by Blair Howard
“Leo, my son, is a stockbroker—” He coughed as he said it. It was almost as if the words choked him. “Excuse me. He’s a stockbroker. Does most of his business from here, via the Internet. Cas—that’s Caspian—is only nineteen. He’s a freshman at Georgetown. He’s home for fall break. Evan is in real estate…. No. He’s not. He’s a lazy, no good—he’s not working right now. Michael is the general manager at the Windward Resort where you’re staying; the family owns it. And Vivien’s daughter’s husband Jeffery is in banking, I think. None of the women work, at least not in the general sense of the word.”
What the hell does he mean by that? I wondered. But I wasn’t given the opportunity to find out. There was a knock at the door, and Moore opened it just far enough to look in.
“The lady from the police is here for Mr. Starke, sir.”
I got to my feet. “Thank you, sir,” I said to Martan. “That will do for now. I’ll want to see everyone tomorrow morning, first together as a group, then individually. We’ll also need to fingerprint everyone for purposes of elimination, should the need arise. If you could pass the word on to them, make sure everybody is here, including—” I looked at the list again “—Carriere, when we arrive, which should be around ten. That will give everyone time to get breakfast. Right now, I want to go and look at Gabrielle’s room.”
-----
Daisy Patel was not at all what I was expecting. She was perhaps forty-five or forty-six years old, no more than five foot four, attractive, but slim as a rail and all business; she was also very good at her job, something that both surprised and delighted me.
She was waiting for us in the foyer. Tommy Quinn made the introductions.
“You’re the tech I met earlier,” I realized suddenly, “at the scene.”
She nodded. We shook hands; her grip was firm, strong, and lasted no more than a second before she withdrew her hand and involuntarily wiped it on her pant leg. I smiled at her; she shrugged, not the slightest bit embarrassed by her own obvious distaste for human contact.
“How do you want to do this?” she asked.
“What did you find in the girl’s room?”
“I tell you what. Here are my notes. Diagrams and photos of the scene and her rooms. Why don’t you take a look at those first, and then we’ll go up there and I’ll walk you through it. That would be the best approach.”
I looked through the photos and glanced through her notes, pleased to see her professional approach to her work. When I was done I handed the folder to Kate.
When she was done too, the four of us donned booties and latex gloves. I opened my iPad and took out my stylus, and Quinn removed the tape that blocked access to Gabrielle Martan’s suite of rooms.
The door led into a small foyer that gave way to a spacious living room, a small kitchen, a huge bedroom, and a bathroom that was almost as big; all were located on the south side of house.
I turned on the lights and looked around. “Just give me a minute before we begin. I need to get a feel for the place,” I said to Quinn and Patel. Kate already knew my methods and had, over the years, developed a set of her own that closely mirrored them.
The rooms were luxurious, and decorated from a palette of pastel colors: pink, blue, yellow, and white, lots of white.
The living-room furniture was all white; even the decorations where white: milk-glass decanters, vases, and bowls on the sideboards, several milk-glass bottles of various shapes and sizes and two fruit dishes on the coffee table, all obviously old, vintage at least. The walls were a pale shade of lemon; the drapes that hung by the French windows were striped in pastel shades of blue, pink, and lemon. The carpet was the palest shade of powder blue; there was a small section close to the center of the room that was missing. I could guess why.
We stood side by side in the foyer and took stock of the living room, then I led the others into the bedroom, which was almost identical in size, and where French windows ran almost the entire width of the room, as they did in the living room. The covers were missing from the bed, but I assumed that, like the furnishings, they were white, custom made, and expensive, just like the drapes drawn over the window.
“Is this how you found it? There’s not a stick out of place. It doesn’t even look lived in. And I’m not seeing the usual mess of fingerprint powder.”
“Pretty much,” she replied. “The suite was cleaned this morning, around ten o’clock, ten thirty. We didn’t talk to the housekeeper. She’d already left when we arrived. As far as fingerprint powder, I use a magnetic material. It’s easy to clean up. All I need is a magnet. Can you imagine the mess the colored stuff would have made in here? You’d never be able to get the place clean again.”
