The Rogue Element (Scott Priest Book 1)

by John Hardy Bell

  “Tell me I’m not scooping you, detective,” she said with a thin smile.

  My expression tightened. “Wouldn’t you just love that? Sadly for you I’m already well aware of the connection.”

  “How well aware are you?” She was starting to get that probing journalist look in her eye that I dreaded.

  “Marisol worked for him.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “I figured you would have already known that.”

  “I do. I just want to see how much you know.”

  My eyes lit up with a sudden realization. “Has this whole thing been your passive-aggressive way of pinning me down for another interview?”

  “Pinning you down for an interview? Who’s being passive-aggressive now?”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “You wish.”

  “Can you please just answer my original question, detective?”

  A soft, almost vulnerable expression briefly washed over her face that I found appealing – and I hated myself for it.

  “Off the record of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Marisol worked in Commander Brandt’s home for three years. Something happened and she was let go.”

  “And?”

  I shrugged. “You claimed to know so much about it, I was hoping you could fill in the rest.”

  She looked disappointed that the ball landed back in her court so abruptly, but true to form, she quickly picked it up and ran. “Marisol and your commander were the only two people in the house during the altercation that led to her firing, so most of what I’ve gathered is second-hand information. But it’s very interesting second-hand information.”

  “You’ve got my attention.”

  “According to someone who was apparently very close to the situation, Marisol was fired because she overheard a telephone conversation that she shouldn’t have.”

  “What was the nature of the call?”

  “My source claimed that Marisol didn’t say. When he asked, she told him that he was better off not knowing. So he didn’t press.”

  “Go on.”

  “Marisol told him that she had accidentally walked into Brandt’s office while he was in the midst of this conversation. When she saw him, she immediately walked back out. But based on what she had heard and Brandt’s panic at seeing her, it was a conversation she wanted to hear more of. So she stood outside the office while the conversation continued. According to my guy, Marisol was quite the hoarder of information.”

  “Where I come from, it’s called being too damn nosey for your own good.”

  “That’s certainly another way to put it.”

  My flippant remark aside, the story seemed to be in line with what Dana Alvarez had told me about her mother’s inquisitive nature.

  Kyle continued. “Marisol stood by the door listening for over five minutes before Brandt suddenly walked out. When he saw her standing there, he immediately accused her of eavesdropping. She denied it. Some kind of back and forth ensued – mostly yelling on Brandt’s part. Next thing you know, Marisol is out of a job.”

  “Sounds to me like there was more to this than her merely eavesdropping. Maybe there had been some prior issues with Marisol and Brandt simply viewed this incident as the final straw.”

  “As far as I’ve heard Bethany Brandt loved her. If there were prior issues with Marisol’s performance, they were Oliver Brandt’s issues alone.”

  I made a mental note to put Bethany Brandt on my interview list. Convincing her to sit down for that interview would be another story. “Could your source tell you anything else?”

  “Only that Marisol seemed different afterward. She was certainly upset about being fired, but he suspected there was more to it.”

  The same as Marisol’s daughters. “Did he offer up any theories?”

  Kyle shook her head. “Marisol was tight-lipped until the end.”

  “Do you have any theories?”

  The sudden gleam in her eye was blinding. “Of course I do. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Why don’t you give the Alvarez girls a break and run your theories by me instead?”

  “For the same reason I’ve never run any of my theories regarding the DPD by you.”

  “Try me.”

  Kyle was silent for a moment, as if she were seriously considering the request. Then she shook her head. “Compared to our usual run-ins this conversation has been civil, dare I even say pleasant. If it’s all the same, I’d rather keep it that way.”

  “Pleasant might be a bit of a stretch.”

  “Okay, tolerable.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  After an extended silence that bordered on uncomfortable, Kyle turned her attention back to the apartment buzzers that she had already thoroughly worked over. She raised a finger to press Marisol’s apartment again but quickly thought better of it. “If no one has answered by now they’re probably not going to. I keep pushing my luck and someone is bound to call the cops.”

  “And I’m sure as hell not going to vouch for you.”

  The soft edges returned to Kyle’s face as she turned to walk away. “You’re a jerk.”

  “I do what I can,” was my reply as I tipped an invisible cap to her. “Just make sure you keep me in the loop if any of your theories actually start to pan out.”

  She looked back at me with a smirk. “I think I’ll call Detective Kimball instead. I always thought he was cuter than you anyway.”

  Ouch. I placed a hand on my chest as a phantom pain pierced my heart. “I’ll be sure to tell him.”

  The tires on Kyle’s Daisy yellow Volkswagen Bug screeched as she drove away.

  Making the short walk to my own car, I shook my head in an effort to clear the cobwebs. This simple little condolence visit to the Alvarez girls had become much more than I’d bargained for. Now that I knew that multiple people were openly discussing Brandt’s name in relation to a murder victim, the pressure to investigate him only intensified, as did my concern that the process would require more than the few simple questions that I had hoped to get away with. I always did my best to avoid complications, both in my professional and personal life. Oliver Brandt was becoming a major complication.

