Month: September 2017

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This month’s narrative begins the conclusion / resolution to the title tale from my book of short-story mysteries, Loose Ends.  Owing to its length, I am presenting it in two installments.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Detective Sergeant Nik Dederscheck struggled to keep his balance as he squatted next to and leaned over the body in the small elevator.  He was careful not to come into contact with the pool of blood in which the deceased lay.  With his ubiquitous ballpoint pen, he pulled back the lapel of the corpse’s suit coat to examine his wounds.  As he studied the murder victim’s injuries and the compartment in which he rested, Nik heard the movement of people behind him.  The building’s somewhat crowded lobby comprised startled, curious, and occasionally disrespectful civilians passing through the atrium on their way to work or appointments. 

With his ubiquitous ballpoint pen, he pulled back the lapel of the corpse’s suit coat to examine his wounds.

A few uniformed officers, scattered among the citizens, gave directions to keep the rubberneckers moving.  Every so often, one of them answered an inquiry from someone.  After making notes as far as a description of the dead man, Dederscheck started to rise.  But he only started.  Realizing he’d put himself in a troublesome situation from which to extricate his substantial bulk, he remained in his crouched position. He sat back on his heels and stared at the opposite wall of the lift, eyebrows arched in exasperation.   He heaved an audible sigh.  Probably can’t touch a damned thing–floor, walls, elevator safety rail–either, he thought in self-recrimination.  Should’ve retired already, he finished.

“Nobody’s processed the scene yet, have they?”  Nik threw his voice over his shoulder like a length of rope. He was addressing his junior partner, Detective Tyrone McDaniel, who had arrived before him and who stood just outside the elevator’s jammed-open doors.

“No.  The lab folks showed up while you’ve been in there.  Do you need something?”

With another frustrated exhale, Dederscheck spoke in as low a voice as he could use and still have Tyrone hear him over the background noise.   “Yeah.  I need a hand from you to get outta here so I don’t touch anything or join this guy in his bodily fluids.” 

McDaniel rolled his eyes.  He reached into the elevator and grabbed the back of Dederscheck’s overcoat, balancing and lifting him slightly as the big man pushed erect with a grunt.  Though he never admitted it, the younger, slighter detective had to spend considerable effort to help raise the sergeant’s mass from his squatting position in the compartment.  The sergeant carried a formidable size, an “effectiveness of presence,” as some might phrase it.  His bulk was useful when confronting dangerous guys, but sometimes proved awkward.

As Dederscheck gathered his dignity and McDaniel shook off the effects of his unexpected exertion, the latter recalled their random conversations which had explained his partner’s girth.  The pair had compared their upbringings during a stakeout shortly after they had partnered. It became obvious to Tyrone that a lifetime abundance of Leberkäs, Rahmschnitzel, beer, and assorted rich desserts from the old country had resulted in the sergeant’s bulk.  But woe be unto anyone who mistook his mass for pure flab. There was an impressive amount of muscle making up his form.  It might be under a layer of fat, much as a grizzly bear, but the man was a muscular force to reckon with. 

Dederscheck’s diet was in sharp contrast with McDaniel’s background of healthful soul food, with “healthful” being the operative word.  Tyrone’s mother, a physician, and his father, a pastor, always said ethnic cooking could be delicious and healthy. And she inevitably made it happen.  Some in the black community believed the term “healthy soul food” was an oxymoron, but not his family.  Wiry was how Dederscheck might have described him.  After that discussion of their upbringings, Nik opined the only difference between them was him being brought up on “Bavarian soul food.” 

Despite the misgivings the junior detective had over the pairing, he liked his partner.  McDaniel appreciated Dederscheck’s wry sense of humor and his relatively mild manner.  He also recognized that the sergeant’s experience was a gold mine of knowledge from which a novice investigator could draw. 

The one thing that concerned him was Detective Dederscheck’s reputation as a hard drinker.  The new arrival didn’t want a slip-up, born of his superior’s even slight inebriation, to put a blemish on his career.  In the back of his mind, Tyrone couldn’t get past the question of why they’d paired him with the sergeant when there were other, more practiced detectives in need of a partner.  Sometimes the young man felt Nik didn’t give him enough credit for his practical knowledge of the streets as a cop.  That experience had seemed an uphill battle, too.  The black detective was keenly aware of the standard to which he believed they held him and those like him.

The older investigator thought McDaniel’s easygoing nature and astute grasp of their job blended well with his expertise. But he watched his language in deference to the younger man’s upbringing.  Another thing Nik was conscious of was his drinking problem.  His last partner, Jeff Beverly, had been as inclined to imbibe as he, so it was not a source of friction between them.  The sergeant didn’t have the same feeling toward Tyrone.  Dederscheck enjoyed the confidence of his superiors and peers for his ability to clear a case. At the same time, he was aware of his reputation within the department for taking a nip now and again.  The big cop was sure others in the detectives’ bullpen had shared the “problem” with McDaniel after the captain announced the pairing.

At times, Nik felt as if the young investigator was carrying a chip on his shoulder, which put something of a damper on the positives of their relationship.  The senior detective had taken steps to make certain his alcoholic intake didn’t add to any issues that might exist.  Besides, his wife Maggie had wanted him at least to curtail his drinking before he retired and was around the house more.

When the two detectives stepped under the crime-scene tape and moved into the larger space of the lobby, Dederscheck turned to face his fellow detective. McDaniel refrained from sniffing the air for signs of alcohol at this early hour.  Tyrone referred to his small coil-spring flip notebook.  “The guy’s name is Prescott.  Steven Prescott.  According to the building’s manager, Herman Jacobs, he’s a well-to-do attorney with offices on the sixty-third floor.  Herman found the body.  He said–”

“That’s great!”

Tyrone assumed he’d missed something, done something wrong.  “What’s the matter, Sarge?”

“A lawyer, huh?”  Dederscheck shook his head with a sneer.  “Then the list of folks with a potential motive for this killing suddenly went up significantly.”  Detective McDaniel laughed.  Nik turned back to the deceased.   “Wait a minute!  Did you say ‘Steven Prescott’?  Attorney Steven Prescott?”

“Yeah.  Why?  Do you recognize the name?”

Dederscheck chuckled to himself.  “I guess the blood, the angle of the body, and the contorted face threw me.  Plus, it’s been several years ….” his voice trailed off in reverie.  “But, yeah, I knew him.  He had me on the stand during a murder trial a while back.  I’d been the lead detective on the case of a child killer.  We were trying to bring his scumbag client to justice.  The shyster gave me holy hell on cross-examination for a little over a day.  His entire argument was crap, but he was fishing for something to show the jury we’d screwed up the investigation and had the wrong guy at the defense table. 

“Prescott had a reputation for being a tough trial lawyer for his clients.  Nasty, but sophisticated, smooth in doing it.  He lived up to his renown on that occasion.  It was one long time in the witness box for me, I’ll tell you.”  Dederscheck studied the dead man again briefly.  “Death sure scrunched up his face.  Looks as though he had some burning question he couldn’t answer on his mind right before he died.”

“Prescott had a reputation for being a tough trial lawyer for the defense.  Nasty, but sophisticated, smooth in doing it.”

“Huh.  Maybe pain?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Just then, a uniformed cop approached with Styrofoam coffee cups.  When he handed them to the two plainclothesmen and started moving away, Dederscheck couldn’t pass up the opportunity, as he wisecracked, “Still looking to make sergeant, hey, Pridgen?”  The patrolman turned and gave the detective a big, lazy smile accompanied by a thumbs-up.  Nik pulled the lid off, tasted the steamy liquid, and made a face.  He raised the cup toward the retreating officer, grinned, and called after him, “But this won’t help any!”  Pridgen responded with a slight turn in the detectives’ direction and a silent palms-up shrug as he walked backward a few steps. Still grinning, he disappeared through the brassbound plate-glass swinging doors to the street. 

McDaniel sipped from his cup and grunted agreement with his partner’s assessment.  Nonetheless, both men continued to drink the liquid.  Terrible coffee was an “occupational hazard” in their line of work.

The detectives went on with their quiet conversation until interrupted by an approaching forensic technician.  McDaniel glanced at his partner, who gave him a barely discernible nod, then answered her unspoken question, “Yeah, you can process the elevator.”  He pointed to a nearby patrolman.  “Check in with Officer Chitty, who’s keeping the crime-scene log, before you go in.”  The specialist, who’d been in her job for several years, threw an odd look at Tyrone.  The junior detective didn’t appreciate the response.  “Problem?”  The tech shook her head and moved to the man holding a clipboard.