“Prints?” I asked.
“The usual. I’ll need to print the family and staff to eliminate everyone I can.”
I nodded. “And what time did you arrive?”
“We got the call at 2:45 and flew straight here. We got here just after 3:30. The doctor arrived at 4:05. You arrived at 4:55—the first time,” she said dryly.
What the hell is her problem?
“The piece of carpet—blood?” I nodded toward the bare patch.
“Yes. A single spot. Tiny. If we hadn’t been looking for it, we would have missed it.”
I looked at Quinn. He was staring at the bare spot.
“What else?” I asked.
“There was a condom wrapper under the edge of the bed. It must have been put there sometime after the room was cleaned… or not, if the housekeeper missed it, though I don’t see how she could have. The bed was made up. I had it stripped and the covers bagged and tagged when I found the condom wrapper. Everything is in Charlotte Amalie, at the forensic center. We’ll run DNA tests on the blood to make sure it’s hers, but I doubt we’ll get the results back anytime before Christmas. We’ll run the bedding for hair and fibers, and we’ll print the wrapper. You should have those results sometime tomorrow. I’ll make sure you do.”
I nodded. “How about the bathroom?”
“Nothing. Clean.”
“The drains?”
She nodded. “Sinks, bath, and shower. Jerry removed the traps and covers and swabbed to a depth of eighteen inches; all clean—pristine, in fact. We tested the swabs. No blood. The same with the traps.”
“The blood spot. What were your first impressions?”
“Not spatter. A drip, I think. It was resting on top of one of the wool fibers. It probably fell from the trickle by her ear when she was moved.”
“Any idea where it might have happened?”
“Not specifically, but probably somewhere close to the center of the room; in one of the chairs, maybe.”
“I agree,” I said. “If she’d been standing, there would have been more blood spatter. Sitting, most if not all of it would have landed on her clothing. Still….” I looked around at where the section of carpet had been cut away. “Was there any sign the carpet had been cleaned in any way?”
“Washed, you mean? No. It was dry and, as you can see, clean. The single spot was all there was.”
“Luminol? Black light?”
She looked sharply at me. “Of course,” she snapped.
“Of course you did. Sorry. How about her clothing? Have you had a chance to inspect that yet?”
“Not yet. It went with the body to Charlotte Amalie. I’ll get to it as soon as I get back there. You’ll have the results of that too.”
I ignored her tone. “Who found the body, and how?”
“I’m told she was found by the gardener. I don’t know his name, nor do I particularly care. I just do my job and leave the clever stuff to the detectives.” She turned and looked at me. “And to you, I guess.”
What the hell is wrong with you, lady?
“Okay, Ms. Patel. Out with it. Who kicked your cat, and why do you have your knife into me?”
She sighed, shook her head. “It’s not you, Mr. Starke. I wasn’t asked to do this. I was ordered, dragged away from… from…
my daughter’s giving birth as we speak. She shouldn’t be. She’s at risk. I should be there, but I’m stuck here until God only knows when—but that’s no concern of yours. Let’s get on with it. The sooner we’re through, the sooner I can get back.”
Damn. That’s on me. “Have you called? How’s she doing?”
“So far so good. She’s in labor, but….”
“Okay. Do you have anyone here that can fill in for you? I need about an hour with you tonight, and I need to get everyone fingerprinted in the morning. Do you have anyone here who can do that?”
“No. Just me. When we finished with the scene and her rooms I sent everyone else home.”
“Damn. It needs to be done by a sworn officer.”
“I can do it,” Quinn said. “If you’ll leave the scanner here I’ll transmit the files and see that the machine gets back to you as soon as I can.”
She brightened visibly.
I nodded. “Let’s get on with it then, but before we do, do you have a way to get back to St. Thomas?”
