Blind Retribution

by K. T. Roberts

  “I’m sure we do. What about the warrant for Hilary Gardens?” Wallace asked.

  “Riley said it wasn’t ready.”

  “Okay, I’ll have one of the guys pick it up later.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tuesday morning, Max wanted Riley to know how grateful she for the reprieve after Howie’s death,

  “Thanks for helping me call all those guests yesterday. I’m sure that’s not what you had planned for your first day on a new job, but I just couldn’t go out after the trauma from Howie’s death.”

  “That was not a problem at all, Max. I’m just happy to be out of NARC and doing something different with a partner I’ve always admired.”

  “Gosh, you’re going to make me blush. Thank you.”

  He smiled. “You know, though,” Riley continued, “based on the reactions I received from the guests I’d called, the women gave the doc high marks, the men gave a less flowery opinion of him, but overall they liked him. Funny, that wasn’t the image I had in my mind when I sat down to make those calls, especially after reading the comments Howie left in the file.”

  “I had the same reactions from the women, who see the Barretts’ story like a romance novel with a happily-ever-after. As for the men, I received the same thing as you. Only time will tell.”

  Walking from the parking garage, the two detectives headed toward Mount Sinai. It wasn’t very often that Max got to enjoy the fresh air while on the job, so she looked upon the five-block walk over to the hospital as a rare treat. She didn’t even mind the hustle-bustle of the crowded sidewalks, although she found herself suspiciously watching everyone who walked past. The familiar smell of exhaust fumes from a bus pulling away from the curb reminded her of the years she’d walked from the subway to school each day. She hated the smell, but it was all part of living in New York—although she did wonder what her lungs looked like after inhaling all those fumes every day.

  They walked through the entrance, and Max pinched her nose from the strong medicinal and disinfectant smells that hit her the minute she exited the revolving door. “I hate the smell of hospitals.”

  “Yeah, it’s not something I like either,” Riley said. “I always think they’re using chemicals to cover up the smell of decaying bodies.”

  “Geez.” Max made a face. “That’s a morbid thought.” She released a low laugh. “Listen, before we get up there, I’d like you to pay close attention to Barrett’s body language and reactions when I start asking him questions.”

  The volunteers’ station was several feet away from the entrance. Huddled behind the circular desk, several ladies wore pink tops to help visitors identify them. Max approached an elderly woman. “We’re here to see Dr. Jeffrey Barrett. Can you tell me where his office is?”

  “I sure can, sweetie.” The woman keyed his name into the computer. “He’s in today.” She made some notations on a small piece of paper and handed it to Max, then leaned over the desk and pointed with her pen. “The elevator is down this hall. Take it up to the third floor, get off, and take a left until you get to the nurses’ station. You can ask for him there. Use this diagram in case you get lost.”

  “Thank you.” Walking away, Max smiled. “I just love little old ladies with blue hair.” She laughed.

  The ride up in the crowded elevator car was quiet. The strong smell of Shalimar perfume reeked inside the close quarters, causing Max to hold her breath. She’d know that perfume anywhere. Her mother wore it all the time. Thankful when the doors opened on the third floor, Max and Riley got out in a hurry and made their way to the nurses’ station.

  “We’re here to see Dr. Jeffrey Barrett.” Riley said.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the nurse asked.

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Well, Dr. Barrett is a busy man—” She stopped talking when Max presented her shield. “One minute, please.” She spoke into a microphone. “Calling Dr. Barrett. Please contact the third-floor nurses’ station.” She pointed to a waiting room. “Why don’t you have a seat? He should be with you shortly.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Jeffrey came walking down the hall with a sophisticated-looking blonde with long hair. Max thought she looked familiar but couldn’t place the woman.

  “Thank you, Dr. Barrett. Arianna is looking wonderful,” she heard the woman say.

  “The fact that her body is accepting the new heart exceptionally well is a good sign. She’s getting stronger every day.” Barrett walked the woman to the elevator and stopped at the nurses’ station on his way back. Max could see the nurse’s mouth moving and watched as Barrett turned to look in their direction. He headed toward them.

  “Detective, do you have news for me?”

  “Was that Senator Stansbury? One of our state senators?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was,” he said proudly, as though expecting them to be impressed with his clientele.

  Max brushed it off lightly. “I thought so.” She turned to her partner. “This is my new partner, Detective Neal Riley. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

  “Yes,” Barrett said. “Where is your other partner?”

  “Sadly, he died Sunday night.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Max nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Let’s go to my office.” They followed him down the hall a short distance. Inside, his office was only large enough for a desk, a credenza with a bookshelf, and two wooden chairs in front of the desk. He gestured for them to sit, then made his way to his office chair and pulled himself closer to his desk.

  “What news do you have?”

  “I don’t have any news, but we do have some more questions for you.”

  “What are they?”

  “Well, I’ve been going through your financial statements, and I’m confused.” Max pulled a piece of paper from her jacket pocket and looked at it. “Let’s see. Forgive me for using a cheat sheet, but I don’t want to forget anything. I get so busy sometimes I have to write things down. That ever happen to you, Dr. Barrett?”

