by G. K. Parks
Her agent – Richard Sanderson, the bartender, and Skolnick’s romantic encounter were the three individuals with the strongest motives. Sanderson, maybe not so much, but there was something off about him. When Martin mentioned Rick, it triggered an uneasy feeling in my gut, and I still felt there was more there than meets the eye. I wrote his name on a sheet of paper and stuck it to the right side of the board. “Who did this to you?” I asked the picture of Skolnick.
“Are you clairvoyant too?” Heathcliff inquired, coming around and taking a seat at his desk. “Talking to the dead. Isn’t that clairvoyance?” I ignored him as he added some paperwork to the file folder and then spun in his chair to assess my handiwork. “Looks good.” He caught my eye and winked, signifying I just earned his approval. “Did you catch up on some light reading last night, Parker?”
“I was hoping it’d be a novel and not a short story,” I remarked. “Do you know if Skolnick had a boyfriend? Seems to me the ah…organ donor…might be a suspect.”
“You just made a joke.” He chuckled almost silently. “Never thought the feds had a sense of humor.” I shrugged. Former fed, my mind filled in the blank. Maybe working with him wouldn’t be as painstakingly horrible as I imagined. “We don’t have a name yet, but the guy in the pictures,” he pointed to the photo of Caterina embracing a man, “seems the most reasonable assumption. Eventually, someone will recognize him, and we’ll see where it leads. In the meantime, I have to interview the bartender. Want to watch from the observation room?”
“That might just make my day,” I replied, following him down the hallway. I took a seat and watched Heathcliff conduct his interrogation of the bartender, Raymond Alvarez.
“Mr. Alvarez,” Heathcliff said, leaning back in the chair, “do you enjoy being a bartender?” At this rate, we were going to be here all day. Patience, Parker.
“What can I say, it pays the bills.” Alvarez was calm and collected.
“Probably helps with the ladies, am I right?” Heathcliff continued. This was definitely a boy’s club kind of thing.
“Can’t complain.” He was a decent looking man with dark hair, an olive complexion, and light brown eyes. Throw in a couple of free drinks and he’d probably had his fair share of one night stands. “Looking to change professions, Detective?”
“Not particularly,” Heathcliff intoned, flipping through a file folder. “Have there ever been any complaints against you?”
“You tell me.” Alvarez wasn’t going to add fuel to the fire. “I’m sure whatever you’re looking at has all the answers.”
Heathcliff shrugged. “A couple DUIs and an order of protection against you taken out by a Ms. Linda Reynolds,” Heathcliff read the jacket aloud. “Do you want to give me your side of the story?”
“Crazy bitch accused me of stalking her.” I glared at Alvarez through the mirror. Most crazy bitches really weren’t the crazy ones.
“Right, you were innocent,” Heathcliff commented with a level of sarcasm I could only wish to one day achieve. “What can you tell me about the charity event last Friday evening at the marina? Any crazy bitches there?”
“No,” Alvarez decided to tighten his responses, “just some fancy assholes showing off.”
“Do you remember seeing her?” Heathcliff placed a photo of Caterina on the table.
“No. But trust me, I would have remembered her.” Something about Alvarez’s facial expression was unsettling. “I definitely would have remembered her. A hot little number like that,” he made a whistling sound, “damn.”
“She’s dead.” Heathcliff’s tone was hard as steel. “You’re sure you don’t remember her? We have the surveillance tapes from the event. We know she was drinking, and you were bartending.”
“A lot of people ordered drinks, but like I said, I’d remember her.” Alvarez wasn’t changing his story. “Are you arresting me?”
“Should I?”
“I know how this works, and if you are, then I’m not saying another goddamn word.”
Heathcliff slowly circled the room before walking to the door and opening it. “Don’t leave town,” he threatened before gesturing for Alvarez to take off.
Alvarez stood, looking very self-satisfied and sauntered out of the interrogation. I would have loved to knock him around a bit. There was something innately slimy and repulsive about this man.