Nik watched the exchange and tried to bring McDaniel back to the issues at hand.  “All right.  What else have we got?”

“Well, robbery wasn’t the motive.  Prescott’s wearing an expensive watch and ring.  And his wallet is still in his inside coat breast pocket.”

“Yeah, I saw them, too.”

“As I said, Jacobs discovered the body when he came in to unlock the building for the day.  Called us at once, he says.  No known witnesses.  I have uniforms canvassing the neighboring area for anyone who might have seen or heard anything unusual last night or this morning.  The manager closes up at six p.m. and opens again at six a.m.  Of course, with the age of this structure, there are no security cameras and no alarm devices to tell when someone entered or exited” 

The junior detective nodded toward the front of the building, “There’s a traffic monitoring camera at the street intersection.  It’s only a long shot it’ll give us something of value, but I’ll get a copy for the relevant hours.”  McDaniel looked back through his notes and concluded, “So you’re aware, Mr. Jacobs is unhappy with our prolonged presence here. The man seems more concerned about getting the police on their way than he is the dearly departed.”

Dederscheck gazed at the other detective.  Although Tyrone had been in homicide only a short time, he had a keen mind and was a go-getter.  His four years on the street in the uniformed division, with a pair of commendations for valor, had proven that.  But this was their first murder investigation together, so Nik saw this as an opportunity to get the junior detective’s ideas on the facts so far. He thought it might provide a teachable moment as well.  “Okay, what do you see at this point?

McDaniel glanced at his partner.  In that second, he wondered whether a lack of respect for his time on the street had prompted the sergeant’s question.  Even so, he stepped past Nik and peered into the elevator again.  “We’ve got a dead man with at least two shots to the upper chest.  Could be more wounds, but there’s too much blood to be certain right now.  The blood around the body has coagulated.  For how long, I can’t tell just from looking. In an older, cooler building such as this and on the elevator’s tile floor, coagulation likely occurs fairly quickly.  So, one issue is, when did he meet his end?” 

After a pause, the young detective continued, “The medical examiner can give us a more precise answer. However, I’d prefer to get a better handle on it sooner.  To help with that, I’ve learned from the manager that the decedent was a prominent, longtime tenant of the building. With his occasional odd work requirements, he had his own key to let himself in and out after normal business hours.  So, the question remains: was he killed when he was leaving last night or coming in early this morning?   My guess at this point is that the killer struck as he was departing.” 

Tyrone checked his notes.  When he realized his sergeant was watching him intently, he weighed in further. “With colder nighttime weather, he’d have the overcoat, but probably wouldn’t put it on until he reached the lobby, before he stepped outside.  If it were this morning with the frigid temperatures, my guess is he’d have left the coat on until he arrived at his office where he could remove it and hang it properly.” After a pause, he finished, “It seems a pretty nice coat–cashmere, from the look of it.”  The younger detective snapped back to the task at hand and continued, glancing at Sgt. Dederscheck.  “I have an officer checking with the parking deck across the street where Jacobs says Prescott always left his car.” 

His eyes returned to the dead man.  “No indications of a struggle and no apparent defensive wounds.  I figure the killer took his victim by surprise with the attack.  In addition, I noted no bullet holes in the walls, ceiling, or door of the elevator.  I don’t see any in the floor either, unless they’re under the body.  So, at this point, there don’t appear to be any random or wasted shots.  There aren’t any shell casings present. My guess is that a revolver was likely used.  Large caliber, whatever it was.”

Nik smiled at Tyrone’s observations.  He’d be good at this job.  “I agree with what you say, except that revolver notion.  Although it appears there are only two entry wounds, they’re in a close pattern.  Center of mass.  And the shooter might have picked up his brass before he left.”

“Are you implying this was a professional hit?”

“Could be.  And that’s not surprising for a guy in Prescott’s line of work.  Then again, it may have been someone who’s familiar with police procedures.  Either way can make it a little harder to solve.  Is the manager aware of any family?”

McDaniel posed a thought before responding to his partner’s question.  “I’ve always had the impression professionals tend to use a smaller caliber handgun, say a .22, with a contact shot.”

“Inclined to, but not in every case.  I guess it’ll depend on the shooter.”

Tyrone digested the idea before glancing at his flip pad again.  “Prescott’s wife’s name is Katherine, but Jacobs wasn’t certain whether it’s spelled with a ‘K’ or a ‘C.’   He doesn’t know of any children.  I told him not to contact the wife or anyone else, for that matter, regarding Prescott’s death.  I thought we might want to meet with the widow in person first and gauge her reaction to her husband’s demise.  So, we’ve not made next-of-kin notification yet.  Also, the victim had a law partner named Kenneth Mosley.  The manager said he’s not aware of Mosley making many appearances in the office lately.”

“We’ll need to contact any of Prescott’s staff and any operatives he may have used to see whether he was having trouble with anyone.  Unhappy clients, threats, malpractice lawsuits, nasty arguments, or the like.  Has anybody checked Prescott’s office spaces?”

“I sent Officer Frank Sherman up to the sixty-third floor to look for any signs of forced entry into the workspace or any kind of struggle,” Tyrone advised.  “There were none.  As a precaution, the building manager opened the deceased’s office to allow Frank to clear them.  He found nothing out of the ordinary.  In addition, he checked the hallway between the law firm and the elevator on that level.  There are no indications–blood, et cetera–of Prescott being shot in the corridor up there or here in the lobby.  There’s not one thing to show the killer attacked him anywhere but in the lift.  It’s too early for any of Prescott’s staff to have arrived yet, so Sherman’s waiting for them outside their office in case they somehow get past this mess and upstairs.” 

McDaniel jutted his chin toward a small hallway at the rear of the atrium.  “There’s a second locked access leading to an alley behind the building.  Sherman looked for indications of forced entry, but saw none and found nothing in the alley.  I understand it’s a lot of effort, but as a precaution, I figured we needed to check the halls on the other floors for any evidence of an attack.  I’ve sent a couple of officers to leapfrog each other other, starting at floor sixty-two and working down.”

Nik’s blond head nodded his agreement with the steps McDaniel had taken.  Dederscheck said he wanted to have a talk with the building manager, Jacobs. He growled that he’d help the man with an “attitude adjustment” concerning the police taking the time needed to do a proper investigation.  He further directed him to complete a few follow-up items.  The instructions somewhat frustrated the junior detective. He had already thought of several of them.  Setting his feelings aside, McDaniel pointed out the arrival of the medical examiner’s investigator and moved to speak to her.  

Meanwhile, Nik ambled across the vestibule’s marbled floor to a door labeled “Belvedere Building Management” in faded lettering.  He gave a cursory knock before opening it and entering the office.  The sergeant flashed his badge and credentials and identified himself as he did.  He observed a small individual sitting at a massive oak desk on the far side of the room.  The startled man’s nervous response to his entrance put Dederscheck in mind of an aptly named character actor from years earlier, Donald Meek.  Meek was a diminutive thespian with a mild-mannered yet worried face, a balding pate, and a timid demeanor.  The big cop had always been an old movie buff and often found the appearances and mannerisms of people he met reminiscent of actors and actresses of bygone days. 

Behind the desk, the fretful man quickly cradled the telephone receiver he’d been holding at his ear.  The city sleuth read his nameplate, then spoke quietly but firmly. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dederscheck,” he repeated for emphasis. “I hope that wasn’t an inappropriate call, Mr. Jacobs, say to the widow Prescott.”

“Oh … no, sir,” the man began hesitantly.  “Detective, uh, McDaniel, I think he said his name was, told me not to contact her.  Just now, I was trying to reach, um, the offices of the building’s owners regarding the murder.”   Herman swallowed hard.  “You see, it’s my … my obligation to them.  But … but there was no answer.  Too early in the day, I guess.”  Gaping at the towering lawman, whose stare never wavered, he fidgeted with the papers before him.  “Honest,” he added weakly.  A trace of perspiration appeared on the man’s prominent forehead.

Dederscheck hesitated before moving around a smaller, vacant table and chair toward the tense little man, who now suddenly looked at the desk as a buffer.  The detective hated bullies, and it wasn’t in his nature to try to intimidate people other than bad guys.  But damned if he’d let anyone impede or obstruct any homicide investigation of his.  He stopped at the near corner of the desk, pushed some papers aside, and hiked a hip onto the edge.   The scarred old thing groaned faintly in protest as he sat down.  Nik waited a long moment before speaking.  “I have a question.”  Jacobs relaxed at the calm reflected in the big sergeant’s voice, but only slightly.  “How many folks have keys to this building?”

