
“Do that,” I said. “Tell him what’s happened and tell him to keep anyone from leaving.”
“But we can’t keep people here if they want to leave!”
“You have to, Joan. Don’t you understand the police will need to talk to everyone?”
“This is so awful … in our home. My God”—her voice rose in panic—“whoever did this could still be in the house!”
Leaving the line to the dispatcher open, I tapped out a quick text to Calixto about Percy, finishing with, “Get in here, please. Bring Rich. Joan’s losing it.”
As I sent the message, the police dispatcher said, “Ma’am, a Saratoga PD cruiser’s arriving at your location.”
Fast-moving footsteps turned my head. Calixto rushed toward us, his cold cop eyes assessing Joan. Behind him, Rich struggled to keep up. He was breathing hard and the skin stretched over the rough bones of his face was wet with perspiration. As he panted to a halt, I studied his eyes and body language, and found no tell. If he was going to commit murder he wouldn’t do it in his own home, would he? Would Joan?
“Calixto,” I said, “there’s a cruiser outside. I’m going to meet it.” He nodded, then glanced at the closed door to the study, his brows raised with the obvious question.
“In the bathroom,” I said. He nodded, and I sped down the hall, through Joan’s entry foyer, and out the front door.
A police car, with flashing red a
nd blue lights, had parked in front of the house. Two officers climbed out and headed toward me.
Two more vehicles rolled into the drive and continued on to the house. The first was a long black limousine, the second another police cruiser that seemed to be herding the limo to the house. I remembered Darren Onandi telling the Rastafarian to “bring her to the limo.” Good for the cops, making the limo turn around and come back. I hoped no one else in the house had managed to leave since Percy was killed.
When the two officers were close enough, I said, “I’m the one who placed the 911 call.”
Before the inevitable barrage of questions started, I mentally ticked off who I’d seen in the house before Percy died. Joan in the kitchen. Rich arguing with Onandi in the master bedroom. The Rastafarian in the master bath. The caterers, who had access everywhere. The one or more people who’d used the powder room, or stood in the library, or hidden in the guest bedroom. With a crowd this big, who knew?
The limo had parked with the second patrol car right behind it. The Rastafarian had climbed from the passenger seat where he’d been sitting next to Onandi’s chauffeur. Now, he was confronting a tall muscular police officer.
“Hey, mon, why yuh want to be like dat? Nobody done noting. We afta go!”
The tall cop’s voice was audible and firm, “Sir, nobody’s going anywhere. Now, I need the rest of the people in your limo to get out and go back into the house.”
As I, and the two cops near me, paused to watch the confrontation, a female cop climbed from the other cruiser, hurried toward the limo, and joined the tall cop. Onandi emerged from the car and Julissa climbed out slowly behind him. Something was wrong with her movements. She kept her face turned away from us.
The female cop asked, “Ma’am, are you all right?”
“Of course, she’s all right,” Onandi said. “This is preposterous! Do you know who I am?”
I doubted the cops gave a crap who he was, but I kept the thought to myself. Julissa finally turned toward us, and my breath sucked in. A vicious red bruise marked one swollen cheek, and finger-sized welts marked her arms.
I started toward her, but the officer closest to me put a staying hand on my arm. “Ma’am, I think it’s time we go inside.” His eyes were not unkind, just insistent. “Why don’t you show us what you found?”
“I will, but you need to call in someone from homicide.”
“We’ll make that decision. Ma’am, you need to take us inside.”
I did, and the officers pulled on rubber gloves, stepped boldly into the bathroom, and visibly deflated when they stared at Percy’s partially detached head. I retreated from the bathroom as the nausea I’d felt earlier reeled through my stomach again. By now the blood stench was as bad as the sight, and I had to turn my face away and breathe slowly through my mouth.
The two officers backed out of the bloody scene, careful not to touch anything in the study while they stepped gingerly through the room and closed the door. As soon as they’d secured the scene, one of them keyed the radio strapped to his shoulder and called homicide.
Within minutes, the house was crawling with cops. Two homicide guys arrived and stationed police at the front door, the back garden wall, and the side gate to keep guests from leaving the grounds. The entire house, except for the living room and powder room, was cordoned off. The master bedroom, the guest room, and the library were considered the “second crime” scene, and only Joan, Rich, police officers, the head caterers, and I, were allowed in. Probably because we’d be questioned first.
The two homicide detectives disappeared into Rich’s study, followed by the medical examiner and crime scene investigators who lugged in bags of equipment. The rest of us waited.
The party mood died a quick death as people realized a man had been murdered, and they were not allowed to leave. Joan’s friend Georgina sat beneath her helmet of blond hair casting dark, suspicious looks at the other guests. Her taffeta dress seemed to have wilted. People’s angry complaints and distrustful stares at one another created an ugly atmosphere. The scent of perfume, cologne, and freshly washed bodies was soon replaced by the smell of sweat and fear.