“Batting a thousand,” Heathcliff mumbled, opening the door to the observation room. “The first interview with the event coordinator was a bust.”
“Sleazy prick.” He glanced up, making sure I wasn’t referring to him. “Look, I have a meeting with a client,” I said, checking the time. “I’ll stop by later, and if you could provide the transcripts for the other two interviews, I’d appreciate the opportunity to review them.”
“Fine.” He seemed annoyed, but then again, I figured he was annoyed at pretty much everything at this point.
Ten
Hoping for inspiration on the Smidel case and the mysterious marks, I drove to Highland Preparatory Academy, the private school Roger Smidel attended, and parked in the designated visitor parking space and remained in my car, hopefully not looking like a sexual predator. From my parking spot, I could see the cars in the student lot. Bentleys, BMWs, Audis, Corvettes, and other similarly expensive vehicles lined the rows of spaces. I didn’t see anything that cost less than fifty grand, and that was a low-ball estimate. These were the children of doctors, lawyers, politicians, and businessmen. The crème-de-la-crème.
The school grounds were vast and intimidating with gothic-style architecture complete with gargoyles. The grounds included numerous buildings, tennis courts, an expansive track, what appeared to be stables, and who knew what else. As I surveyed the area, a security guard approached my car. Rolling down my window, I flashed my most disarming smile.
“Good day, miss,” he said in a tone that didn’t sound as friendly as the words he was using. “Do you realize you are on private school grounds?”
“Yes.” I tried to charm him once more. Maybe he hadn’t seen the full effect of my previous smile. Unfortunately, he stood his ground, so I pulled out my private investigator’s license and held it up for his inspection. “I was just looking around on behalf of a client.” Being intentionally vague was another of my talents.
“If you plan to investigate the school or its students, you will need to speak directly with the headmaster. If not, please vacate the premises immediately.”
“I’ll be back,” I winked, “so try not to miss me in the meantime.” I rolled up my window and pulled out of the parking space, returning to the main highway. My P.I. license didn’t pack the same punch my OIO badge did. Admittedly, being able to shout ‘federal agent’ was much more meaningful than ‘private investigator, please ignore me while I snoop.’
Unsure of what to do, I drove to my office and turned on the computer to perform a search on Highland Preparatory Academy. Unfortunately, no scandals popped up in any of the internet databases. I tried entering it as the location of a crime in the criminal databases, hoping for a hit, but still no luck. Whoever worked PR at the school must be an absolute genius because there was no way those rich kids were all innocent little angels. Kids were kids, regardless of family affluence. The only difference was mommy and daddy’s money could buy them out of a lot of trouble if need be.
As I sat at my desk, I tried to determine what could put temporary marks on a teenage boy’s arms and neck, but I had no clue. Mrs. Smidel had been less than helpful in providing any real description of the markings or information suggesting what might have caused them. Even a heads up on Roger’s daily routine might have shed some light on the situation. The kid was angsty and non-communicative, but he was a teenager. Angsty and non-communicative were the two things they did best, at least from what I remembered.
The situation was perplexing, but I remained confident there was no case here whatsoever. It seemed best to extensively question her, so she’d feel something was being done, a
nd then tell her the conclusion I already reached and remind her that Roger was a teenage boy.
My mind wandered back to the Skolnick murder as I waited for Mrs. Smidel to arrive. I was typing Raymond Alvarez into the database, so I could review his jacket, when a small, impish woman entered my office. She stood in the doorway, frowning at my office furniture and cheap décor.
“Ms. Parker?” she asked uncertainly.
“Yes. May I help you?”
“I’m Lynette Smidel.” She walked briskly to my desk and shook my hand. I indicated the empty chair, and she sat, turning to critique the rest of my office. My sparse furnishings were clearly a personal affront to her existence, but she remained silent. “I only have twenty minutes, but I still wanted to discuss Roger in person.”
“Can you tell me anything more descriptive and concrete about what is going on?”
“He just isn’t himself. He hasn’t been for the last month or two. He doesn’t talk to me.” I waited for her to continue, but she just sat there. Maybe non-communicative was a genetic disorder.