  “It happens to all of us,” he said dryly and checked his watch. “I have to make rounds. Please, hurry along. I have a lot of patients.”

  “I don’t mean to take up your time, but if you could just explain what I found, I’d appreciate it. On October 3, you placed a freeze on the joint checking and savings accounts, blocking Mrs. Barrett’s access to any funds. I’m confused as to why you’d do such a thing two weeks before you renewed your vows.”

  Jeffrey released a sigh. “I told you, Helen and I were having trouble.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I froze those accounts when Helen told me she was leaving”—he flicked his hand in the air. “I had to do something to convince her to stay.”

  “I get that, but see, here’s the thing: if she was no longer in love with you and loved Mr. Hughes, enough to leave you for him, how did you manage to convince her to stay with you so quickly?”

  “Well . . . I . . . I mean, we’d had a lot of years together.”

  “You seem a little ruffled, Dr. Barrett. Did I hit a nerve?”

  “Yes, you did. I’m tired of you trying to point the finger at me. I did nothing wrong. I’m the widower here, remember?”

  “And I’m the detective trying to solve your wife’s murder. So what’s the deal with the freeze?”

  “I didn’t want her taking our money to share with that asshole, Jack Hughes. I just wanted to remind Helen how much we meant to each other. As you can see, I lifted the freeze after she agreed to stay with me.” He glanced quickly at his watch again.

  “Uh, no, I’m not quite getting that,” Max said. “You’re making it sound like your wife only stayed with you because you lifted the freeze.”

  His face flushed with anger. “I have rounds, but before I go, was it really necessary for you to call all my guests from the party?”

  “Yes, Dr. Barrett, it was necessary.”

  “What did you learn?”

  �
�It will be in our final report at the end of our investigation.”

  “Are we done here?” he snapped, clearly annoyed with her answer.

  “No, we’re not, but I can schedule an appointment for you to come to the precinct. I came here to make it easier for you, but I think there are too many distractions. I’m also curious about why you came back to work so soon after your wife’s death. And I hear you’ve replaced your Lamborghini already.”

  “What did you expect me to do?” he shot back. “Hide? Getting back to my routine is what I needed to do to stop sulking. You’re working after losing your partner, Detective,” he said in a clipped voice.

  “Point taken, but he wasn’t my spouse.” Max shoved her hand in her pocket. “Okay. That’s all for now. You’ll be hearing from us.”

  He stood to usher them out of his office, then made an abrupt stop. “And what’s happening with Hughes?”

  “We’re working on it.” Max began to walk away, then stopped. “One more question Dr. Barrett. I assume you’re having a memorial service for your wife. Can you tell me when that is?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to attend.”

  “If I do have anything, it will be by invitation only for close friends and family.”

  “If?”

  “Yes, Detective. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have rounds. Have a good day,” he said and briskly walked away.

  On their way back to the parking garage, Max turned to Riley. “That was an interesting statement.”

  “I’ll say,” Riley said with a shake of his head.

  “So what is your impression of him now?”

  “I’m sticking to what I originally thought when I read the file,” Riley said. “I guess all those people saying such flattering things should have been expected—he’s the big man on campus. But today, meeting him for the first time, I was surprised his emotions fluctuated.” Riley shrugged, “although his uneasiness came through loud and clear, especially when you asked about a memorial service.”

  “Yeah, he was pissed that I was quizzing him and had called his guests. What do you think? Guilty or innocent?”

  “I think he’s hiding something, but Jack’s the one with the damaging evidence against him. This one, not so much. As far as I’m concerned, I loved that he got mad. He told us more than he intended—especially about him not wanting Jack to have his money. Now, it really sounds more like his competitive side doesn’t like to lose than that he actually loved his wife.” Riley scratched his chin. “I read one of Howie’s comments in the file: he thought Mrs. Barrett might have been playing both sides.” He nodded his head in agreement. “I’m beginning to think he might have been right.”

  “Me too, but I’m not totally convinced yet that Barrett had anything to do with her death. There might be something else going on in the background.” She shook her head in confusion, “I just haven’t put my finger on it yet.” Max rubbed the bridge of her nose. “All right, our next stop is La Fontaine restaurant on Twelfth Street.”

  “Now I know we’re not having lunch at that swanky place on our salaries, so what’s there?”

  “The Hughes guy and Mrs. Barrett had lunch there on Saturday.”

  “Wow, Mrs. Barrett certainly had a busy day,” Riley said with a smirk. “Lunch with her former lover the same day she renewed her wedding vows, then finished the evening off by entertaining a hundred fifty guests?”

  “Apparently so.”

  A Closed sign hung from the window when they arrived at the restaurant. Riley shielded his eyes from the sun, peered through the glass door, and noticed a young woman wiping down menus.

  “There’s someone in there,” he announced.

  Max knocked impatiently on the glass door, and the woman ignored her until Riley held his badge against the windowpane. Shortly after, Max heard the lock recess and the door open.

  “We’re Detectives Turner and Riley from the 51st Precinct, NYPD.”

  “Yes, Detectives. As you can see, we’re not open yet.”