“As far as I’m aware, Mr. Prescott and his partner are the only tenants.”

“As far as you’re aware?”  Dederscheck’s elevated tone renewed Jacob’s apprehension.  “What exactly does that mean?”

Jacobs gulped hard again before saying a word.  “Well, you see, the law offices of Prescott and Mosley have been here longer than any other current occupant.  That, plus their odd hours and vigorous work ethic, led the owner to agree to them having keys sometime back.”  The manager paused as if rethinking his statement.  “Let me simply say Mr. Prescott is the only one of them who still fits … uh, fit that description toward devotion to their practice goes.” 

The manager paused as if rethinking his statement.

The small man’s eyes flickered around the room as if looking for the words he wanted to use before returning uneasily to Dederscheck.  “Mr. Mosley has sort of stepped back from his earlier ‘enthusiasm’ for the work, shall we say?  At least as much as I can tell,” he added.  “But to my knowledge, no one else has or should have a key.  The other offices are strictly nine-to-five businesses, Monday through Friday.  Of course, I keep one and the custodial service does too.”

“And, obviously, somebody could have a duplicate made,” Nik suggested as Jacobs nodded feebly.  “Can I see yours?”

The building manager opened his desk’s middle drawer and produced a key attached to a piece of wood stenciled with the building’s name.  He gave it to the detective and sheepishly offered, “The wood helps keep the thing from getting misplaced easily.”

Nik looked it over, noting its notch pattern and the manufacturer before laying it on the desk.  He noted nothing special with respect to the key and moved on with his inquiry.  “You seem to be very well acquainted with the work habits of your tenants,” Dederscheck grunted as he made a note in his flip notebook. He wrote slowly to build the man’s distress.  The manager’s head again bobbed warily as his narrow shoulders formed a meaningless shrug. 

“Speaking of occupants, Mr. Jacobs, can I see a list of the current ones in the Belvedere?”  The manager nodded as he stood and walked to a file cabinet.  He pulled a drawer open, retrieved a loose-leaf binder, and passed it to the detective.  Dederscheck perused it for a few minutes and made a few notes in his notebook before returning it to the nervous little man, who had returned to his desk chair.  Nik went on, “Do you know of any problems Mr. Prescott or his partner were having with anyone, say another tenant or a client or someone else?” 

Herman shook his head. “No.  None.  But I answered these questions for Detective McDaniel.”

Nik looked hard at the manager for a long moment.  “For the record, I want the name of the custodial service and a point of contact there.  Did you close the building last night?”  Jacobs gave a diffident nod.  “And that was at six p.m., as usual?”  Another terse head bob.  “So, then I need to know your whereabouts between the time you closed up and when you discovered the body this morning.  And the names of those who can corroborate your movements.”  A stiff smirk played at the corners of Nik’s mouth. 

The detective waited as he watched this last request sweep over Jacobs, who bristled at the idea that he might be a suspect.  “Oh, and do me a favor.  Check with the building’s owners to confirm the counselors were the only tenants with keys.  We need to be sure they didn’t do any other special good turns.  Is there any way into the place aside from the two keyed entry points?”

“Check with the owners of the building to confirm the counselors were the only tenants with keys.”

As he scratched the name of a contact at the custodial agency on a business card and handed it to Dederscheck, Jacobs shook his head emphatically.  “No, sir!  Whatever else one may say about the Belvedere Building, it has sturdy locks and is secure from miscreants!”

Dederscheck’s face gave way to an ironic smirk as he launched himself from the desk, which creaked its relief.  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.  “There’s a guy lying in an elevator out there who might well take exception to your statement, if he could.”

Jacobs hauled in a breath and raised his rounded shoulders in a cringe.  He couldn’t help himself as he asked, “Do you have any idea how much longer this investigation will take, Detective?”

Nik squared himself to the building manager and rose to his full height, exasperated at the apparent impatience over how he handled his murder scenes.  Then, he leaned forward on his fists over the desk toward Jacobs.  “We’ll be here as long as it takes.  And your fullest cooperation will greatly diminish the time required.  Get me?”

A nervous titter was followed by, “Oh, of course, detective.  I was concerned about the impact of this on the current occupants and filling the vacancies.”  The little fellow made empty gestures with his hands as he spoke.

“Yeah, I can see prospective tenants clamoring to get into this building otherwise.”  Dederscheck paused at the office door and looked back.  “Oh, and I hope you’re in good standing with your custodial service.  You’ll need them big time, what with the mess in your elevator.”  Jacobs only winced and blanched in response.

Chapter 2

McDaniel was talking with a pair of officers when Dederscheck returned to the lobby.  As he walked across the floor to his partner, the sergeant saw Prescott’s corpse, deposited in a black vinyl body bag, being transported on a gurney toward the front entrance. The ME’s investigator accompanied it.  The departing cops greeted the big detective briefly before moving on. 

As the bag disappeared from view, McDaniel caught Nik up on the status of the investigation.  “The officers found nothing on the other floors to indicate that the attack or anything unusual had occurred there.  Likewise, the canvass of the surrounding area yielded a goose egg.  None of the businesses in this neighborhood have exterior security cameras, which might have helped.  The lab technician has just completed her work.  Not surprisingly, she got little from the elevator.  There are enough fingerprints in there to restock the FBI files.”

As the bag disappeared from view, McDaniel caught Dederscheck up on the status of the investigation.

The big detective sergeant shook his head.  “So much for a cleaning service.”

“Yeah, no joke.  But if you’re right and a professional pulled this job, there’s no hope of finding any useful prints.  The killer was likely wearing gloves.”  Tyrone jerked his chin toward the building’s front door.  “As you saw, the body’s being moved to the coroner’s office for autopsy.  There were only two wounds.  Preliminarily, they estimate the time of death to have been between six and eight hours ago.  We’ll know more after the postmortem. 

“Upon viewing the parking deck’s security video, Officer Harless confirmed the victim’s car never left there last night.  But he’s getting a copy of the CCTV recordings for our perusal, anyway.  Prescott’s office staff, comprising one administrative assistant, Mrs. LeMaistre, has arrived upstairs. Sherman briefly interviewed her.  She stated Prescott had no appointments after three-thirty yesterday afternoon and added that the dead man was meticulous in keeping her informed of his schedule.  And when she departed at the end of her workday, he’d been alone at his desk, occupied with going over legal documents.”

McDaniel paused as he flipped back and forth between the pages of his notebook.  “To her knowledge, there had been no unusual or negative issues with clients and no threats.  She opened all the mail, reviewed incoming e-mails, and answered the telephone, so she believes she’d have known of any such work-related circumstance. 

“Out of an abundance of caution, I called headquarters and started the ball rolling on obtaining the phone records for Prescott’s business and residence.  I checked on another thing in case they killed him last night.  No one has reported to the department that he’s missing.  Another thought I have.  I think we should get a forensic examination of the law firm’s computers.  My dad has always said you can learn more about a person from his checkbook than from anything else.  But nowadays, with automatic withdrawals and online banking, I’d update the notion.  I believe the computer’s hard drive will tell us more.  Not only his financial statements, but a person’s searches, e-mails, and such.

“LeMaistre acknowledged she hasn’t seen or heard from Mr. Mosley in two weeks.  A while back, the lawyers had something of a heated disagreement over whether they should move their law offices. But it was nothing major, according to her.  Prescott had one operative, a private detective named Ballard, he used frequently.  She gave Sherman his name and phone number, but will have him call us.  Frank said, although the lady is extremely upset at the moment, she promised her fullest cooperation in the investigation.

“A while back, the lawyers had something of a heated disagreement.”  

“Finally, he had her walk through the office with him to see if any items were missing or were out of place.  According to her, everything looked as it should.  LeMaistre revealed the dead man was a fussbudget-her word-concerning things being orderly.  We have the woman’s contact information outside outside work.  Sherman passed on to me the same info for Mosley.  He warned the admin assistant not to get in touch with Mosley or Mrs. Prescott for the time being.  Frank told me LeMaistre laughed coldly and said that someone of Mrs. Prescott’s ‘station’ won’t be up yet, anyway.”

“Excellent work, Tyrone.  Let’s go see the widow Prescott.  She should be awake by now, no matter what her socioeconomic status may be.  And if not, we can introduce her to an unfamiliar part of the day to relish.  We’ll take my car and come back for yours later.”

McDaniel smiled as they walked to the entry doors, briefly speaking to an officer on the way.  Dederscheck, he thought, will be an exceptional guy to learn from.  As long as he stays sober.