  As I approached the car, I spotted a DPD patrol cruiser slowly driving toward me. I waved it down, assuming the officers were conducting a drive-by of Marisol’s apartment or stopping by for additional follow-up. The cruiser slowed to a crawl as it came up on me, but it didn’t stop. Instead, the officers inside responded to my second wave with two of the sharpest glares that I had ever been on the receiving end of. The young patrolmen held their icy looks for the duration of their drive past. My arm dropped as they disappeared around the corner.

  It was possibly the strangest exchange I’d ever had with fellow officers, and one of the most unnerving. I stood by my car for over five minutes in the hopes that they would return with the logical explanation that I knew I deserved.

  They never came back. Neither did my hope that this would turn out to be anything less than the shittiest day of my life.

  I started the car with the serious thought of tracking down the boys in the cruiser for an off-the-cuff lecture on professional courtesy, but the phone call from Kimball diverted my attention.

  “Say something to make me smile,” I demanded as I answered the call.

  “You look beautiful today.”

  “Try again.”

  “We just got a hit on the surveillance footage.”

  I blew out a sigh of relief. “Now we’re talking. How significant?”

  “Alan is bringing a copy of the tape back to HQ as we speak, so we’ll find out together.”

  “I’ll be right in. Should I stop for popcorn on the way?”

  “White cheddar. And a box of Junior Mints.”

  My smile lasted the entire drive back to HQ.

  Nothing can turn around a shitty day quite like solving a homicide.

  CHAPTER 5

  Kimball, Kr
ieger and I were huddled around Parson’s computer as he inserted the USB disk that contained the hotel surveillance footage. I shifted impatiently as the technology un-savvy Parsons attempted several times to open the file before his partner finally took over the reins.

  “This footage will end up on Unsolved Mysteries by the time you’re finished dicking around with it,” Krieger snapped as he opened the file with one mouse click.

  “You know Unsolved Mysteries hasn’t been on for like five years, right?” Kimball informed him.

  Parsons glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. “Einstein over here still thinks we’re in the twentieth century.”

  “So do your computer skills,” Krieger shot back.

  “Silence is golden, boys,” I said as the first grainy images appeared on the monitor. “Tell us what we’re looking at, Jimmy.”

  Parsons turned his attention to the screen. “This was taken from the parking garage last night at approximately 7:33 P.M., two hours before the victim’s estimated time of death. Keep an eye on the Honda.”

  Almost on cue, a white Honda Accord appeared in the camera’s view, coming to a stop in a parking spot near the stairwell. A tall, slender man quickly emerged from the driver’s seat.

  “Who’s that?” Kimball asked.

  “His name is Arturo Sandoval,” Krieger answered. “He’s been identified as an employee of the Four Seasons, part of the overnight maintenance crew.”

  “Ok, so why are we looking at him?” I asked with an impatient sigh.

  Krieger waited a few seconds before answering. “Because of her.” He pointed to the screen as a woman exited the passenger’s side door.

  “Is that?”

  “It most certainly is.”

  “Marisol Alvarez,” Kimball muttered. “Outstanding.”

  “Oh, but wait. It gets much, much better.”

  Arturo met Marisol on the passenger’s side of the car where the two briefly embraced. As Marisol tried to cut the exchange short, Arturo pulled her back into him, kissing her with a degree of force that clearly made her uncomfortable. He staggered backward as she nudged him away. There was a short exchange, nothing heated. Then Marisol disappeared into the stairwell. Arturo, dressed in a dark windbreaker, blue jeans, and a Colorado Rockies baseball hat, lingered by the car for a few seconds before following Marisol.

  “So they were lovers,” Kimball surmised.

  “None of the staff we spoke to has made that connection,” Parsons replied. “But the tape don’t lie.”

  “Was Arturo interviewed?” I asked as I watched him enter the stairwell.

  “No,” Krieger confirmed. “He wasn’t scheduled to work last night. We only interviewed employees who were on duty at the time.”

  “Marisol’s shift began at 8 P.M. He could have simply been giving her a ride.”

  “That’s what we thought too,” Parsons said as he fast-forwarded through static footage. “Until we saw this.”

  When Parsons pressed play, the scene had shifted inside the hotel to the hallway of the presidential suite. The time stamp on the bottom of the screen read 7:40 P.M.

  “I thought the cameras on that floor weren’t picking anything up,” a wide-eyed Kimball said.

  “They weren’t,” Krieger answered. “Beginning at 9:19 P.M. They were working just fine prior to that. For some bizarre reason the security guys didn’t go back far enough until we asked them to.”

  Unlike the brief but intimate scene that played out in the parking garage, the dynamic between the couple was tense as they stood outside of the suite. The muted audio didn’t allow us to hear their words, but their exaggerated hand gestures and rigid body language more than adequately told the story.

  The four of us watched in dead silence as an agitated Marisol slipped a key card into the door of the suite. Arturo hovered behind her. With each second that passed, the timbre of his voice appeared to rise.

  Kimball shook his head as he looked at me. “This is almost too easy.”

  I nodded in agreement and turned back to the screen, just in time to see Arturo enter the suite behind Marisol.

  Parsons stopped the video at that point. “And there it is kiddos. The closest thing to a smoking gun that we’re probably gonna get.”

