Authors: Stella Barcelona
She frowned. “I’m not agreeing, so don’t gloat.”
“I’m not. I’m simply stating facts that we both know are true.” He paused. “Look. I don’t want to argue with you. I really appreciate that you’re helping me by being my escort here, when you’re certainly not obligated to do so.” He undid one half of the taped X that blocked the doorway. “You have the key, so, if you don’t mind, please open the door so that we can do this and then each get on with our day.”
She pulled the key out of her purse. Before she could use it, he said, “Wait. Give it to me. Doorknob’s dirty.” She handed him the key. He unlocked the door. Black fingerprint dust smudged his hands as he opened it. He glanced at Taylor’s suit as he held the door open and slipped the dirty key into the pocket of his jeans. “Be careful,” he said, “I expect there’s more of this inside. It won’t go well with your suit.”
The crime lab techs hadn’t wrecked the place, which made him wonder just how much work had been done there. The house looked much the same as it had on Tuesday night, with neat stacks of boxes and packing supplies. Brandon stepped around the boxes and went to the kitchen, where he found a list of emergency numbers for Michael taped inside a cabinet door. Lisa had shown it to him on Tuesday. The pediatrician’s name was on the list. He peeled the list from the cabinet door, folded it, then placed it in his wallet. Next, he opened the kitchen cabinets, and found the name of the formula. He photographed the unopened canister with his phone, then sent it in a text to Kate and Esme.
Brandon turned towards the room that doubled as Michael’s bedroom and the study. He paused at the threshold. For a second, a grief mixed with anger threatened to choke him. Damn. Lisa deserved better than this.
So did his son.
He cleared his throat, “I’ll return for Michael’s things later, when Joe gives me the green light, but for now, I want to get a few things that will make him feel like his mother is with him.”
They had been standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the doorway. He turned to her and almost did a double-take. Brandon could think of any number of reasons why he didn’t like Taylor. Status-conscious women who armored themselves with designer clothes usually weren’t to his liking. Plus, the frown of disgust that had marred her perfect features when she learned of his one-night stand with Lisa and his ignorance of Lisa’s pregnancy was etched in his memory. Now, though, her eyes had welled with tears and she was letting a couple of them fall, without caring that her mascara was running.
“God,” she said, “this is hard. Maybe you could take something that she used to hold him when she was putting him to sleep. The texture and smell might comfort him.”
Well, she was prissy, but she was human. Brandon stepped to the rocker, where there was a soft mint-green blanket. He went to the baby bed and pulled a creamy-white, cottony-soft stuffed bear from the corner. “Do you mind if I take these two things with me?”
She reached for the items, studied them, and squeezed them in her hands. “No problem.”
“Thank you.” Brandon turned and brushed too close to a stack of boxes. The top three fell off the stack. The boxes were sealed, they were labeled research, and they made hollow sounds when they fell. He lifted one. It was too light to be full of research. He lifted the next box and the next, placing them as they’d been stacked. Both boxes felt lighter than they’d been on Tuesday night, when he had stacked the boxes so that Lisa had space in the small room.
Taylor glanced at him. “Is something wrong?”
“These boxes seem lighter than they were the other night. I’d like to look in them,” he said, “but I’d bet that you wouldn’t go for that.”
“You’re supposed to be getting the pediatrician’s name, a list of medications, and the brand of formula. That’s it, until the scene is cleared.”
If it weren’t for Taylor’s efforts, he wouldn’t be there now, so he wasn’t going to argue with her. Brandon walked past her, out of the room, and out the front door.
After he locked it, she held her hand out. “The key, Mr. Morrissey.”
She was pretty, Brandon thought, but a righteous pain in the ass. “Call Joe. He’ll tell you I can keep the key.”
“Joe said he’d call me when the apartment is released, and I haven’t gotten a call. I’m not disturbing him while he’s interviewing witnesses.”
Brandon willed himself to not be angry. She was only doing her job. He wiped the dirty key on his jeans, then handed it to her. “Thank you for your time.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, then drew in a deep breath. “Mr. Morrissey, I was wondering-”
“Brandon. Lose the last name thing.”
“It’s not personal. I’m being professional.”
“You’re making me feel old.”
She gave him an easy smile. “Well, you said in the interview that you had a birthday yesterday. Which one was it?”
“Forty.”
“That makes you thirteen years older than me.”
“Great,” he muttered, staring at her. She was too damn young to look so sophisticated.
“Anyway,” she paused. “When Joe questioned you, he assumed that Lisa went to your office for legal advice. Did she?”