“I’ll make a call. I have a friend with a boat who can come and get me.”
“A boat? Won’t that take all night?”
“It’s a fast boat, and the sea is calm right now. It’ll only be ninety minutes or so.”
“That will put you in St. Thomas around one thirty. I think we can do better than that. I noticed there’s a helicopter at the back of the house. I assume it’s Leo’s. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind giving you a ride. Tommy, would you mind asking him to join us, please?”
They were back just a couple of minutes later, but the helicopter—it belonged to Leo Jr.—was a no-go. The pilot was in St. Croix until morning and the only other person with a license was Leo Jr. himself, and he was nowhere to be found. Daisy Patel would have to take the boat.
Leo Sr. left. Said he’d be in his office if we needed him.
“I’m sorry Ms. Patel,” I said after he’d gone. “We tried. Make the call to your friend.” And she did.
I walked to the French windows, opened the door, and walked out onto the balcony, being very careful about where I put my feet. The balcony was wide—huge, in fact, probably ten feet from the doors to the rail, and it stretched the entire width of the two rooms. I took a small tape measure from my pocket. The rail was solid stone, or maybe concrete, and slightly less than forty inches high. Just below the belt for me, but for a girl some six to eight inches shorter….
I leaned over the rail and looked down at the tent below. It looked tiny. Damn. That’s a hell of a drop.
I walked the length of the balcony, inching my way along, looking for anything that might provide a clue as to what might have happened: nothing.
I looked across the gap that separated Gabrielle’s balcony from the identical one next door. They were about eight to ten feet apart. It would be quite a jump, but not because of the distance: the rails were narrow, hardly jumping-off or landing spots, but… not impossible. Hell, you never know.
Once more I looked down at the small white tent below and wondered: Was she conscious? Did she know what was happening to her? I sure as hell hoped not.
I heaved a sigh and looked up, out over the golf course. The lights of the resort were visible just beyond the moonlit fairway, and a few degrees to the west I could see those of the wharf and marina and the boats, and beyond that the ocean, silver and sparkling in the moonlight: the view was breathtaking. I turned away, shaking my head, wistful, wishing….
“Ms. Patel,” I said, reentering the living room, blinking a little in the sudden light. “Did Dr. Matheson make any mention of a time of death?”
“No, but it would have had to have been sometime after noon; I believe she had lunch with her father.”
“And you say you got the call at 2:45. Tommy, how about you?”
“The same. We rode over together. I took a quick look at the scene and turned it over to Ms. Patel.”
“So the gardener discovered the body; do you know when? Do you know his name?” Kate asked, leaning over the balcony.
“His name’s Jackson. I’m not sure exactly when he found her. I didn’t talk to him.”
“What? Why the hell not?”
He looked at her as if she’d slapped him in the face.
“Whoa, lady. I didn’t talk to him because no sooner had I looked at the body than I was sent on a wild goose chase after Sherlock Holmes here. If you—”
“Okay,” I interrupted him. “Okay. That’s enough. I don’t need you two squabbling, so don’t even start—”
“Did you talk to anybody, anybody at all?” Kate demanded.
“Only Mr. Martan.”
“You were here for no more than thirty minutes,” Kate said. “You talked to no one but Martan, and yet you decided it was suicide. How come?”
Yeah. How come. That’s something that’s been bothering me.
He looked away. “I just didn’t see how it could have been anything else! There were no marks on her that I could see, just the gash on her forehead, which I assumed had been caused by the fall. No defensive wounds, nothing under her nails… and there was no one else here other than a few family members: father, mother, brothers. What else could it have been? The place is a fortress. You know that.”
“The indicators were there,” Kate said. “You just didn’t—”
“Okay. That’s enough.” I could see the color rising in Quinn’s face, so I cut her off before things could get any more out of hand.
“You said that no sooner had you looked at the body…. What time was that?” I asked him. “How long after you landed?”