The younger detective followed his partner as he pushed out onto the sidewalk and lumbered toward his unmarked vehicle.  Tyrone reflected on how fast he moved for such a sizable man as he quick-stepped to keep up with him.  Their breaths made clouds in the frosty air of early winter.   They walked in silence until Dederscheck glanced upward, pulling his overcoat tighter against the biting wind.  He stared at the overcast sky, streaked with various foreboding hues, and exhaled sharply.  “Crap, what a dismal day!  Look at that sky!  I didn’t know the color gray had so many shades.”

“Well, according to E. L. James, it does.”

“Huh?  Oh, yeah, college boy, you read a lot, don’t you?”

“Hey, wait a minute!” McDaniel chuckled, this time taking the comment as good-natured razzing.  “You are not getting away with that!  You went to college, too!”

“Sure, but isn’t that the kind of thing the old-timer always says to his younger partner in the movies?”

Tyrone laughed at the remark, typical of Dederscheck’s sense of humor.  The guy loved referring to old films.  “Maybe so, but you’re not going to pull it on me!” McDaniel joked.  “Besides, I didn’t read the novel!  Every female admin at the department did during their lunch breaks.  The thing was everywhere for a while!  So, yeah, I know of it, but with the readership I saw, I figured it was a chick book.  Not my bag.  More into sci-fi.”  The sergeant grinned and clapped his partner on the shoulder.

As they reached the car in the street-level parking lot, Dederscheck paused and retrieved his cell phone.  He hit his speed dial.  Despite the frigid air and razor winds enveloping them, McDaniel stood at the passenger door of Nik’s blue Chevy Impala and waited, curious about what had sidetracked the man.  The big guy listened intently as he plugged his unoccupied ear with one of his meaty fingers against the rising noise of the morning rush hour surrounding them. 

When someone answered the call, the sergeant thundered into the phone, “Hey, who’s this?”  After a brief interval, he added, “This is Dederscheck.”  He paused again before continuing, slightly annoyed, “No, I don’t have a countdown right this minute!  And I won’t until I resolve this homicide I’m working!  But whatever the stint involved is, it doesn’t include time listening to your crap, Spinks!  Now, is Detective Brewer around?”  Another momentary silence.  “Put her on.”  Nik shook his head and stamped his feet against the cold, glancing at his partner. 

McDaniel smiled at the exchange.  He didn’t have to hear both sides of the conversation. A running gag in the Crimes Against Persons Unit dealt with Dederscheck and the timing of his retirement.  Nik was eligible to go anytime he wanted.  For some time, when he had a bad day, he’d look at his desk calendar and grumble. To anybody within earshot, he mumbled about a “date certain” he intended to “hang it up,” giving the exact number of days he had remaining until his departure. 

A running gag in the Crimes Against Persons Unit dealt with Dederscheck and timing of his retirement.

Then, the next thing his co-workers knew, he’d have a superb day–catching a perp, solving a murder, testifying in a trial conviction, or whatever–, and he forgot his retirement date.  He’d swear to work until they had to carry him out feet first.   To Tyrone, it was much as when someone makes a brilliant golf shot during a lousy round. Then they’re ready to play another eighteen holes.  The positive days re-energized Nik.  The detectives, who had been around a while and who knew Dederscheck better, got away with kidding him. 

While they were at ease with each other’s company, McDaniel believed he hadn’t yet spent sufficient time with or gotten to know the sergeant well enough to weigh in on that subject.   Tyrone was not concerned with any “retribution” which might come if he jumped on the “retirement countdown” bandwagon.  He simply thought his colleague and he had built a relationship of mutual trust and understanding. Such as it was, he didn’t want to harm it in any way.   But he sure enjoyed watching the other detectives needle Nik about it.  And the man the taunting good-naturedly.  Sort of.

Dederscheck looked across the top of their vehicle at his partner.  “Let’s get in.  I can’t take this cold and can barely make out what the person on the other end of the line is saying!” As he was getting ensconced behind the steering wheel and starting the engine, he told McDaniel, “I wasn’t sure whether I’d receive a cell signal in here.  This phone is,”–mind the language, Nik reminded himself in that instant–“uh, crap sometimes, but it’s okay now.  I still hear the tacky hold music the department paid an arm and a leg for.  It sounds like a cross between the Mary Tyler Moore Show theme song and cheesy seventies porn movie tune!” 

Before the sergeant added that he wasn’t actually familiar with how porn movie music sounded, the person he sought came on the line.  “Dell!”  Dederscheck blurted.  “Hey, it’s Nik.  Are you available to go with Tyrone and me to give a death notice to a deceased’s wife?”  He waited for a response.  “Possibly an hour or two.  Probably less.  I dunno.  I’ll owe you.”  Another pause at Dederscheck’s end followed.  “No, we don’t expect trouble.  I’d be more comfortable with a female investigator along.  Also, I’d appreciate your observations.  Do you need me to clear it with Wood?” he asked, referring to the lieutenant who headed their division.  He smiled as he listened. 

“No, we don’t expect trouble.  I’d be more comfortable with a female investigator along.”

Meanwhile, the other detective worked at getting a semblance of heat from the car’s ventilation system.  “Yeah,” Dederscheck continued, “lunch is on me.  No, better yet, make that it’s on McDaniel.”  Tyrone looked in his direction, and Nik winked.  “Be out front, and we’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.  And thanks, Dell.  See ya!” 

Dederscheck laughed to himself as he dropped the phone onto the seat.  He sensed the question reflected on McDaniel’s face.  Holding his hands to the heating vent, he mused, “Have you worked with Detective Brewer yet, Tyrone?”  As the junior detective shook his head, Nik put the car in gear, checked his mirrors, and explained, “Dell is a sharp investigator and terrific at reading people.  Aside from the obvious advantage of having a woman present when interviewing another female, her take on the widow’s actions and reactions will be helpful.”

McDaniel again felt his experience on the streets was being slighted.  “So, you don’t think you or I could do the same thing?”

“Maybe.  But have you looked through or read the book titled Understanding Women by the guy whose name I can’t recall?”  Nik scrunched his face up as if trying desperately to recollect the author’s moniker.  McDaniel shook his head, but before he spoke, the sergeant grinned and continued. “No!  No, you haven’t, because no one’s written it and, my guess is, no one ever will.  Not a man, anyway.  So, we’ll do the best we can, being mere men, and that means taking Dell along with us.”

“… have you looked through or read the book titled Understanding Women by the guy whose name I can’t recall?”  

McDaniel wouldn’t argue with that logic and only chortled in response.  Although they’d met once, Tyrone knew Detective Dell Brewer, from his time on the street, more by reputation than from firsthand experience.  She was an attractive, average-sized member of the opposite sex with uncanny strength, the product of being the only girl in a house full of older brothers.   Despite that, she was a feminine woman who didn’t take crap from anybody and who held her own against most men. 

Many of their patrol officers had a “Brewer story.”  Among the most popular was a particular one stemming from her time in uniform.   She’d arrived at a scene where a rather large, burly, intoxicated man had fought off two male cops attempting to arrest him for a serious domestic abuse incident.  When she approached the offender, the officers were getting off the ground where the culprit had placed them in a not-so-delicate manner. 

When the perpetrator turned to face the female officer, he laughed and, momentarily, dropped his guard at what he perceived as a non-threat.  In that instance, Brewer simultaneously grabbed her asp baton and took the guy down with a leg sweep.  The ruffian fell awkwardly and hard, emptying his lungs of air.  Before he recovered, Dell used her truncheon to apply a few strokes of persuasion to the man’s vulnerable areas.  But when she demanded he do so, he refused to show her his hands, hidden beneath his body.  After a few more convincing taps with the baton, the man howled his acquiescence. Brewer applied handcuffs in time to turn him over to the still-groggy officers.  After relinquishing custody and without uttering a word, the girl walked back to her patrol car and drove away.  Tyrone always snickered at the yarn.

As the big detective pulled his police-issued Chevrolet to the parking lot’s exit, he asked for the Prescott address.  After his passenger referred to his notepad and read the location aloud, the sergeant let out a long, low whistle.  “Harbuck Hills.  Now we’re talking money.  If Prescott was that well-off, I wonder why he kept his offices in the old building?”  Both pondered the question as Dederscheck eased out into the vehicular scrum composed of delivery trucks and morning commuters.