“Are you interrogating me?”
“No,” she paused. “I’m just trying to clarify something. You skirted around Joe’s assumption in your answer.”
Well, hell
.
Taylor wasn’t only gorgeous, she was astute and unafraid to follow a trail of curiosity. She was also out of line for continuing a police interrogation, when his lawyer wan’t present. “I’m not here to answer questions. You had your chance in the interview to get clarification. It was a rookie mistake, not interrupting Joe, if you felt that I hadn’t answered appropriately.”
Irritation flashed across her face. He didn’t wait to hear what she had to say. He stepped off the porch and into his car. Taylor was nobody’s fool, he thought, and she was correct. He
had
skirted around Joe’s assumption. The simple fact was that the real reason why Lisa had originally appeared at his office needlessly complicated things. He drove home, trying to focus on the myriad of things he had to do for Michael, but he couldn’t help being bothered that Taylor was still wondering why Lisa had gone to his office, because if she figured out the truth, it would look like he was hiding something. He wasn’t. He just didn’t feel like talking about it.
What if
thoughts invaded his mind, and he couldn’t push them out. What if Lisa’s murder was related to the reason she had contacted him in the first place?
Once his mind went down that path, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Lisa hadn’t come to him for legal advice. She was working on her dissertation and wanted to ask Brandon questions that were related to her research. Eleven months earlier, Lisa was asking questions that he hadn’t heard since his childhood, the same questions that had tormented Marcus Morrissey, Brandon’s father. The questions were about facts that had destroyed the life of Benjamin Morrissey, Brandon’s grandfather and Marcus’s father. The topic had been a systemic part of Brandon’s young life. His mother would not allow conversation about it after a fire stole his childhood home, and after Marcus’s suicide, which stole what remained of Brandon’s innocence. Tuesday night, one night before her murder, Lisa had told Brandon she’d made progress. He had again shut down her comments. He wasn’t interested in the conspiracy theory that had stolen his father’s sanity. Now though, Brandon wondered, what if Lisa’s research had revealed that Marcus was correct, that an injustice had been committed when his grandfather had been convicted? Who, after all of these years, would care, and would anyone care so much that they’d kill her?
***
On Thursday morning he disguised his appearance with eye contacts, touristy clothes, bad hair, and a cap. He journeyed back to the city, merged in with the ten a.m. walking tour of the Garden District, and slipped the demand letter into the mailbox of George Bartholomew’s mansion. His demand was plain and simple:
I have an original of the Hutchenson Letter of DECEMBER 1979. I will go public with the letter if you do not deposit, by wire transfer, 25 million U.S. dollars in the Bank of Switzerland, Antigua, account BSTBBSITW 101108072809 before 12:01 a.m. on July 4th.
Afterwards, at The Chocolate Croissant, on Magazine Street, he stopped for a good cappuccino with thick, creamy froth and an almond croissant, that was crumbly, buttery, and sweet. The local newspaper had an article about Lisa’s murder. There were no leads and, so far, no witnesses. The police were pleading with the public to come forward with information.
He flipped to the society section. Taylor Bartholomew, pictured with Andi Hutchenson at a party for the opera guild, was in the largest photograph in the paper’s society section. He scanned the other photographs, but did not see a picture of Collette Westerfeld, the other filly in his trifecta. As usual, although Andi was pretty, his eyes were drawn to Taylor. Her hair was down in the picture, falling past her shoulders in gentle waves. The full attention that she had given the photographer revealed confidence. Her almond-shaped eyes had a knowing look. Her cocktail dress exposed a hint of cleavage, a small waist, and the graceful curve of her slender neck.
So perfect.
Her special, sultry beauty aroused him, which few women now did. Yet, he despised her for having the name, the wealth, the prestige, and the confidence that came with being untouchable by the mortal world, where people worried about mundane things like having to pay a mortgage.
Taylor’s elevated stature had come simply by breathing her first breath of air when she was still sticky from birth. He detested her for it. He was going to destroy George Bartholomew by killing his only child. He was going to kill Taylor, whether or not George Bartholomew complied with his extortion demand. His apocalypse plan was in motion. There was no turning back. Before Taylor, though, there was Collette. Then Andi. One plum from each of the three HBW families would die. He started to fold the paper, but paused when an article about the upcoming party caught his eye.
