by Lauren Carr
“That’s because this witness didn’t realize she was a witness until much later,” Sanchez said.
“She was a sous chef,” Underwood said.
“She really liked to party,” Sanchez said. “That was how our guy, who’s name began with a ‘d’, knew her. They were really good friends. She went to all of his parties.”
“‘T’,” Underwood said. “His name began with a ‘t’.”
“Forget his name,” Mac said. “Tell me about the sous chef.”
“She saw the killer,” Underwood said. “More than that. She talked to him.”
“She was a real friendly, chatty type,” Sanchez said. “She saw this guy wearing the hotel uniform of a wine steward come out of the wine cellar. He acted like he belonged there and had a key card to check out the champagne.”
“The witness thought he was a new employee since she had never seen him before,” Underwood said. “She introduced herself. He responded friendly enough—”
“He even gave her his name,” Sanchez said.
“He gave her his name?” Mac’s voice went up an octave.
“What was it?” Kassandra asked.
“Peter Sellers,” Underwood said with a frown.
“Obviously made-up,” Derringer said.
Sanchez continued, “She thought nothing of it until days after the murders. The night of the murders, she was questioned by the police but said she knew nothing. Several days later, she noticed that he was nowhere around. She asked about him and found out that there was no new guy named Peter Sellers.”
“When she mentioned it to our guy, whose name begins with a ‘t’, he told her that there had been a famous actor named Peter Sellers. That was when she realized she’d had a conversation with the actual killer,” Underwood said.
“Why didn’t she come forward then?” Mac asked. “If it was only a few weeks after the murders, we could have caught up with him.”
“Our informant told her to keep quiet,” Underwood said. “After all, two detectives had been murdered in a hotel filled with police. Like the killer would think twice about going after a sous chef? She kept her mouth shut for years. Then they did an update on the news at the three-year anniversary.”
“By that time the reward for information was up to a hundred thousand dollars,” Sanchez said. “That was enough to make her pick up the phone.”
“Well, she didn’t call major crimes because this is the first time I’ve heard of any witness in the kitchen and a guy named Peter Sellers,” Mac said.
“Her name was Lynda with a ‘y’,” Lou Gannon said.
“Yes!” Underwood snapped his fingers. “I think her name was Lynda.”
“She didn’t call the tip line,” Lou said. “She called the police switchboard and asked for homicide.”
“Our informant told us that a detective was coming to her apartment to question her,” Sanchez said. “Unfortunately, she fell into the street and got hit by a bus the day before the appointment.”
“She’s dead?” Lou asked.
“If you talked to her, Gannon, how is it that you didn’t know she’d been killed?” Mac asked.
“I talked to her on the same day that Derringer showed up with the FBI and they escorted me out of the precinct in handcuffs.” Lou sniffed. “Now who’s the dirty cop?”
“Who did you give her information to?” Dani asked. “It wasn’t me. It must have been one of your scummy friends—maybe the same scum you used to clean up your son’s mess.” She stepped toward Lou only to find Harrington’s arm out to block her. “Why’d you kill Brie and Trevor? Was it jealousy because she refused to have anything to do with a pig like you?”
“That’s enough, Derringer,” Harrington said.
“Two detectives are killed in a hotel filled with cops,” Lou Gannon said. “Lynda was alive and well until she called the cops to say she thought she saw something. Suddenly, she gets hit by a bus. Only leaves one explanation. We’re looking for a cop.”
Lou took his time to look at each of them—leaving Mac for last. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Mac?” Laughing, he dug a cigarette out of his pocket. “The answer’s been there all along—right in front of your face.” Chortling, he stumbled across the dance floor and out onto the patio.
“Surely, none of you would have killed Brie and Trevor,” Joan said. “They were our friends. Why would any of you have wanted them dead?”
“Don’t look now,” Archie whispered to Mac. She tossed her head in the direction of the entrance.
A willowy man in a gray suit that matched his slicked-back hair, Jeff Ingles emerged from the sea of guests. Spotting the hotel’s owner, he hurried in his direction. “Mac, we need to talk.” Upon seeing the group staring at him, he smiled politely. “Hello, I’m Jeff Ingles, Spencer Inn’s general manager. I hope you are all having a fabulous time.”
As a group, they nodded their heads.
“That’s good.” Jeff tugged on Mac’s arm. “Can I talk to you?”
“Is this about Gnarly jumping into the spa and clogging up the drain with his dog hair?”
“When did Gnarly jumped into the spa?”
Feigning innocence, Mac asked, “Did I say he jumped into the spa?”
“That’s what you just said.”
Mac turned to Archie. “Did I say Gnarly used the Inn’s spa?”
Archie shook her head.
“You must have heard wrong,” Mac said. “Maybe you should make an appointment to have your hearing checked?”
“If you say so.” Jeff sighed. “Is Lou Gannon one of your guests?”
Mac cringed. “What did Lou do now?”
“He’s smoking.”
“Yes, he is smoking. The guy’s a chain smoker,” Mac said. “I ordered him to take it outside.”