*  *  *

Twenty-three minutes later, the unmarked vehicle pulled to the curb at police headquarters.  Detective Brewer, heavily bundled against the freezing temperature, stood on the sidewalk amid the heavy snowflakes now falling.  She had her hands buried deep in her overcoat pockets, flapping her elbows and shifting from one foot to the other, trying unsuccessfully to keep warm.  The woman had the rear passenger door opened and was inside with it slammed closed even before Dederscheck brought the Chevy to a complete stop.  She almost dove into the back seat, landing behind the driver.  

“Hey big guy,” she barked through her woolen muffler as she righted herself, “you wouldn’t keep a lady freezing to death on a sidewalk too long, would you?”  The girl shifted her gaze.  “Hello, Tyrone.  How ya doing?”  Dell tapped the younger man’s shoulder with a gloved hand as she went on, “Listen, don’t let this old-timer teach you any nasty habits on how to treat a woman!”  Then, as McDaniel nodded a greeting to her, Brewer spoke to no one in particular as she looked through the ice-glazed window, “It’s supposed to get cold sometime today!  Lordy, this would freeze the balls—!”  Stopping herself and blushing slightly, she caught the senior detective’s askance grin in the rearview mirror as he pulled back into traffic.  She recalled Tyrone’s background as a pastor’s son and suddenly felt a little embarrassed.  “Oh, sorry.” 

Dederscheck watched with amusement as the recent arrival squirmed in embarrassment.  She removed her muffler and toboggan hat and rumpled her unruly brown hair.  McDaniel turned in his seat to see her better.  “I may have been a preacher’s kid, Detective Brewer, but my folks didn’t raise me in a vacuum.  And even if they did, my time in Iraq and my years on the streets have cured any naivete I might have had.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, but–”  Again, she paused as her face’s red hue deepened.  She tried to change the subject, “And call me Dell, please, Tyrone.”  Her shifting eyes glimpsed a grinning Dederscheck in the rearview mirror.  “Stop smirking, big boy!  You’re not getting off that easy!  I was freezing out there waiting for you!  And–”

“Okay, okay, missy.  I’m sorry.  Rush hour traffic and now with snow, all right?  How about lunch and dessert, too?  Satisfied?”

The female detective snorted.  “You sure know how to charm a lady, Nik!  Where are we going?”

Tyrone, still looking back at their passenger, gave her the Prescott address.

“Thanks for the info, but I meant where’re we going for lunch?” After a pause, she remarked, “Harbuck Hills?  Hmmmm, very nice.”  She pretended to primp in an exaggerated manner and joked, “Oh, my, if I’d only known, I’d have gussied up.”  With that, Dell settled in for the ride as Tyrone explained the circumstances they were investigating.  “So, is the wife a suspect?” she asked when he’d finished with the facts as they had them so far.

“As my mentor says, ‘Everyone’s a suspect at this stage’,” the younger detective interjected as he glanced askance at his partner. 

Dederscheck caught Dell’s image in the mirror as he spoke. “That’s true, but also, right now, we know of only two people who have firm, obvious motives for wanting Prescott dead.  Unless I miss my guess, there is a significant amount of property and insurance money coming to the widow. And the partners likely had some sort of life insurance on each other, as well as any business assets the survivor might receive.  Other than that, it’s just a routine death notification.”  After a brief pause, he finished the thought.  “If there is any such thing as a ‘routine death notification.’”

“Unless I miss my guess, there is a significant amount of property and insurance money coming to the widow.”

“You can say that again.  Worst part of the job,” Brewer moaned, before the threesome fell into silence, each contemplating what lay ahead.

Nik navigated through the morning rush until he reached the point they were moving against the vehicles traveling into downtown.  Traffic was worse than usual because of the threat of snow, a kiss of death in the minds of commuters in this part of the world.  The business district gave way to strip shopping centers. In turn, wooded, rolling hills populated by well-to-do subdivisions replaced the commercial businesses.  Vehicular congestion disappeared.  As they drove, the snowfall stopped, failing to accumulate on the ground.  Eventually, they turned onto a wide, tree-lined thoroughfare called Pates Ferry Road. 

Although crimes rarely brought the police to the affluent area, Dederscheck knew, the history of the avenue.  It had begun as a stagecoach route.  The artery took people from a town then known as Barnesville across the city’s major river on a ferry from which the roadway derived its name.  The run ended in the small community of New Holland.  From the village, the passengers then continued to the state’s gold rush, which had lasted two decades in the first half of the nineteenth century.  In modern times, the street kept the name and dropped the apostrophe.  Pates Ferry Road became an important east-west course along the northern portion of the city.  It was a lengthy, meandering thing, crossing hills and valleys and including Harbuck Hills.

Harbuck Hills was not a subdivision or even a community. The locale was far too prestigious and expensive to lend itself to such mundane designations.  It was an enclave, comprising a group of large, upscale homes, if one attributed such a commonplace name to the edifices situated there.  The residents located the mansions on expansive, wooded tracts sitting majestically on either side of Pates Ferry, as the locals called it.  Many of the impressive old estates dated from the early twentieth century. During that time, wealthy bankers, doctors, lawyers, and railroad magnates of the vicinity selected this stretch of road, out of the city’s reach, on which to build their “dwellings.”  None of the abodes, including those constructed long ago, were small by any standard. 

Nonetheless, the bombastic nouveau riche demolished a few older mansions. They then built domiciles, a few of which made the earlier residences appear as mere cottages.  Watching these “palaces” being put up, one might assume it was more a matter of a person seeking to outdo the next rather than trying to provide a fitting home for their family.  Harbuck Hills ran for mile after mile of such properties along Pates Ferry.  It remained the city’s wealthiest section and, unlike many of the newer residential areas, had maintained its forest cover, making it a pleasant and scenic drive.

At one point the detectives rounded a bend in the road where a builder had cleared the trees from a parcel of land. The open space revealed a recently completed monstrosity, appearing to be a scaled-down version of the Palace of Versailles.  It somehow looked out of place among the charm and grace of most other mansions seen along the thoroughfare.  Dederscheck slowed as he approached and passed the structure.  Brewer piped up, “So, Nik, is that something like what you and Maggie are looking to settle into when you retire?”

McDaniel couldn’t pass the opportunity to harass his partner, so he jumped into the fray.  “Come on, Dell.  It’s way too French in its architecture for Nik’s taste.  You know how the Germans feel with respect to anything French.  Right, sergeant?” Tyrone’s grin momentarily edged away when his superior turned and glared at him.  Nik was proud of his particular heritage. 

*  *  *

Dederscheck’s grandfather, a scientist in pre-World War II Germany, had seen the rise of Hitler and the Nazis as a threat to his country and its freedom-loving people.  Though not Jewish, he had felt a danger coming to every German under the fascists’ policies and programs.  As a result, well before Hitler’s overt saber-rattling, he’d sent his wife, Nik’s grandmother, and their young son to England to “visit” distant relatives.  There they remained. 

Later, the Nazis prevented Herr Dederscheck from leaving to join his family.  The government said it needed him for “the good of the Fatherland.”  In due course, as Nik’s grandfather had suspected would happen, they assigned him to do research for and to work on Hitler’s rocket program.  When he refused, the authorities threatened his loved ones until they found there was no one still living in Germany to use against him.  At that point, they told the man he’d be executed and threw him into prison.

In due course, as Nik’s grandfather had suspected would happen, they assigned him to do research for and to work on Hitler’s rocket program. 

Although, by his admission, he was no Wernher von Braun, the senior Dederscheck gambled he was of enough value to their research that the Nazis wouldn’t follow through on their death threat. Instead, they counted on him eventually capitulating to their demands.  His risk paid off.  In the chaos of war, the authorities forgot him, and he languished in prison until freed by the advancing Americans.  Ultimately, the Americans reunited the family and secretly brought them to this country, where he worked on its burgeoning aerospace program.  Nik’s grandfather had often shaken his head as he chuckled over the irony of finally working with von Braun. 

*  *  *

Despite his family’s difficult history, Dederscheck was not one to miss a chance to joke about his ethnicity.  After enough time for the effect of his gaze to hold an uncertain McDaniel’s attention, Nik broke into a wide grin. He gave his protégé a playful punch on the shoulder.  It may have seemed a mean thing to do to the younger man, but the older one loved joking around.  The senior investigator asserted, “I’d never buy a French-style home.  If I wanted it, I’d invade and occupy it in the best German tradition.”  Then, he laughed, as did Dell and a much-relieved Tyrone, who realized the sarge had gotten the better of him.