Gala Honoring Local Families Will Precede July 4th Opening of New Wing at the National World War II Museum
On Sunday evening, the third of July, a black-tie gala will honor Andrew Hutchenson I, George Bartholomew Sr., and Charles Westerfeld, the founders of HBW Shipbuilding Enterprises. Thanks to the current HBW families, the new wing of the National World War II museum, the Infamy Wing, will soon be a reality, and will more than double the size of the original museum. In addition to expanding the museum’s historic collections, the new wing will feature the HBW Pavilion, which will house a three-hundred seat movie theater and a restaurant. The HBW families made the financial contributions in honor of their forefathers, who designed the Hutchenson Landing Craft, the unique boat that enabled the United States to develop a winning strategy for World War II. Coveted invitations for the gala, on ecru paper with engraved, royal blue lettering, and red lined envelopes, have been hand-delivered to select locals. In addition, public officials, military men, and veterans from around the country will be attending. Other attendees will include World War II historians and celebrities who are students of history. A patron reception is being held at the Bartholomew mansion on Saturday, July 2nd. The Infamy Wing will be open to the public on Sunday, July 4th.
How fucking pretentious, he thought. The myth of HBW Shipbuilding Enterprises was built upon lies. He held the cards that could expose the lies, but the final play would be dictated by George Bartholomew Jr., Andrew Hutchenson II, and Claude Westerfeld, the three current members of the HBW board. The men who so proudly bore the names of their ancestors. He believed that those three men would comply with his extortion demand. They would pay him so that there was no tarnish on the HBW legend, so that the legend remained for future generations. Once he had their money, and destroyed them by killing their loved ones, he would simply walk away. He would disappear. He would never have to work again.
He would rest.
Finally.
Chapter Three
Upon returning to her office, Taylor shut her office door and drew a deep, calming breath. At least the District Attorney was out of town. It would be easier to remain composed in a phone call than in person. She called Connor, thanked him for the offer of a permanent position, but informed him that she had to decline. Framed diplomas were easy to remove from the walls. Desk accessories fit into two packing boxes. A crystal set that included a paperweight, letter opener, vase, and clock, given to her as graduation gifts by Andi and Collette, went into one box after Taylor wrapped each piece in paper.
Don’t think
, she told herself.
Get through today. Don’t think about what you’re leaving, or where you’re going
.
She typed a short memo regarding her observations of the Morrissey interview, the trip to Smithfield’s house, and ended with Brandon’s list of alibi contacts that he had provided after the interview. She proofread the document, but instead of seeing words, she saw high cheekbones, jade green eyes, and Brandon’s attempt at appearing nonchalant when answering Joe’s questions about his initial contact with Lisa.
Joe’s questions had hinted at past problems with law enforcement, while Brandon’s responses had indicated a lack of faith in the NOPD. After a few computer searches, she found news articles that explained both Joe’s questions and Brandon’s responses. Two years earlier, news accounts stated that Brandon had killed, in self-defense, an intruder who had entered his Old Metairie home on Northline Street. The residents of the quiet, secluded neighborhood were panic-stricken at the violence. A few days before the incident, the NOPD had issued an arrest warrant for the man who died, due to his alleged involvement in a murder-for-hire scheme. He had eluded capture. No charges were filed against Brandon.
A current-day news search revealed the latest media account of Smithfield’s murder. Taylor’s eyes were drawn to Lisa’s photograph. Earlier in the day, when Taylor had first received the assignment, she had only managed to find Lisa’s driver’s license photo. The media had printed a larger photograph that looked more current. Lisa had sleek, dark-brown hair, blue eyes, and a fresh smile. She’d been pretty, in a natural, studious way. She’d been twenty-six. One year younger than Taylor. Tears welled in Taylor’s eyes as she remembered Michael’s cries. Now she understood that he was missing his mother, that he’d never know his mother’s love.
God. How awful.
If only she could work in the D.A.’s office longer. Maybe she could somehow make a difference in the avalanche of violent crime that had seized the city that she loved. Connor was instituting reforms in the way the D.A.’s office conducted prosecutions. She wanted to be there to help his policies succeed. More convictions would lead to fewer crimes. Eventually there’d be fewer victims like Lisa, young, pretty mothers whose children needed them. If only she had more time.
She didn’t. Her father had made that perfectly clear.
Taylor shook the thought away, swiping the tears from her eyes as she did so. HBW duty called, starting Saturday, at the July board meeting. She had to do what she had to do and she couldn’t feel sorry for herself, not with Lisa’s photograph staring at her from the computer. She reminded herself that she was fortunate, but still, she was restless. She picked up the memo she had drafted, stared at Brandon’s alibi list, then glanced at Lisa’s photograph. She read the article. Lisa was working on her doctorate degree in history and concentrating her studies on World War II era spies. Tulane students from the history department were preparing a memorial service for her.
