Murder in the One Percent

by Saralyn Richard

  “These rich folks are different,” Schrik said. “We can’t just turn up on their doorsteps and expect them to confess. They’re gonna lawyer up on us, and turn this case into a comedy of errors. Better to make an appointment, act as if they are not suspects, just witnesses.”

  “I hate to lose two days of investigation time, though, Chief,” Parrott complained. “New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.”

  “Society columns show blurbs about annual New Year’s Eve parties hosted by the Winthrops. You wouldn’t get much out of them, anyway, if they’re preparing for a party.”

  “Isn’t it sort of crass to give a party when you’ve just had a murder among your circle of friends?” Parrott asked.

  “Maybe for you and me,” Schrik commented. “The Winthrops live by different standards. Besides, they apparently have a lot to celebrate this year. Anyway, you have an appointment to interview them on Thursday morning at Winthrop’s office at the Fed. Meanwhile, Maria Rodriguez wants to meet with you today. She’s got results from the goods you took in.”

  Parrott rubbed his hands together. Maybe Maria would give him another gold nugget today. And afterward, he had big plans for ushering in the new year.

  ***

  “Hey, Oliver,” Maria called, as Parrott entered her tiny office. “Happy New Year.”

  “Good to see you, Maria. My new year’s happiness depends on what you have for me,” Parrott replied.

  “Well, grab a cup of coffee, and we’ll have a chat about palytoxin, shall we?”

  Parrott spun his chair around to face the Mr. Coffee machine. He poured a cup of hot java into a Styrofoam cup. He took a first sip. “Mmm, thanks.” He turned back around, the cup of coffee held in his lap.

  “Maria, I’ve been reading up on palytoxin. It exists in fish tanks, but isn’t toxic when wet. Is that right?”

  “Absolutely. It has to be processed into a powder form. The person using it would have to be careful not to inhale or ingest it.”

  “Well, there’s an aquarium at the victim’s house. His widow might have harvested the poison and figured out a way to administer it to him. She doesn’t seem sophisticated enough to have done it on her own, though.”

  “Well, maybe she had an accomplice. You might want to look into that, especially after you hear my latest report.”

  Parrott felt his pulse quicken, and he squeezed the edge of Maria’s desk. “What is it?”

  “Well, first of all, let’s talk about the truffles.”

  “Okay.”

  “The labs analyzed them thoroughly. They contained, as expected, large amounts of chocolate, caffeine, sugar, and some alcohol. But no poison.”

  “Doesn’t mean that the truffles weren’t the source of the poison. Just that the ones Spiller gave me were clean.”

  “Yes, but you brought in five types of medications from the victim’s Dopp kit. Celebrex, Voltaren, Viagra, Restasis eye drops, Metamucil.”

  “Right.”

  “We tested each of them under carefully controlled conditions in our lab. The Celebrex, Voltaren, Viagra, and Restasis were all exactly what they were supposed to be.”

  Parrott’s right eyebrow lifted and held. “And the Metamucil?”

  “The powder in the Metamucil container was not Metamucil. It was palytoxin.”

  Parrott jumped out of his chair and slammed the coffee cup on the medical examiner’s desk, spilling a bit. “You’re not shitting me?”

  “The state labs never lie.”

  The wheels in Parrott’s brain were churning at full speed. “So the murder weapon has been found. In the victim’s room. Now all I have to figure out is how it got there, and how it got into Preston Phillips’ body.”

  ***

  Parrott returned to the station to give the news to Chief Schrik. “It’s looking more and more like the palytoxin came from the victim’s own aquarium, Chief, don’t you think?”

  Schrik smiled around the paper clip in his mouth, pleased by Parrott’s enthusiasm. “Careful now. Anybody could have carried the Metamucil bottle into the victim’s room and left it in his bathroom after they used it.”

  “Don’t rain on my parade, Chief. I’m finally beginning to move on this case.” Parrott rubbed the sides of his head with both hands.

  “Okay, Parrott.” Schrik had been careful not to pressure his detective toward a quick solution, despite the enormous pressure being brought to bear on him. “What are your next steps?”