Chapter 3

Many estate homes were not visible from Pates Ferry Road and posted street numbers were scarce as the three made their way.  GPS proved little help.  Dederscheck joked he’d stop at a mansion and have Tyrone go to the front door to ask for directions.  The young man “graciously” declined the suggestion.  Brewer volunteered to do it merely “to get a look inside one of these joints.”  As an afterthought, she absently muttered, “What the hell do these people do for a living?”

Finally, they located the Prescott place and turned into the long, winding driveway.  Passing through a heavily wooded, yet beautifully landscaped parcel, they came to an opening in the forest holding the hilltop residence they sought.   The steep-roofed residence was a huge affair constructed of a grayish-tan stone.  At the left end of the building, a large ell protruded forward from the rest of the home.  An abundance of leaded glass windows, including stained glass, graced the mansion.  To the right of the magnificent structure’s oversized, arched front door stood a massive round tower. Dederscheck suspected that the stair-step windows around the thing hinted it held an enormous spiral staircase. 

The paved drive split as it curved to the left toward the home’s entryway.  One part of the driveway formed a circular pattern at the front of the residence. The portion of the pavement moving off to the right passed through a porte-cochere and ended at a spacious, multi-vehicle, detached garage behind and to the side of the primary structure.   Over the garage, there were living quarters.  They’d built the outbuilding of the same stone as the home.  At least from the exterior view, the owners spared no expense in constructing the mansion.

Nik parked the car on the curved driveway at the steps leading to the door.  “Here at last,” he sighed.

“Imposing hovel, isn’t it?” Dell observed as she leaned forward, placing her chin on the front seatback.  “Sarge, don’t forget to get your parking ticket validated.”  When he caught her watching him in the rearview mirror, he rolled his eyes.  She asked, “What’s next, coach?”

Nik turned in the seat to face his fellow detectives, ran his fingers through his thinning hair, and glanced at his watch.   “Well, it’s a little after nine a.m., so hopefully Mrs. Prescott is up and has had her coffee by now.  Let’s approach this as a typical notification with one notable difference.  I’m curious to know why, if someone killed Steven last night, the wife didn’t contact the police or raise an alarm when he failed to come home.

“I’m curious to know why, if someone killed Prescott last night, the wife didn’t contact the police or raise an alarm when he didn’t come home.”

“Make careful note of what she says, how she reacts.  No matter what else, she may give us some leads on who might have done this.  And, Dell, if you have questions which come to mind, speak up.  I didn’t mean for you just to sit mute, only as an observer while we’re here.  Okay?”  As she nodded and Tyrone found a blank page in his flip notebook, Nik finished, “All right.  Let’s roll.”

When they emerged from the car, Dell heard Tyrone mutter to himself, “‘The teaching of the wise is a fountain of life.’”

Walking around the car with McDaniel to where Nik stood, she asked the junior detective, “What’s that from?  A fortune cookie?”

Tyrone grinned broadly.  “No.  It’s from the Bible.  Proverbs 13:14.  Just thinking aloud.”  Dell nodded in silent understanding.

The trio made their way up the few steps to the mahogany front door.  Tyrone pushed the doorbell button, but they didn’t hear any result of the effort from inside the home.

Dell, head down, whispered, “I didn’t hear chimes or bells.  Do you think the doorbell’s broken?”

Nik chuckled.  “No, Dell.  Things don’t stay broken in a home like this.  This is not recent construction, by my estimation.  No telling how thick these walls are or this door is.  But everything concerning this place shouts sturdiness.  And money.  It’s only that the sound of the doorbell or whatever didn’t reach us.”

Presently, a thirty-something woman wearing a fashionable but plain green dress opened the door a cautious amount.  She had a graceful, thin neck and piercing green eyes beneath a smartly coiffed head of red hair.  The lady appeared uneasy as her hands smoothed the unwrinkled front of her frock. Nonetheless, she smiled and said, “Yes, may I help you?”

“Mrs. Prescott?” Nik inquired.

“No, I’m Valerie Eddins.  I work for Mr. and Mrs. Prescott.  What can I do for you?”

Sensing hesitancy on Valerie’s part, Nik produced his badge and identification. He employed his firm but softened voice, the one he often used with recalcitrant victims of violent crimes.  “I’m Detective Nik Dederscheck, and these are Detectives Brewer and McDaniel.  We need to speak with Mrs. Prescott.”  Eddins glanced at her watch, prompting him to add resolutely, “Now, please.”

“I don’t believe Mr. Prescott is here at the moment.”  Glancing back into the home, she continued, “And I’m uncertain whether Mrs. Prescott has awakened yet.  I know she has not come down.  What is it that you need?”

Dederscheck’s voice then took on a more ominous tone.  “We want to speak with your mistress. And now, Ms. Eddins.  It’s in the nature of an emergency.”

Their greeter was unhappy with the unfolding events.  The people living in Harbuck Hills, and even those working for them, were unaccustomed to being dealt with in demanding terms by mere civil servants, badge or no badge.  She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows as she sought a challenging retort.  Then, thinking the better of it, she said, “Please come in, and I’ll get Mrs. Prescott for you.  It may take a few minutes.  So, if you’ll be so kind as to wait in the library, she’ll see you there.”  Backing and opening the door further, she showed a door to their left as the destination.

The people living in Harbuck Hills, and even those working for them, were unaccustomed to being dealt with in demanding terms by mere civil servants, badge or no badge.

The detectives stepped into a magnificent two-story foyer, if they called it that.  Nik thought it seemed closer to the size of a hotel lobby.  Various hues of light filled the space as sunshine filtered through the massive stained-glassed window installed high above the front door.  As Dederscheck had suspected, an immense curving stairway climbed to his right, housed in the round tower they’d seen when approaching the place.  The entrance hall led back through the home to an expanded living room. 

At the transition from where they stood to the vast space, the ceiling dropped from the two-story height of the former to a mere twelve or so feet in the latter.  The top of the staircase was at the rear of the foyer, where it intersected with a hallway to the right.  A left turn from the stairway traversed back across the entry hall by a railed balcony along the vestibule’s rear wall. This led to a corridor to another part of the mansion.    What Nik saw of the room revealed several seating arrangements placed before an gigantic stone fireplace.  A crackling fire bid a warm welcome.  Immense windows astride the fireplace provided a rush of natural light.  Though sizable in its dimensions, the home still held a feeling of warmth and comfort. 

Ms. Eddins ushered the three to the left of the entry hall and into the library, where a beautiful, plush area carpet of exotic origin enveloped their shoes.   Handsome sofas and chairs invited repose in the large room.  Detective Dederscheck merely unbuttoned his overcoat, assuming the visit would be a relatively short one.  Tyrone and Dell followed suit.  Nik and his female counterpart found seats as Valerie quietly departed and closed the door behind her. 

As in the great room, the library had a ceiling Nik estimated to be around twelve feet high.  The walls, except for the areas boasting a large stone fireplace and a pair of huge windows, held built-in bookcases.  Their fine hardwoods gleamed.  The shelves were above waist-high cabinets and reached to the high ceiling.  Other than a few photographs, mementos, and objets d’art here and there, books filled the spaces.  Tyrone used the waiting time to walk along the bookshelves, peruse the titles, and randomly pull a tome from the shelf for a closer inspection.  The volume in hand, Tyrone turned to the senior man and offered, “Mr. and Mrs. Prescott have a few first editions among their collection.  Impressive.  But I’ve yet to run across the book regarding women you mentioned earlier this morning, Sergeant.”

“What book was that?”  The exchange had roused Dell from her vacant gaze at the fireplace.

The older detective was quick to cut the conversation short.  “Never mind!  It’s not important.  And thank you, partner.”  A broad, mischievous grin lifted the corners of Tyrone’s mouth.

“Now, boys, what are we talking about?”  Dell’s voice had a singsong, teasing tone.  “Come on!  You know–”

Much to Nik’s relief, the door to the library opened suddenly.  Valerie entered, followed by a beautiful, statuesque woman the detectives surmised to be in her late forties, though possibly a little older.  The tall, gray-eyed brunette carried herself with undeniable style and poise, even at what one might have supposed was an early hour for her.  Her bearing reminded Nik of Lisa Fremont, Grace Kelly’s character in Rear Window.  Eddins turned to Nik and spoke first.  “Mrs. Prescott, this is Detective Dederscheck, and Detectives McDaniel and Brewer, although I’m not sure who is which.”  Turning toward her employer, she finished the introductions. “This is Katherine Prescott.”