Her heart skipped.
History. World War II. Spies.
Of all things.
Brandon and Taylor shared a piece of long-ago history, involving World War II, and involving spies, or one spy in particular. If that was the reason that Lisa went to Brandon, it could mean something. Maybe Brandon didn’t like when people asked him about his grandfather.
But would he kill someone who did so?
Taylor made a phone call to Lloyd Landrum, long-time family friend and history professor at Tulane University. Lloyd would be able to tell her the specifics of Lisa’s research, but he didn’t answer his office phone. At the beep, she said, “Lloyd. It’s Taylor. I have a couple of questions regarding the murdered Tulane student, Lisa Smithfield. Please return my call.”
She dialed Joe’s cell number. When it went straight to voice mail, she tried Tony’s cell. He didn’t answer. At a minimum, someone should verify the alibi information, and Joe and Tony were too busy to do it anytime soon. The D.A.’s office had a pool of investigators that helped to fill gaps in police work, so that holes in police investigations didn’t become acquittals. Taylor didn’t have authority to assign the matter to an investigator, even if she could find one in the office. She figured she could do it. There couldn’t be any harm in a few questions. Right?
Brandon had said that he had docked his boat and had dinner on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain, in Madisonville. She took the box of crystal items, nestled it into the trunk of her car, then headed to the North Shore. Along the way, Taylor called Anna and Laura Maloney, the nannies whose names Brandon had provided. They confirmed that Brandon had interviewed them on Tuesday evening at Lisa’s house, he had hired them, and that they’d be reporting for duty at Brandon’s house the following day. Brandon had said that he had dinner at Fernando’s, a restaurant on the Tchefuncte River. When she arrived there, the young hostess indicated that Brandon and five others had dined there the night before.
“It was Mr. Morrissey’s birthday,” she said. “He doesn’t seem like he’s forty. I mean, gosh, that seems old. I’d have guessed early thirties. He’s nice,” she said. “He comes here often. We all like him.” She gestured towards the plate glass windows, and pointed down the river. “That’s his boat. The Frayed Knot.”
Taylor followed the hostess’s gesture to one of several boats that were docked along the river’s edge. She told the hostess goodbye and walked along the river to the motor yacht that bore the name Frayed Knot. A fit and tanned man sat at a table on the aft-deck, working on a laptop. He wore khaki shorts, a white polo shirt, and had short, dark hair. He eyed Taylor as she approached. A black lab bounded off the boat and rubbed moist fur against her skirt.
“Jett. Come.” The dog did two bouncing laps around Taylor, another rub against Taylor’s skirt, then jumped back on the boat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re trying to train her, but she’s young. Did she get you dirty?”
“It’s fine.” Taylor glanced down at her skirt, swiped at an enormous smudge, then shrugged. “She’s a beauty.”
“Jett or the boat?”
“Both,” Taylor introduced herself and handed him her card. “Is this Brandon Morrissey’s boat?”
“Yes. And his puppy.” He glanced at her card. “I’m Pete St. Paul. Brandon told me that someone might be calling.”
She asked, “What did Brandon tell you to say?”
“He didn’t tell me what to say.” He met her eyes with a solid glance, and a shrug. “But I guess he expected that I’d tell the truth.”
She thought of the way Brandon’s intense green eyes studied her as he listened to her. “Of course.” She paused. “What kind of work do you do for Brandon?”
“I’m an investigator for the Morrissey Firm, boat sitter, dog sitter, captain, first mate, mechanic. Whatever Brandon needs.”
Pete looked to be in his mid-twenties. Despite his easy manner and natural smile, his dark brown eyes had deep undercurrents that suggested a troubled past and a strong will. It was the same kind of serious look that Brandon had. The look made Taylor think that the “whatever” part of Pete’s job description was the most important part. Taylor remembered that Brandon had said Pete would be bringing a pistol from the boat to downtown. “Did you bring the pistol to the police?”
“I’m heading there in a few minutes.”
“When did the boat arrive here?”
“Yesterday around five.”
“Did Brandon drive the boat himself, or were you the captain?”
“Brandon drove. I came over this morning to work on it and so Jett could have some exercise. I’ll take the boat back to the city in the morning.”
Pete’s time line and facts matched Brandon’s. She should stop, but she had one more question. “Do you have any idea why Lisa Smithfield originally went to see Brandon?”
“No. I sure don’t.”
“That’s all the questions that I have. Thank you,” she said.