  “It’s New Year’s Eve, right?” Parrott began. When his boss nodded, he went on, “I’ll be welcoming the new year in New York City.”

  Schrik looked at Parrott with surprise. “I thought your girl was overseas.”

  “She is,” Parrott replied. “I’ll be celebrating by myself. Or actually observing how the other half lives.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m going to stake out the Dakota. Find out how the new Widow Phillips celebrates.”

  Chapter 41

  On his way into the Phillipses’ co-op building, Parrott decided to take a short detour to Mount Sinai Hospital to look in on the Kelleys. If there was any good thing about Gerald’s stroke, from the standpoint of the investigation, it was that Gerald would likely be in the same place for a while, and no lawyers would be hovering to prevent the asking of questions. The bad thing, of course, was that Gerald might not be able to answer.

  Gerald had been moved to a private room at the end of a hallway, where private duty nurses surrounded him twenty-four/seven. Parrott showed his badge to get there. As he approached, he saw a small nook twenty feet from the doorway, where Kitty and a young woman sat in two Naugahyde chairs. Kitty was needlepointing as if her life depended on it. The young woman’s thumbs were flying over her hand-held device. Both looked up at Parrott.

  “Hello, Detective,” Kitty said, folding the needlepoint, placing it on a Formica end table. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in a month. “Have you met my daughter Lexie?”

  Parrott extended his hand to the young woman. “Oliver Parrott.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Lexie shook hands, giving her mother a questioning look.

  Reading her daughter’s mind, Kitty explained, “Detective Parrott is investigating the death of Mr. Phillips, Peter’s dad.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Lexie said. “With all that’s happened to Dad, I forgot about Mr. Phillips.”

  Lexie’s resemblance to her father is uncanny. A shame, Parrott thought, since her mother is quite attractive, even in her current state of distress.

  “Would you like to sit down?” Kitty asked Parrott. She pointed to the empty chair. “We’re waiting while they do physical therapy.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Parrott said. “How’s Mr. Kelley doing?”

  “He’s about the same. One side paralyzed, still not talking.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Parrott said. “Does he seem to understand when you talk to him?”

  Kitty thought before answering. “It’s hard to say. He nods and shakes his head, makes eye contact. But who knows what is going on inside his head?”

  “Do you think I might have a few minutes with him?” Parrott asked. Mentally, he crossed his fingers, hoping the answer would be yes and he might get a bit of information from this witness, impaired though he may be. “I only have three questions.”

  “I don’t know,” Kitty said, “Gerald is still very ill. The likelihood of subsequent strokes is high after a major one like this, and we don’t want him to be upset in any way.”

  “I understand,” Parrott replied. “But this is a murder investigation, and we really need everyone’s cooperation. I doubt I’ll upset him. And I promise to be quick.”

  Kitty sighed but led Parrott to the door, where she rapped lightly with a knuckle. She pushed the door inward and stuck her head inside. “Is Mr. Kelley asleep?” she whispered.

  The afternoon nurse was holding a cup of water with a straw to the mouth of the patient, who was tilted into a sitting position in the hospital bed. Th
e room was filled with afternoon sunshine and floral arrangements on every available surface. The aroma of flowers and greenery masked the usual hospital smells, making for a cheery ambience. If it weren’t for the blips and beeps of the machines keeping track of Gerald’s vital signs, Parrott might have been in someone’s solarium.

  Gerald was clean-shaven and neat in starched bedclothes and maroon silk pajamas. It looked like he had lost at least twenty pounds in the past week. His sparse sandy-grey hair was cleanly parted to one side, recently trimmed around the ears. His blue eyes lacked the clarity Parrott had noticed previously, but they were fixed on Parrott’s face in an eerie fascination.

  “Honey,” Kitty cooed. “Do you remember Detective Parrott? He is investigating Preston’s death. We all met him that day at Caro’s house?”

  Gerald’s nod was almost imperceptible.