“Have there been any physical changes to Roger besides the mood swings. A gain or loss in weight? A great increase in muscle mass?” Maybe the kid was on steroids or something.
“No, just the occasional marks.”
“Tell me about them. What do they look like?” She closed her eyes, trying to recollect.
“They look like scratches but very shallow and superficial. He won’t say where he got them or what caused them.”
I was trying my best to give her the benefit of the doubt, even though she was a bit of a quack. “Do you have any pets? Or does Roger have any known allergies? What does he do on a daily basis? When you’ve noticed the scratches, was his daily routine substantially different?” I didn’t know what to ask.
“No pets or allergies. And I don’t invade his privacy, so I don’t know what he does on a daily basis. I’d imagine he goes to school, hangs out with his friends, and comes home before curfew. He’s a good kid. That’s why I’m concerned. Everything he’s been doing is completely out of character.” She was annoyed by my nonchalance. “Frankly, Ms. Parker,” she practically hissed, “I don’t think you’re going to be any more helpful than the police department.”
“Probably not.” I was a bit flippant. Obviously, my professionalism wasn’t up to par either, just like my décor. “Everything you’ve said seems characteristic of a typical teenage boy. Teenagers are hormonal, moody, and they don’t talk to their parents about their business. I’d be more than willing to help if there is a problem, but I don’t see one.”
“Miss, I don’t particularly care for your attitude,” she berated. “The Guillots are good friends and recommended you to assist in this matter. Clearly, they seem misinformed about your qualifications.”
“Ma’am, most people don’t care for my attitude, so I’m sure you’re in good company on that particular assessment. But I am good at what I do. I just don’t see any reason for you to waste your money on an investigation into why your son is acting like a teenager.”
“It’s my money to waste. Can I see a list of your so-called qualifications or a résumé?” I had to give her credit; she wasn’t easily dissuaded. After providing the briefest rundown of my former federal agent background, I waited patiently as she mulled over this new information. “What’s your going rate?” She pulled out her checkbook.
“Ma’am,” I tried again, “this is your son we are talking about. How do you think he’ll react if he finds out you hired someone to tail him?”
“Then you better make sure he doesn’t find out.” She wrote out the check and laid it on my desk. “One week. That is all the time I am willing to waste on you, Ms. Parker, before I find someone else who actually wants to do this job.” The way she said the words sounded like a threat, but I wasn’t frightened. Perhaps I was supposed to be. I mean, my goodness, she could probably squash me with that insanely well-endowed checkbook of hers.
After she left, I ran a quick background check on her and Roger, hoping something would turn up. No dice. I checked the time; it was almost four. Having a few minutes to spare, I decided to go to the MT building to see if I could have a moment of Luc Guillot’s time before returning to the precinct. Maybe Heathcliff’s day improved since mine certainly didn’t.
The ride to the MT building was uneventful, and my brain was so scrambled from working two very unaccommodating investigations that I simply sang along with the radio at the top of my lungs. After exiting the elevator on the seventeenth floor, I noticed Martin’s empty office on my way down the corridor. I knocked on Guillot’s door, and he waved me inside.
“Mademoiselle Parker, what a surprise. Can I help you with something?”
“Do you have a minute? This isn’t business related, but do you know a Lynette Smidel?”
“Ah,” a knowing look erupted on his face, “Vivi gave Lynette your name. I hope that’s okay. She has concerns about her son, Roger.”
“Yes, I met with Mrs. Smidel earlier today. I tried to tell her I didn’t believe her suspicions were warranted, but she refused to listen. I was wondering if you might have any insight to share.” His brow furrowed as he considered my request.
“Perhaps Thomas, my son, would be more helpful to you,” he suggested. “Why don’t you come for dinner on Thursday? My wife will be pleased to see you again, and maybe she or Thomas will be able to help.”
“That’s very kind,” I began, but he interjected.