Dederscheck, already on his feet, shook her hand gently, then introduced the other officers by their respective names.  After each had made their greeting, Mrs. Prescott turned and gave her companion the slightest of nods, at which Eddins retreated.  Valerie left the door open a crack as she departed.

Mrs. Prescott’s face, though striking, exhibited a starkness as she moved across the room. The detectives followed Katherine Prescott and stood, waiting for her to sit.  Nik sat next to her as she eased onto the large sofa.  Dell quietly took a seat on a settee opposite, while Tyrone found a nearby armchair.  Katherine’s eyes focused on a random object but didn’t meet Nik’s, who she decided was the leader of these three.  “What may I do for you at this early hour, Detective Dederscheck?”  Her voice was light but held a subtle tone. Nik ranged between annoyance and uncertainty.

Nik had learned over time that there was no painless way to break such news, no kind words to lessen the shock.  Guardedly, he began, “Mrs. Prescott–”

Suddenly the door pushed open, and Valerie walked through it with a silver serving set.  She put the tray on the large, low table between the sofa and the settee, then poured and served coffee in fine Limoges porcelain.  When she’d finished, she stood to one side until Prescott dismissed her using her first name.  Again, the woman left the room without closing the door completely.  Nik sat his cup and saucer on the table and quietly moved to the opening, gently pressing it shut.  Katherine’s eyebrows drew together in a brief, faint frown as the big detective returned to his seat.

“Mrs. Prescott, I’m sorry to have to tell you some terrible news.  The manager of your husband’s building found him dead there a few hours ago.  His death occurred sometime last night or early this morning. He was murdered.”  When the widow didn’t flinch but merely gazed over her coffee cup at him, Dederscheck couldn’t discern if he was seeing shock or indifference.  “Do you understand what I’m saying, ma’am?”  The answer was a long time in coming.  The cop tried to give her a minute to digest his message.  Katherine Prescott moved her eyes from him and stared in another direction for a moment.  Nik glanced at Brewer, who gave him a hint of a shrug.  He received the same response when he gave a sideways glance at McDaniel.  “Mrs. Prescott?  Do you want me to call Ms. Eddins?”

The widow set her coffee cup down and smiled thinly at Dederscheck.  “Yes, detective, I understand perfectly well what you’re telling me.  And no, Valerie has other duties, which require her attention at the moment.”

Taken aback, Nik prodded softly, “Excuse me, ma’am, but you don’t seem too surprised or upset at the news.”

“It’s a hazard of the profession My husband had chosen, wouldn’t you say?”  She smirked vaguely.  “It’s not as inherently risky as your profession, detective.  But, as a criminal defense attorney, Steven dealt with many despicable characters during his time in practice.  Some were lowdown and nasty, and more than a few were powerful and malicious.  He knew a great deal concerning many influential people, who were not comfortable with his knowledge, I’m certain.  Then there’s always the vicious nature of our society, demonstrated by random violent acts.”

“Steven had dealt with many despicable characters during his time in practice.”

The widow paused to reach for the coffeepot.  Nik interceded and filled her cup.  Katherine doctored it to her satisfaction.  As she leaned back on the sofa again, she stared at Nik woodenly.  “I mean, I can feign distress and wail in mournful bereavement, if you’d like, but it’s simply not in my nature, Detective Dederscheck.”  She looked away from him and quietly sipped.  The man traded lowered glances with his fellow detectives. 

As a clear afterthought, she glanced back at Nik and added, “I haven’t seen Steven since yesterday morning.  I think he went to his office.  And before you ask, let me assure you I was here last evening, playing three-handed bridge with Valerie and Kenneth Mosley until after ten, possibly eleven.  We often do.  Kenneth is … was Steven’s law partner.  Afterward, I retired to my bed and remained there the entire night.  Ms. Eddins did likewise to her quarters.”  Nik started to speak, but she stopped him.  “Valerie has an apartment in the west wing of our … my home.”

“And Mr. Mosley left then?”  The woman merely looked at Nik with piercing eyes.  Rather than appearing to impugn the character of a prominent lady, suddenly now a widow, the detective felt compelled to move on without the answer.  “Do you know where Mr. Mosley went when he left here?”

“That’s a question better put to Kenneth, Detective Dederscheck.”  Her tone was cold and flat.

Detective McDaniel interjected, “Mrs. Prescott, when did you become aware your husband hadn’t come home last night?”  

Katherine looked at the younger man steely-eyed and detached for a moment before she responded, “Detective, let’s be frank.  Steven and I have had distinct lives in addition to separate bedrooms for a while.  We maintained a measure of civility between us.  When his practice didn’t absorb him, he tried repeatedly to rekindle the flame we’d once known.  However, the ember died some time back.”  Tyrone took her harsh glare as more than mere annoyance at his inquiry.  The look was personal to him.

Nik interjected a question, “So, it’s safe to say you didn’t have the perfect marriage then?”

Katherine casually sipped her coffee and made a vague gesture with her hand holding the saucer, looking hard into Dederscheck’s eyes.  “I suppose a perfect marriage is very much the same as a perfect murder, detective.  It’s merely a matter of not getting caught.”  Her voice was soft, but tight.  A moment of stunned silence enveloped the detectives.

“I suppose a perfect marriage is very much the same as a perfect murder, detective.  It’s merely a matter of not getting caught.”

“Did you consider divorce?” Dell Brewer questioned.

Katherine Prescott bristled faintly.  Her thin smile reflected a mixture of bitterness and compromise as she returned her cup and saucer to the table.  “Let us simply say one grows comfortable with the status quo and with one’s place in a social setting such that a minor unhappiness is preferable to the alternatives.  In short, detective, no.”  She straightened her back and folded her hands in her lap.  She held her chin proudly.  “But I didn’t find myself in a position of having to make a choice between divorce and murder, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”  Brewer frowned and nodded sharply once.  Annoyed, Mrs. Prescott abruptly stood and ended the interview.  “If there’s nothing more, Detective Dederscheck, I have several matters which require my attention.  And now I must add funeral arrangements to the list.”

Although the other officers rose from their seats, Nik remained seated.  He looked up into Katherine’s face intently.  “I have another question.  Do you or Mr. Prescott or Ms. Eddins own a gun?”

“No. I won’t have one in my home.  And unless Steven owned one without my knowledge and kept at his office, the answer is no.”

 Nik rose.  “There’s nothing more at this point, Mrs. Prescott.  But we may need to be in touch with you again as our investigation proceeds.”  The woman said nothing, nodded, and moved to the library door, followed by her visitors.  She paused at it, waiting for someone to open the thing for her. 

The expectations of privilege, the younger detective thought as he reached for the knob.  Eddins appeared as Tyrone opened it.  As the lady of the home disappeared into the great room without further comment, Mrs. Prescott’s assistant escorted the detectives back to their entry point.  Before he left, Nik confirmed the previous night’s activities at the Prescott mansion with Valerie.

*  *  *

The air had turned even colder while they’d been in the home.  As the trio hustled across the driveway toward their car, the big, fair-haired cop exhaled softly, “That is one cool customer. Tyrone, let’s keep an eye out in the newspaper for an obit on Steven.  More to the point of our investigation, I want to find out the funeral arrangements.” 

The younger detective nodded his understanding.  He’d discovered a few things regarding Nik’s investigative habits when he’d learned the captain had partnered them. One of the sergeant’s tendencies, if he had the time, was to attend the funeral of his victim in certain murders.  He believed he could determine several facts about the deceased and any suspects present in such circumstances.  When the three climbed into the car, Nik turned halfway in the seat and draped an arm over its back to face Detective Brewer.  “Well, what do you think, Dell?”

With her arms wrapped tightly around her torso for warmth, she ignored his question and posed one of her own.  “How’re we fixed for gas, big guy?”  Nik shifted back toward the steering wheel, giving a smiling Tyrone a compliant, raised-eyebrows glance as he did.  He started the car.  Dederscheck reached over and turned the car’s heater on full blast, adjusting a vent to blow in Dell’s direction.  Then he glared in the rearview mirror at his fellow officer and waited. 

Brewer smiled her gratitude.  “I dunno, Nik.  Prescott’s widow seems to have an airtight alibi for last night and this morning, if Eddins isn’t running interference for her boss.  Of course, Mosley has to corroborate her alibi as well. But does it mean Katherine didn’t have a hand in getting rid of a husband who’d outlived his usefulness to her?” Dell shrugged slightly.  “Like I said, I dunno.  Although you’re right about Mrs. Prescott being an iceberg.  And she was quick to claim sole ownership of the real estate.”  Brewer turned to look at the landscape.  “She reminds me of the country-western song, If You Wanna Keep the Beer Real Cold, Put it Next to My Ex-Wife’s Heart.”