  “We’re not here for food, ma’am, we’re here to find out some information about two people—customers of yours.” The smell of bread baking in the oven filled the air and brought back warm memories of Max’s grandmother’s kitchen. She inhaled. “Boy, that bread sure smells good. I haven’t had homemade bread since . . . geez, since grammar school.” Glancing around the restaurant, Max noted the elegant dining room with beautifully set tables, clearly too expensive on her salary.

  “What can I do for you?” the young woman asked.

  “We’re investigating a homicide. I’d like to ask you a few questions about a Jack Hughes and a Helen Barrett. Do you know them?”

  “I do,” she replied meekly.

  “So then, I guess you know she was killed on Sunday morning?”

  She closed her eyes. “Yes, I saw it in the newspaper. What a shame. She was such a lovely lady.”

  “Yes, it is. We’re investigating her murder. I saw a charge on Mr. Hughes’s credit card for lunch at this restaurant for Saturday, the eighteenth—the day before she was killed. Can you verify Mrs. Barrett was here with him?”

  “Yes, she was, but surely you can’t believe he’s the one who killed her.”

  “I never said that,” Max responded in a clipped tone, her eyes making direct contact with the hostess. The sudden change in the woman’s demeanor caused Max to be suspicious. “Is there something else you’d like to tell me?”

  “No.” Max noticed she shook her head too rapidly. “Nothing.”

  Max frowned. “I’m sensing something happened on that day. What was it?”

  “I’d be happy to tell you what they ate as soon as I check the weekly receipts, but other than that, I have nothing to tell you.”

  “I’m not interested in what they ate. I want to know how they acted together.”

  “They were fine.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Simone Grant. Why?”

  “Well, Simone, I’ve been in law enforcement long enough to know when someone is hiding something.”

  “I’m not looking to get anyone in trouble,” Simone said, her flighty hand movements telling Max she was nervous. “You’re asking me to be disloyal to our customers.”

  “No. I’m asking you to tell me what you observed between the two.” Simone ignored the question and continued wiping down the menus, which was fraying Max’s already thinning patience. “Simone,” Max said abruptly, “this is a murder investigation—the only one you’re being disloyal to is Helen Barrett by not telling me what you saw and heard, so I’ll ask again, what did you see and hear?” Max said it firmly, her voice a few decibels higher than the start of the conversation.

  Riley intervened. “Of course, if you’d rather, we can arrest you for obstruction of justice for withholding information from the police.” Simone remained silent.

  When a chef walked out from the back, he looked concerned. “What’s going on out here, Simone?” he said in his native French accent.

  “This is my boss, chef François de la Fontaine.” Max and Riley acknowledged his presence by introducing themselves. “They want information about two of our customers,” Simone finished.

  “So tell them what they want to know. Our business is to feed our customers, not protect them.” He turned and walked back in through the double swinging doors of the kitchen.

  Simone bit down on her lip.

  “What do you have to hide?” Max asked.

  “I like the people.”

  “That’s okay. I’m merely trying to collect the facts so I can begin to eliminate suspects.” Max’s comment seemed to calm her down somewhat, and she started to talk.

  “Okay.” She fidgeted. “They argued. I have no idea about what, but the volume of their conversation started out very low, then Mr. Hughes’s voice escalated, which began to disturb the other diners. The dining room was full, and when we noticed how upset our other customers were getting, we asked him to leave.”

&n
bsp; “Did you hear any part of their argument?”

  Simone sighed. “Yes.” Max was beginning to feel like she was pulling the girl’s teeth out, trying to get her to respond.

  “What . . . did . . . you . . . hear?” Max asked firmly.

  “The only thing I heard was kill you.”

  Max turned to Riley, each getting a reading of what the other was thinking. “I’m going to need your reservations list for Saturday so we can contact those diners.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” Simone continued to defend Jack Hughes.

  “He probably didn’t, but that’s why we need the list, so we can talk to the others.”

  “Can I just go in and ask my boss if it’s all right to make a copy for you?”

  “Sure. Is there anything else you’d like to share?”

  “Just that when I asked him to leave, he stomped out in a fit of anger.” Simone turned toward the kitchen just as the chef carried out a white bag. Simone told him what they wanted.

  “Madame,” he said, “I’m sure you can understand my position. I ask that you give me . . .” He wiggled his fingers as though that would help the words come to him. “What is that piece of paper you get for permission?”

  “A warrant.”

  “Oui. That is what I would like before I turn over the reservation list. I hope you understand.”

  “I absolutely do.”

  “Here,” he said, handing her the bag. “I heard you talk about your childhood memory, so I buttered two rolls for you.” Max opened the bag, inhaled the aroma of yeast, and took a roll before passing the bag over to Riley. He removed his roll and bit into it; Max broke off a piece of hers and popped into her mouth. “Oh my God, this is so delicious. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing, Detective. Come in and have dinner with us sometime.”

  “I will. Thank you very much. And thank you, Miss Grant. We’ll be back later this afternoon with the warrant.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Holy crap,” Riley said, walking back to the car. “The evidence against Jack Hughes is mounting quickly.”