“Please, we are new here. My wife has few friends. You’re a trusted confidante of Mr. Martin. It would be our honor to have you for dinner.”
“It would be my pleasure, sir.” I tried to appear pleased even though this was the last thing I wanted to do with my Thursday evening. I edged toward the door. “I have another appointment this afternoon, but I will see you Thursday. Ciao.”
“Bonsoir.” He smiled as I left.
When the doors to the elevator opened, Martin rushed out, almost colliding with me. “Hey,” he said, surprised. “What’s going on?”
“Not much.” I got into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. “I came to see Luc. It’s nothing to worry about. I’m just working for a friend of his or something closely related to that.” He looked confused and put his hand against the frame of the elevator to keep the doors from closing.
“Are you consulting for the police now?”
“On my way there, if the elevator doors ever close,” I quipped. He smirked and removed his hand. “I’ll give you an update when something concrete surfaces on the Skolnick murder.”
“Thanks, Alex.”
* * *
I was sitting at Heathcliff’s desk, reading through his interview notes from the event coordinator and Caterina’s agent, Richard Sanderson. The event coordinator had provided detailed lists of the guests, the work crews, and those involved in the catering and decorating. Heathcliff was in the process of running through the names, checking for criminal records. The surveillance footage from the event had been provided, and Caterina’s mystery man was identified as Jake Spencer, one of the photographers often used by her modeling agency.
Unfortunately, the interview file from Richard ‘Rick’ Sanderson left a lot to be desired. He hadn’t hashed out his whereabouts during her TOD or provided any type of alibi, but from Heathcliff’s notes, Skolnick’s death was going to negatively affect Sanderson since his cash cow could no longer produce any milk. Therefore, he lacked motive for her murder. Still, I wished there was more information, and I hated that I missed the interview because of my meeting with the highly irrational Lynette Smidel. For future reference, I should only work one case at a time. Concluding my off-topic musing, I tried to get back on track by shutting my eyes and working the puzzle pieces out in my mind.
“Are you imagining what it’s like to be me?” Heathcliff asked, interrupting my internal process.
“Scary prospect,” I retorted, surrendering his chair. “Anything turn up on the b
ackgrounds?”
“Nada.” He dug through his desk drawers, looking for a legal pad. “You’re the consultant, so I’d like you to consult.” His pen was poised over the paper, waiting for my brilliant assessment of the facts.
“Alvarez is a piece of work, and something doesn’t sit right with Sanderson. When I spoke with Mr. Martin, he mentioned Sanderson tends to pop up a bit too frequently.” He scrawled ‘Sanderson – too often’ on the page. Pain in my ass, I thought angrily. “Do we know who had something to gain from Caterina’s death? Maybe she had a life insurance policy or left everything to someone in her will. Are you going to talk to the photographer, Jake Spencer, and see if they were intimate immediately preceding her death?”
“We’re checking all those possibilities, and Spencer’s coming in tomorrow morning. We also scheduled an interview tomorrow afternoon with the head of her modeling agency, a Yolanda Tate.” He dropped his pen. “Any more brilliance you wish to instill upon me?”
“Did you see who slipped the drugs into the drinks?”
Smirking, he led the way to another room in the police station, filled with dozens of monitors, and hit play. Four different screens flickered to life. Each one displayed a different camera that was used for security at the event. “Have fun. I’ll be at my desk, filling out paperwork, when you find the culprit.” I glared at his retreating back. Hopefully, I wouldn’t be here all night.
Eleven
I rubbed my neck and thought about the enticing prospect of getting a third, or was it a fourth, cup of coffee. The monitors continued to play, and as of yet, nothing struck as clue-worthy. Staring at the footage was making my eyes cross, and I feared that even if someone were to pull out a gun and mow down the entire guest list, I wouldn’t notice at this point. I hit pause and got out of the chair, walking around the small room. Since the drugs were most certainly placed in the cosmos that Martin ordered for himself and Caterina, I decided to prioritize my viewing. I scanned the screens, looking for Martin’s impeccable flair for fashion and showmanship.