“I dunno. Thirty minutes. Maybe a little more. I barely had time to inspect the scene before they were out here, Mr. Martan and that butler of his. Which is another reason I didn’t see—”
“So four o’clock, then?”
“About that time, yeah.”
Hmmm. I’m not getting this. I need to know what time the gardener found her.
It was too far and too time-consuming to go looking for Martan, so I took out my iPhone and dialed his number. He answered on the second ring.
“Hi, sorry to bother you sir, but I need to talk to the gardener. Could you have Moore send him up here, please?”
“He’s not on the property, I’m afraid.”
“Ah. Well when will he be here?”
“Tomorrow morning, presumably, when his next shift starts.”
“Fine. Would you please make sure he’s available when I get here, then? I want to talk to him as soon as I can.”
He said that he would; I said goodbye, and then turned to Kate.
“Well, you heard that. I’m not understanding the timeline here. Tommy arrives at three thirty and by four he’s at the resort with Leo Martan.”
“Yeah,” she said, “and there’s more, I think. She was still dressed for bed. We know the room was cleaned by ten thirty, eleven at the latest, and she could well have been in her pajamas while that was being done, but….” She looked up from the photos, waved one of them at Patel. You said she had lunch with her father. If so, she wouldn’t have been dressed like this. Her fiancé wasn’t here, so she must have been having an affair, which would account for the condom wrapper and how she was dressed. So at noon, if she was with her father—why didn’t he mention it?”
“Let’s find out,” I said, fishing for my phone again. After I hung up, I looked around at the others. “She didn’t have lunch with him. She was supposed to, but she called and said she had a headache, and took a rain check.”
I looked at Kate, then Quinn, then Patel, and then I watched a slow smile grow on Kate’s face.
“Our Gabby was a naughty girl,” she said. “Either that, or her boyfriend snuck in, gave her one, then whacked her over the head, tossed her over the rail, and then snuck out again. Hardly seems likely, does it. Which begs the question: Who was she screwing? And why the condom? In these enlightened times, fiancés don’t generally use them. They rely on other methods. So neither of them
would have them around, and if she was on the pill or something she probably wouldn’t have required her visitor to use one either, which means he came prepared in that he didn’t want to leave his DNA, and that smacks of premeditation, right?”
There was no denying her logic. We didn’t know if she was having an affair, but I sure as hell would find out. But even then what we’d have would only be circumstantial; it could still have been the fiancé.
“We need to find out if she was on some sort of birth control,” I said.
“Maybe not,” Kate said suddenly, and then she turned and walked into the bathroom, returning a moment later waving a pack of contraceptive patches. “She was on the patch.”
“Okay, so that provides us with more questions, not the least of which is: When did she take that swan dive?” I said it to nobody in particular. “I find it hard to believe she was lying out there in the heat of the day and no one spotted her. Dressed as she was, she’d attract attention, and quickly. Yes?”
I looked around the group. Kate shrugged. Quinn shook his head, frowning. Patel had her eyes closed as if deep in thought. “Ms. Patel?”
She opened her eyes, blinked twice, then shook her head and said, “Body temperature isn’t going to help. She was very warm. No rigor. Either she wasn’t dead more than a few minutes, or the heat of the day and rocks she was lying on interfered with the natural cooling process. There’s a window of opportunity between eleven in the morning and when the gardener found her. That could be as long as three hours.”
“True. We’ll get a better idea when we talk to him, and the ME, in the morning. Well,” I said, taking a last look around, “there’s not a whole lot more we can do until tomorrow. Let’s get out of here, shall we?”
“Here’s my cell number,” Patel said, handing me her card. “All being well with Miranda—that’s my daughter—I’ll be in the office by eight thirty. Call me anytime. I’ll drop everything,” she added dryly.
I couldn’t help but smile at her, and she softened.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. You’ve been very kind. Were it not for you, I’d still be here in the morning. In the meantime, if you’ll have someone take me back to the Windward, I’ll leave you my fingerprint scanner.”