  “I’d like to ask you some questions, Mr. Kelley.” He paused to observe any medical reaction. Noting none, he proceeded. “Do you know if anyone at the party had a reason to kill Mr. Phillips?”

  Gerald looked at Kitty but didn’t respond in any other way.

  Disappointed, Parrott paused for a full minute before asking his second question. He had hoped for a better response, either from Kelley or from Kitty as interpreter. Seeing that no answer was forthcoming, he proceeded with his second question. “Are you aware of anyone’s having seen or talked to Mr. Phillips after the gentlemen smoked cigars?”

  Again, Gerald looked at Kitty then back at Parrott.

  Parrott paused again, thinking this whole interview would be a waste of precious time. He hadn’t expected a verbal answer, but he had at least hoped for a tell.

  He leaned forward, blocking Gerald’s view of his wife, as he asked his final question. “Mr. Kelley, have you ever heard of a poison called palytoxin?”

  With this question, Gerald’s eyes widened, and the heart monitor blips increased in frequency.

  Either Kelley was familiar with palytoxin, or something else was causing him to become excited, or maybe fearful.

  The nurse inserted her narrow body between patient and detective. “I think that’s enough questioning for today,” she said. “Mr. Kelley needs to rest.” She waved her skinny arms about, shooing the visitors away toward the door and out into the hall.

  ***

  Parrott retrieved his car from the hospital parking attendant. He couldn’t shake a sense of gloom. The sadness over his cousin’s violent death in St. Louis still hung over him, but this case was occupying him day and night. Kelley’s reaction to palytoxin made him wonder. Would competition between Kelley and Phillips have been so intense as to lead to murder?

  The more he investigated, the more it seemed everyone was a suspect. Still, most clues pointed toward Nicole. It stuck in his craw that she had cremated the body so quickly, besides having the money motive, and access to palytoxin and that computer with palytoxin searches. On the other hand, while gut feelings were potent, it was important to maintain objectivity until all of the facts were available. And there were a lot of missing facts.

  Who, for example, had processed the palytoxin and placed it into the Metamucil container? How did it get into the victim’s body in the wee hours of that Sunday morning? And wouldn’t Phillips have been worth more to his wife alive than dead? As much as he wanted to pin the murder on her, Parrott had to admit he had doubts about her being able to pull it off, especially with that metal halo on her leg. Then there was the matter of the green thread on the chair. It might mean nothing, but in a place like the Campbell farm, where servants must have taken meticulous steps to prepare the rooms for company, he felt it might still offer a meaningful clue.

  By the time Parrott considered all of this, he was approaching the Dakota, and it was five-thirty in the afternoon. The Victorian building had a grandeur and reputation that might have been intimidating, had Parrott not focused his thoughts solely on the task at hand. He parked on the Central Park West side, where he had a view of the formal entrance to the building. He was counting on the fact that his Toyota Camry would not attract too much attention, despite its placement in a no parking zone. On the seat beside him sat a knapsack filled with provisions and equipment for a lengthy stakeout.

  There were already a few people going in and coming out of the Dakota. Parrott fished the mini-camera from the knapsack. Using the zoom feature, he took a picture of a middle-aged man hurrying into the building, his face covered by the low brim of his hat, and carrying a gift bag from Bergdorf Goodman. He was aiming for another shot when he heard a tap on the car window. A New York City policeman motioned him to roll down the window.

  “This is a no parking zone,” the stocky officer said, leaning his freckled face in for a look.

  Parrott put down the camera and reached into his jacket for his police badge. He knew how it must look to the officer, seeing a stranger taking pictures outside of the Dakota. Security there had been thick ever since the Lennon assassination. Now another famous tenant had been murdered, albeit not on the premises. “West Brandywine Police,” he offered, showing the badge. “Investigating the death of Preston Phillips. Want to see who comes and goes on New Year’s Eve at his residence.”

  “I gotta call it in to verify,” the cop said. “Just take me a minute.”

  “No problem.”

  The cop stepped away from the car, Parrott’s badge in one hand, cellphone in the other. A minute later he returned to the side of the Toyota. “Checks out. You can stay.”