  “Any footage of the good Mr. Sandoval leaving the suite?” Kimball asked with a loud sigh.

  Krieger shook his head. “The video feed disruption occurred while he was still inside.”

  “Lucky bastard,” Kimball hissed.

  “I’d say his luck just ran out,” Parsons countered.

  I agreed, but couldn’t shake the image of Marisol long enough to respond. In homicide, we aren’t often afforded the opportunity to see a victim in action minutes before their death. Most of the time we have to use our imaginations to fill in the details that a photo couldn’t provide: the way they walked, the way they talked, the manner in which they dressed. Sometimes those details were accurate. Most times, they were not. In Marisol’s case, the details were crystal-clear – from the pressed neatness of her long ponytail, to the way her hotel uniform hung loosely around her shapely body, to the way she kept her arms in tight to her sides as she walked. The only thing left to the imagination was her voice, and how it must have sounded when she uttered her first cry for help.

  “It’s time to pay Mr. Sandoval a visit,” I said as the sound of Dana Alvarez’s mature but vulnerable voice echoed in my head.

  Parsons groaned as he stood up from the computer. “Figured you say that. I already put in a call to the Four Seasons HR office.” He handed me a Post-It note with what I presumed was Arturo’s address on it.

  “Priors?” Kimball asked.

  “He does have a rap sheet, but nothing major,” Krieger reported. “We crossed referenced the address given by the hotel to his DMV records. So it’s a good bet we’ll find him there.”

  Kimball smiled from ear to ear. The physical chase was his favorite part. “You ready to saddle up, partner?”

  I had already un-holstered my Glock to remove the safety. “Let’s ride.”

  “Can’t storm the Alamo without the cavalry,” Krieger said as he put on his jacket. “Besides, my hefty partner here is the quickest draw in the West.”

  Parsons pointed his half-eaten Milky Way in our direction and fired. “And I never miss.”

  With that, the Four Horsemen rode off into battle, no one bothering to warn Parsons about the long strand of caramel dangling from his chin.

  CHAPTER 6

  Even though we were reasonably certain that Arturo was our guy, we decided against bringing along a uniform presence. The initial contact with a potential suspect always worked better when you appeared to come in peace. As far as he would know, we were simply interviewing hotel staffers who were not on duty last night, and his name was next on the list.

  I usually did the talking in such instances, born diplomat that I am. Kimball gave no indication that this instance would be any different.

  “If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to save the news about the surveillance footage until after we get him downtown,” I said to the group as we approached Arturo’s apartment building. “Unless the sight of you three beauties sends him scrambling out the back exit.”

  “Do you want me to swing around in case he does?” Kimball asked. Always ready for the chase.

  “Let’s just play it cool for now,” I advised. “You never know, he could turn out to be a real sweetheart.”

  I buzzed apartment 504. After a few moments, a gruff voice came over the intercom.

  “Yeah?”

  “Arturo Sandoval?”

  The delayed response told me this was going to be a problem visit.

  “Mr. Sandoval?” I repeated.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Denver police department, sir. We understand you’re employed at the Four Seasons hotel. We’re in the process of gathering witness statements and would like to ask you some questions about an incident that occurred there last night.” I looked ba
ck at the cavalry. They seemed satisfied with my level of tact.

  Based on the silence I was receiving from the other side of the intercom, Arturo was not so impressed.

  “Mr. Sandoval?” I buzzed his apartment again. No answer. I looked at Kimball. He nodded.

  “I’ll go around back.”

  The ex-collegiate linebacker ambled around the side of the building with near effortless speed.

  Parsons and Krieger tensed, both of them instinctively bringing up their hands near their shoulder holsters.

  “Are we going in?” I asked as my finger hovered over the buzzer marked ‘manager’.

  They nodded simultaneously.

  Seconds later, a female voice came over the intercom. “Manager.”

  “Denver police department. There is a tenant in your building that we’d like to speak to and he won’t answer his door. Arturo Sandoval in 504.”

  Her irritated sigh indicated this was an all-too-common occurrence. “Come in.”

  The sound of Kimball’s booming voice diverted my attention before I could walk inside. “Denver P.D.! Stop right there!”

  Shit.

  The adrenaline spike carried me off the front stoop and around the side of the building before I realized I had even taken my first step.

  “Cover the inside,” I yelled back to Krieger and Parsons as the pair raced through the front door.

  I heard the first explosion as I rounded the corner. A second explosion quickly followed. I arrived at the rear of the building to the distant sound of screeching tires and the sight of a slumped-shouldered Kimball holding his service pistol. My mind naturally gravitated to the worst-case scenario.

  “Are you hit?”

  “No,” Kimball hissed as he stared down the empty alley. “The asshole gave it his best try though.”

  I had difficulty gathering my breath in spite of the short distance I’d run. “Did you catch the make and plate of the car he got into?”

  “Late model Dodge Durango. I couldn’t catch the plate.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  Kimball holstered his Glock. “Apparently he high-tailed it down here the instant we ID’d ourselves, because he was already out the back door when I arrived. I told him who I was, ordered him to stop, and that’s when he pulled out the hand cannon.”