“Well, he obviously didn’t get your message,” Jeff said. “He had ordered additional towels for his room. Room service took them up and he’s been smoking in his room. You can smell it all over. There’s over a half dozen cigarette butts in the toilet bowl.”
“I’ll tell him not to smoke in his room.”
“Mac, this is very serious,” Jeff said. “Not only is he breaking the law, but if he spends this whole weekend smoking in that room, the stench will get into the curtains, the carpet, the bedding, and the mattress. We won’t be able to check that room out to other guests until after we have it fumigated. Ski season starts in four weeks and we’re booked solid. We can’t have that room closed down.”
“I understand.”
“He’s your friend,” Jeff said. “You need to talk to him.”
There was a low laugh among the group as Jeff hurried away.
“I don’t envy you, Mac,” Underwood said. “Lou loves his cigarettes.”
“I think they’re disgusting,” Joan said.
“Hey, Sanchez, do you remember when the doctor told him to stop smoking to lower his blood pressure?” Underwood asked. “Gannon threatened to hire a lawyer to sue him.”
“On what grounds?” Archie asked.
“Offending him, I guess,” Underwood said with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I’ve been smoking my cigarettes since I was a little kid,” Sanchez said in a mocking tone, while pretending to hold a cigarette to his mouth. He took a deep drag from the pretend cigarette, tossed it to floor, and pretended to stub it out with his toe.
“You got it, Sanchez!” Underwood said. “We’d find those cigarette butts all over the place. The guy would never leave them in an ashtray. He’d have to toss them someplace. In a coffee cup. In his plate of food. In the toilet.”
“Who smokes a cigarette while peeing?” Sanchez asked.
“I think he just liked the hissing sound of the cig going out after tossing it into the bowl before flushing,” Underwood said.
“I’ve had en
ough of this conversation.” Derringer slipped her arm through Kassandra’s. “I’m going to go congratulate the bride. Kassandra, I haven’t seen Gina in so long. Why don’t you introduce me? I doubt if she’ll even remember when Brie and I were partners.”
Before leaving, Kassandra grasped Rosa’s arm. “Have you met the bride-to-be yet? Why don’t you come? You have to see the garden where the ceremony will be. They have it lit up. Joan, you have to see the garden. You will get so many ideas for yours. …”
The four women was chatting away on their way across the banquet room.
Excusing herself, Archie joined Bogie and Doc at the bar to allow Mac freedom to engage his former colleagues in discussing the cold case that had haunted each of them for so long.
They took advantage of an empty bistro table in a corner far away from the other guests. Mac ordered a bottle of expensive scotch from the bartender.
“As much as I hate to admit it, since Gannon is a fool,” Harrington said as they took their seats, “he’s right. Pratt and Polk had to have been killed by one of their own.”
“Either that or the killer had a cop on the take who gave him a heads up when Lynda came forward,” Sanchez said.
“The killer impersonated a wine steward to gain entry into the room,” Mac said.
“You knew that before, didn’t you, Faraday?” Sanchez asked. “I saw it in your face just now when Underwood and I told you about Lynda. You may have your poker face down pat, but we worked with you too long. You didn’t know about Lynda, but you knew about Peter Sellers.”
“I didn’t know he used that name,” Mac said. “We need to figure out the motive for their murders. Once we know that, then we’ll get closer to identifying their killer.” He leaned toward the center of the table and met each man’s eyes. “Why would someone in law enforcement want to kill two detectives?”
“It isn’t like either one of them was dirty,” Sanchez said.
“Brie liked to play mind games,” Underwood said.
While the bartender delivered the bottle of scotch and four short glasses, Mac noticed Sanchez casting a glance in Underwood’s direction at the mention of the games Brie had played. Underwood turned away.
Once the bartender was gone, Mac picked up his glass to propose a toast. “To Brie and Trevor. One day, they will have justice. May that day be soon.”
“To justice for Brie and Trevor,” Sanchez said.
They clinked their glasses and took sips in silence.
Harrington held up his glass in another toast. “To all valiant officers who’ve died in the line of duty. Let us not forget Sergeant Bruno Gordon.”
“Trevor’s partner,” Mac reminded them.
“That was another one of your cases in the major crimes unit,” Sanchez said. “There was a lot of talk about a possible connection between the two cases. Did you find any evidence of that?”
Silent, Mac shrugged his shoulders.
“Clearly all three murders were professional,” Underwood said. “They have to be connected to the Yurievich family. Trevor must have been the target and Brie was collateral damage.”
“If it was the Yurievich family, how do you explain Lynda the Sous Chef getting killed the day before her appointment to meet with a detective?” Sanchez asked. “Who would have had access to Gannon’s notes about her call on the same day he got arrested?”
“Either Gannon told the killer about Lynda’s call or the perp found his notes,” Mac said.
“The feds searched his office with a fine-tooth comb for evidence to use against him in his trial,” Sanchez said. “The only ones who had access to Gannon’s notes were the federal investigators and the detectives assigned to the homicide division.”
“Since there’s no official record of Lynda’s call, we only have Gannon’s word that the call came in on the same day as his arrest,” Harrington said. “She could have called in days or even weeks earlier. Gannon could be the one who set up the appointment and killed her to cover his tracks for the murders.”