  “Thanks,” Parrott replied, relieved that this one obstacle had been eliminated.

  “Here’s my card. If I can help you in any way, just call. Oh, and by the way,” the policeman said. “That guy you just photographed? That was the mayor. You might want to delete that one.”

  ***

  Surveillance during winter in New York meant sitting in an uncomfortably frigid automobile, trying to stay alert, and pushing all thoughts of nature breaks aside for as long as possible. Parrott took photos of several people entering the Dakota; others he gave passes to, based on gut instinct. He was looking for a male of a certain type, someone who might appeal to a young widow. He ignored people in pairs and groups, as well. If his hunches served him well, Nicole Phillips would not want to spend New Year’s Eve alone, but he didn’t imagine she would be hosting a party either.

  When the clock on the dashboard read eight-twenty-eight, Parrott noticed a young man striding quickly toward the Dakota’s entrance, his collar turned up, and his hat turned down. He was carrying a paper bag in the shape of a champagne bottle, and a bouquet of flowers that he might have bought in the train station. The belted all-weather coat and rubber snow boots he wore shouted “tawdry,” and Parrott fired off several photographic shots of him.

  It was time for the second stage of his plan. Parrott swung open his car door, took a West Brandywine Police Department placard out of his knapsack, threw it onto the dashboard in hopes of avoiding a ticket, pocketed the mini-camera, and dashed across the street toward the famed co-op building.

  The doorman looked him over as he opened the massive door into the spacious lobby. Parrott remembered the security station from his previous visits, but this time there were two uniforms behind it. The taller, older-looking one greeted Parrott with a superficial smile. “May I help you, sir?”

  Parrott removed his badge from his jacket pocket for the second time that evening. “Oliver Parrott, West Brandywine Police Detective. Investigating the death of Preston Phillips.”

  “What can we do for you, Detective?” the shorter, younger-looking guard asked, confident in his ability to cooperate with police, while still maintaining security for the building’s residents.

  “Can you tell me if the guy who just entered the building was going to Mrs. Phillips’ unit?”

  The two men looked at each other, the glance giving away the answer to Parrott’s question.

  Parrott went on, “What was the name he gave you?”

  Tall-old said, “I beli
eve it was Bartosh, Bill Bartosh.” He looked to Short-young for confirmation and received it in the form of a nod.

  “Bill Bartosh,” Parrott repeated, fixing the sound of it into his brain. “To your knowledge, has Mr. Bartosh visited Mrs. Phillips before?”

  Shrugs from both.

  “Not to my knowledge,” said the tall guy. “Shall I call Mrs. Phillips to announce you, Detective?”

  “No, sir,” Parrott replied. “I’ll just leave quietly for now. No need to alarm her.” He was mentally planning his next steps, almost giddy with the results of his watch. He made an about-face and had almost reached the heavy glass door when he remembered to call over his shoulder, “Thanks, guys. And Happy New Year.”

  Finally, Parrott was in a mood to celebrate.

  Chapter 42

  Libby hadn’t wanted to go out this year on New Year’s Eve. She and Les had been invited to several parties, but considering what had happened at the last party they’d attended, and her doctor’s admonitions about hers being a high-risk pregnancy, she just felt like nesting in her Manhattan mansion-in-the-sky. Besides, Margo had offered to come over and cook an authentic Italian dinner for three.

  Les had taken advantage of the low-key plans to put in a dozen solid hours at the office. The uncertainty at Miles Stewart had sent lapping waves of business to the other big houses on Wall Street, and as the up-and-coming CEO at Sterling Martin, he needed to harness the forces and nurture the tide. “Not that I mean any harm to Miles Stewart,” he’d said to Libby earlier, “I really feel for Gerald Kelley.” He glanced at his Rolex as he stepped into the apartment and saw Libby moving toward him in the spacious entryway. “It’s six-forty-seven. Just enough time to shower and change.” He sniffed the air. “Mmmm, garlic and tomatoes. Makes my mouth water.”