“I’ll tell Brandon that you came by.”
Brandon’s alibi had checked out, but there was still one missing piece. Brandon’s date had been Sandra Gaines. Taylor placed Sandra’s mid-city address into her GPS system, then crossed the lake. She was there by six-forty-five. No one answered Taylor’s knock. As she stepped off the porch, a lone female jogger approached. She was tall and lean, with auburn hair in a ponytail.
“Sandra Gaines?”
Sandra nodded. “That’s me.”
Taylor introduced herself and handed Sandra her card.
“Brandon told me someone might have questions. I’m happy to talk, but I need water.” Sandra pulled a key out of a waist pack and unlocked her front door. Taylor followed Sandra into a room that doubled as a kitchen and a dining room, where papers were strewn across the table. A laptop was open and on. Sandra reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. She offered one to Taylor.
“No, thank you,” Taylor said.
Sandra opened the bottle, drank several large swallows, then her light brown eyes fell on Taylor. “Ask away.”
“You were with Brandon yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“From when to when?”
“About three in the afternoon to one in the morning.”
“Are you and Brandon good friends?”
Sandra shrugged. “I met him a couple of years ago. He was opposing counsel on my first big case with the firm. I was second chair. He kicked our asses. We didn’t go out until after and we’ve gone out a bit since then. He’s honest and straightforward. He fights hard. He’s got this simple, direct style that plays well in front of a jury. He’s amazing, actually. A forceful advocate. He has killer instincts when ferreting out cases and questioning witnesses.”
All good to know, Taylor thought, but Sandra hadn’t answered her question. “How close are the two of you?”
Sandra was quiet for a second. “Not very.” She drank what was remaining in her water bottle, then walked across the kitchen to throw it away. “Brandon doesn’t get close.” She paused. “His wife died in a bad accident five years ago. The trucker was hyped-up on amphetamines. She was six months pregnant. She and the baby both died, but it wasn’t an instant death for his wife. She lasted a few days. I’ve never heard him talk about his wife, the baby, or the accident. Not once. Ever.” She held Taylor’s gaze. “I tried to get him to talk about it, thinking that’s what a friend would do.” She shrugged. “Now I respect his privacy and don’t pry. I know about it because I know some of the lawyers who worked on the defense side. The tragic facts led to a huge judgment, which Brandon put into a foundation that provides educational grants for underprivileged children.”
Sandra shuddered. “I didn’t know him before the accident, but I don’t think he’s ever gotten over it. So are we intimate? Yes. Close?” She shook her head. “No. Brandon stays remote.” Sandra continued, “Would I lie for him?” She leveled her gaze on Taylor. “No. So, Brandon and I crossed the lake, we had drinks, went to dinner, and we weren’t apart for more than fifteen minutes. When we weren’t with friends, we were alone together. You know.”
Taylor felt a blush on her cheeks, yet Sandra seemed non-plussed. Brandon’s alibi was established. She should stop asking questions and move on, but she thought back to Joe’s questions that hinted that Brandon had a violent past, and Brandon’s ability to kill an intruder. “Do you think Brandon has a temper?”
Sandra glanced at Taylor and shrugged. “Don’t we all?”
“I mean more than most.”
Sandra shot Taylor an annoyed look. “That guy that Brandon killed was a beast who went after Brandon to kill him. Brandon isn’t a victim, but he’s a nice guy, Taylor. He wasn’t involved in any way with last night’s murder.”
Taylor thanked Sandra and left. As she drove away, she glanced at her watch. It was ten after seven. Thanks to the smudges left on her skirt by Jett, she had to change before attending the Blues and Bar-B-Que dinner that was being hosted by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Taylor, along with her friends, Andi Hutchenson and Collette Westerfeld, were on the fundraising board for the SPCA.
She crossed town, pulled into the garage of her Garden District home, and went straight to her second-floor bedroom. She shut the door. Within minutes, there was a soft knock. Taylor braced herself. The person on the other side didn’t wait for permission to enter. Bitsy had hired Carolyn Sweeny as a live-in nanny when Taylor was five, and Carolyn and Taylor had been together ever since. As Taylor grew, Carolyn’s duties evolved from being a child’s nanny to a professional woman’s personal assistant. Taylor paid enough that Carolyn could afford her own home, and she could afford to live well. Carolyn chose to live with Taylor, and she was more than welcome. More than a paid employee, Carolyn was her friend. She’d been the mother that Taylor’s own mother wasn’t capable of being, the one person who had always given Taylor unconditional love, who listened to her, who was always there.