“If Gannon was in on the murders, he never would have told us about talking to her,” Mac said.
“Unless he’d committed them,” Harrington said. “After seeing that Sanchez and Underwood knew about this Lynda, he offered up her name and confirmed that he’d spoken to her to divert suspicion.”
“Like Gannon is that smart,” Sanchez said with a laugh.
“Coincidences do happen,” Underwood said. “Lynda could have fallen off her heels in front of that bus by accident.”
“The killer was disguised as a wine steward to get into their room,” Sanchez said.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Mac said.
“Why doesn’t it?” Sanchez asked. “It fits perfectly. The killer needed access to the honeymoon suite to get close to Brie and Trevor to kill them. What’s better than to disguise himself as a wine steward and then blow them away while their guard is down?”
“The only cops in that hotel at the time of the murders were their wedding guests,” Mac said. “Brie and Trevor invited them. They were their friends. If I put on a wine steward’s uniform, you’d still know it was me, wouldn’t you?”
Sanchez tapped his former partner on the arm. “He’s right. That means the killer wasn’t someone they knew.”
“Which goes back to my theory that it was a paid hit,” Underwood said. “Trevor Polk was the primary target. Yurievich killed Polk for arresting his grandson.”
“Yurievich had a long reach,” Harrington said. “He had cops on the take. He could have gotten word about that sous chef from Gannon or a fed who found his notes.”
“You don’t seriously think one of us did it, do you, Mac?” Underwood asked.
“If the killer had been a cop, then he wouldn’t have had to have disguised himself as a wine steward to get close enough to Brie and Trevor to kill them,” Sanchez said.
“Not if he was a friend and had been invited to the wedding,” Harrington said over the top of his glass. After taking a drink, he set the glass down onto the table. “Considering that he had to have put on a disguise to get close to them, I think it’s a fair assessment that the killer was not someone they knew—nor was he a friend.”
“Which clears all of us,” Sanchez said with a sigh of relief.
Mac could see by Underwood’s expression that he was not so sure of having been cleared of suspicion.
After hours of watching Constance and Edward Kleinfeld fighting, Tonya dozed off in the king-sized bed that occupied most of the guest cottage’s loft.
The Kleinfeld home had wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling windows to take advantage of the glorious lakeside view. As luck would have it, the house was canted so that it would face the lake, rather than the inlet along which it had been built. Due to the house’s angled position, it offered Tonya a clear view inside.
For hours, the Kleinfelds chased each other from one room to another. While Tonya could see everything, she couldn’t hear what they were fighting over. She wished she could read lips.
Edward Kleinfeld had stomped upstairs to the master bedroom and turned off the light. With multiple felines at her heels, Constance stormed into the kitchen and took a bag of cat food out of the cupboard.
This is what surveillance is like? Looks much more exciting on television.
Loxy’s whine captured Tonya’s attention. It had been several hours since she had taken her pack outside to conduct their business.
Well, it looks like the fighters have gone to their separate corners. Now would be a good time for us to take a potty break.
Tonya led the corgis, delighted to finally have her attention, out to the rose garden that had been one of Robin Spencer’s pride and joys. There were still some late blooms on the bushes, which Archie Monday worked diligently to keep in pristine condition in honor of her late mother-in-law.
The floral s
cent of the garden added to the beauty of the lake. Tonya took in a deep breath, stretched her arms over her head and bent over to touch her toes to prepare for an all nighter.
Something was wrong with the Kleinfelds. She could feel it in her gut. She was going to find out what they were up to. Determination made her anxious to return to the case. After her fur-babies had finished their business, she planned to make a sandwich for a quick dinner and get back to the stakeout.
The four corgis chased each other around and through the bushes. She didn’t have the heart to end their fun so quickly.
Well, Constance is feeding her cats. Better get my babies inside soon before she lets her felines out to antagonize them.
“Okay, gang, let’s—”
An agonized scream broke the silence of the lake.
Tonya stopped and listened—hoping to hear it again to confirm that it was indeed a scream. She heard nothing. The corgis continued scurrying through the rose garden. Certain that the scream had come from the direction of the Kleinfeld house, she cocked her head to listen closely.
Silence.
What was that? Was it a scream? Is someone in trouble? Or was it my overactive imagination?
The corgis scampered back onto the deck.
With no answer to her question, Tonya led them into the cottage.
Chapter Five
Stuffed and exhausted from his evening of mooching, Gnarly climbed into his reserved leather wing-backed chair in the sitting area in front of the see-through fireplace. A life-sized painting of Robin Spencer and a beloved German shepherd from her life hung above the mantel. Gnarly turned around three times before settling down to go to sleep.
Fresh drink in hand, Troy Underwood rubbed the back of his neck and strolled out of the ballroom room. The flames inside the fireplace drew the former detective to the leather love seat across from Gnarly.
His approach prompted the canine to open one eye to observe. Once he was convinced that Underwood meant no harm, he resumed his nap.
Mac watched from the reception desk. He wanted to make sure Underwood was indeed alone before making his move.