Fortunately, the bar remained open, and people eventually settled down with exasperated sighs and a drink. A woman in pink silk said, “That fellow seemed like a nice man, I can’t believe someone found it necessary to kill him.”
Next to her, her gentleman companion said, “Quiet, Lucille. Let’s not talk about it.”
A woman near them in a rumpled green suit said, “Why shouldn’t she talk about it? It’s on all our minds, for God’s sake!”
Before a fight broke out, the two homicide detectives reappeared. They introduced themselves to the crowd in the living room as Clark and Ferguson. Clark was tall, lean, and chocolate-skinned with a strong jaw and large hands. Ferguson, who did the talking, was short, with a New York City accent, maybe from Brooklyn. He wore glasses with small, round frames that made him appear studious. The shrewd eyes behind the lenses said otherwise.
Ferguson asked the crowd for their understanding and thanked them for their patience.
Lucille ignored her companion’s attempt to shush her and said, “We certainly understand the severity of the matter, but do not assume we are patient!”
Her companion rolled his eyes and shifted his body as far away from her as his seat would allow.
When Ferguson finished his speech, Calixto and I managed to buttonhole Detective Clark. We told him we worked for the TRPB. He studied us a moment, then told us to rejoin the cattle herd. He must have made a call to confirm our identities, because a short time later he led us into the library.
“Okay, your stories check out.” He zeroed in on me. “You’re Mrs. Gorman’s daughter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were formerly an officer with the Baltimore PD?”
“Yes.”
He turned his attention to Calixto. “And I’m told, Mr. Coyune, you’ve worked with the FBI?”
Calixto nodded. “Agents from the Albany field office are already involved in the case we are working on here in Saratoga.”
I barely kept from blurting, “They are?”
“So,” Calixto continued, “it would be most appreciated if you would keep our identities concealed. If our work is successful, it will benefit your city.”
“Not a problem,” Clark said. “In fact, you two might be useful to us on this homicide.” He swung his cop gaze back to me. “But I still have questions for you both and want to start with Ms. McKee.”
Calixto left us in the library, and Clark asked me his questions. He recorded my responses on a small video camera he set up on the library desk. I told him everything I’d seen, heard, or knew about the demise of Percy. He looked dubious when I told him I’d only recently reconnected with my mother and that I hadn’t seen or spoken to her for seventeen years. Eventually his well of questions dried up and he excused me.
When I left the room, he called in a beat cop who’d been stationed outside.
“Could you bring in Mrs. Gorman?” Clark asked him.
Love to be a fly on the wall for that one.
If I’d wanted to, I could have called a cab and left, but chose to wait for Calixto and the bitter end of the questioning. I liked to watch people’s expressions as they were led into the library or guest bedroom to be grilled by Ferguson and Clark, and their faces as they came back out. First, I wanted to find Julissa.
She wasn’t in the living room, so I went out the patio doors. I saw the Rastafarian, Onandi, and the chauffeur sitting at a table inside the party tent, but no sign of Julissa. I walked through the darkened grounds as a caterer lit torchlights and finally spotted her sitting on a stone bench near the back garden wall.
“Hey,” I said, settling next to her. Even in the gloom I could see the raised profile of swelling on her cheek. “Does it hurt much?”
“I took some painkiller. It’s no worse than usual.”
“Than usual? Onandi has
hit you before?”
“Yes, if he gets jealous. I should have been more careful.”
She was accountable for his brutality? Typical response of an abused woman. Nearby, a caterer lit a torch and its flames reflected on her face. My perception of her and her life tilted as I studied her, wondering what I could say. She must know people who could help her. Did she have no money left from her run as Miss Jamaica?
“Can’t you leave him?” I asked.
“The techs from his bank hacked into my accounts. They removed my money.”
“His bank?”
She slowly shook her head. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, that sucks. Can’t you just walk away?”
Her laugh was bitter. “We came here on his private jet. He has my passport, my papers. I have no cash!”
“Then how were you shopping at Violet’s earlier today?”
If she was angry that I doubted her, she didn’t show it. “Darren opens accounts for me at shops like that. Sometimes I take the clothes to consignment stores and trade them for cash. It’s never enough.”
Anger sparked inside me. Who was this Onandi, anyway? “Can’t you go to the Jamaican consulate?”
“Sista, please, I understand you would like to help me, and I am grateful to you. But you have no idea how powerful Onandi is. The people at the consulate? If I was able to get there, they would turn me over to him. Then he would beat me.” Her voice had broken, and I could feel her trembling in the dark next to me.
She didn’t need me pushing her like this. How nice it would be if Onandi was wanted for some crime, something that had the FBI on his tail. But when I’d asked Calixto about Onandi earlier, he’d known nothing about the man.
“If he had a connection to the Saratoga mob,” he’d said, “I would have heard about him.”
Next to me, the torch flames flickered on Julissa’s bruised skin. There was nothing to support taking her into protective custody. Like the Peruvian jockeys, she was not a U.S. citizen, and I had no control over her fate.
“Julissa,” I said, “if I can find a way to help you, I will.”