“She reminds me of the country-western song, If You Wanna Keep the Beer Real Cold, Put it Next to My Ex-Wife’s Heart.”

Nik nodded and looked sideways at his partner.   Tyrone shook his head.  “Though I’m not familiar with the song, I am with Dell 0n her take on the situation.  I can’t say at this point.  One interesting thing to me, though.  She never asked how her husband had been murdered.  Maybe it might have been too much for her delicate nature, but I doubt it based on her demeanor. Or possibly she just doesn’t care.  But perhaps it means something more sinister.  On the other hand, although her attitude doesn’t warm the cockles of my heart, it doesn’t make her a killer or someone who might plan a murder.”

“Agreed.  Time to pay Mr. Kenneth Mosley a visit.  Besides, we’ve sat here long enough to give the ladies inside the opportunity to fret over what we’re doing, what’s on our minds.”  As he spoke, Nik’s head wagged toward a window near the front door.  When Tyrone turned to look, a hand let the heavy draperies fall together again.  He saw a similar motion upstairs.  McDaniel looked back at his partner, who was shifting the Impala into gear.  “Leave ‘em guessing when you go,” Nik sneered as he eased the car along the driveway.

After getting Mosley’s address, the sergeant turned out onto Pates Ferry Road toward the downtown area.  He then asked Tyrone to call the telephone number he had for the man.   After a time, Mosley answered, and Detective McDaniel arranged to meet him at a coffee shop near his townhouse.  Tyrone groaned in exasperation as he returned his phone to his coat pocket.  “Good grief!  Do any of these people keep regular working man’s hours?”  He looked across the seat to Nik.  “I woke the guy out of a dead sleep.  He was groggy as heck.  Funny thing, though.”  Nik glanced sideways at his companion.  “He didn’t ask me what this was concerning.” 

The three police officers digested the implications of that for a few minutes.  Despite other matters she had to deal with, Detective Brewer asked if she might join them for the meeting.  Nik readily agreed, eager to have Dell’s insight into human nature with them during the interview.  Nik requested his partner to contact Mrs. LeMaistre while they drove to meet the counselor to determine whether she knew whether either Prescott or Mosley had owned a gun.  When Tyrone disconnected from the administrative assistant, he reported she was unaware of if Kenneth possessed any weapons. But, contrary to her repeated encouragement to Steven to carry one for his protection, he’d steadfastly refused to do so.  She related that he, in fact, had an aversion to guns.

They drove in silence for a period until Brewer asked,  “Based on what you guys know so far, what do you think of Mrs. Prescott’s thought that it was a random killing?”

Detective McDaniel spoke first as he turned in the seat so he could see his fellow detectives.  “It seems to me if this were an unplanned incident, it might be tied to a robbery that went wrong.  But it appears the killer took nothing.  Prescott was still wearing a valuable watch and gold signet ring, had his wallet untouched, and his expensive-looking briefcase and overcoat were right there by his body.  Besides, the average robbery-gone-wrong perp doesn’t get shots off in that close a pattern.  And he won’t bother to pick up his shell casings, assuming he used a semiautomatic.  Add to that, the limited access to the building after hours.  So not likely.  At least it’s my thought.”  Nik nodded in solemn agreement.

“… the average robbery-gone-wrong perp doesn’t get shots off in that close a pattern.”

Chapter 4

In less than an hour, the three detectives walked through a heavy snowfall along the pavement of a side street, home to one of the city’s many coffee bars.  A man, who made himself known as Kenneth Mosley, waited out of the weather just inside the cafe’s door.  He was six feet and two-hundred athletic-looking pounds with a ruddy, unshaven face and close-set, bloodshot eyes of an indistinct blue.  As with Katherine Prescott, the lawyer looked more youthful than the age they later determined him to be.  His thick black hair was uncombed, or he wore it in an odd style, Nik thought.  Then again, the big cop considered, he wasn’t up-to-speed on the fashion trends of the younger crowd. 

As they made introductions around the small group, the officers each surmised the haggard-looking man appeared as if he’d had little sleep the night before.  It raised red flags in their minds.  After they’d made their purchases and were walking to a nearby table, Nik casually scanned the throng, as was his habit.  It seemed to the older detective that the establishment catered primarily to younger locals. The patrons were not the average blue-collar stiffs found in the coffee shops visited by the television networks during political campaigns to get grassroots opinions and insights.

… the officers each surmised the haggard-looking man appeared as if he’d had little sleep the night before. It raised red flags in their minds.

Once seated, the lawyer grinned somewhat weakly and asked, “Now, gentlemen….” Here he paused and threw what Detective Brewer thought a particularly smarmy smile in her direction, “and lady, what can I do for you?”  Dell frowned, but let it slide. This was the sergeant’s show.

“Mr. Mosley, when was the last time you saw your law partner?”  Nik’s voice was back to the soft, but no-nonsense tone he used to cut to the chase.

The lawyer blinked several times in rapid succession as his rosy, boyish face blanched.  He rubbed a thumbnail across the black stubble on his jaw.  “Well, let’s see.  I guess it’s been a couple weeks now.  Yes, yes, it was.  Two weeks ago yesterday, as a matter of fact,” he said as a shaky hand raised his coffee cup to his mouth.  Tyrone couldn’t decide whether the shakes resulted from nerves, a hangover, or a lack of sleep. 

Mosley swigged the hot liquid before adding, “I stopped by the firm to check for messages and any mail.  After Phyllis, our secretary, gave me my correspondence, I was standing in the outer area going through it when Steven came in from court.  We spoke in passing as he walked through to his office.  That was it.  We don’t see each other much nowadays.  My law practice—”

“Did you and Mr. Prescott get along?  Any problems, any disagreements between you?”

“No, we were–say, can you tell me what this is related to?”

“We’ll come to that in a minute.  What was your relationship with your partner?”

“We got along fine.”  Mosley paused as if weighing the question and trying to decide what to say next before continuing.  “You see, we had a disagreement several years ago over relocating our law offices to a more modern structure, but Steven insisted we stay in the Belvedere Building.  I thought it was inane, but acquiesced to his wishes.”

“Can you account for your time from six p.m. last night until Detective McDaniel reached you on your phone earlier?”  The men stared vacantly at each other for a long moment.  “Well?  Your whereabouts?”

The attorney snapped back from whatever brief reverie he’d been in.  “I had a racquetball game with a friend late yesterday afternoon.  You can corroborate it with him, if you must.  His name is Peter Gurley.  I have his number on my mobile.”  Mosley paused, retrieved it, and gave it to Tyrone, who pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket as he stepped outside the cafe.   With what Nik perceived as a pensive expression, Kenneth watched the detective as he slalomed through the tables to the door.  Then he turned his attention to the big cop. “When we finished the match, which was six o’clock or shortly thereafter, I drove back to my place.  My building has a doorman and security cameras at the entrances and exits.” 

Mosley inexplicably stopped and looked at Detective Brewer.  “Yes, I still use terms like doorman!” he exclaimed suddenly.  “Doorman, repairman, mailman, garbage man!  I don’t buy into all this PC crap to the extent I’ll change my vocabulary so I won’t step on a snowflake’s toes!  The goal of political correctness is to make it impossible for us to think clearly or to speak honestly regarding circumstances!”  Though stunned at the outburst, Dell merely pursed her lips and shrugged indifferently.

Shocked, Nik held his hands up as if to calm the situation.  “Take it easy, Mr. Mosley.  No one’s challenging the way you think.  We’re only looking for information.  Period.”

Mosley took a deep breath and blushed.  “Sorry.  I’m simply not used to interviews with the police.  So, anyway, between the security tapes and the doorman, you can verify my comings and goings during that time, if you feel the need.  I was at my place until seven, when I left and drove to the Prescott home for dinner at seven thirty.  Steven wasn’t there–he rarely is.   Afterward, Katherine, Valerie Eddins, and I played bridge until somewhere around ten or eleven.  We play often.”

McDaniel returned to the table. He gave Nik a slight nod.  The sergeant turned his attention back to Mosley.  “So, you see your partner only once in a long while, but you go to his home routinely when he’s not there?”  Kenneth stared blankly at Nik and didn’t respond immediately. So the senior detective pressed on, “What’s the relationship between you and Katherine Prescott?”

“We … we’re merely good, longtime friends.  Nothing more.”  Mosley’s face darkened with an expression of uncertainty, which quickly changed to indignation as his voice rose.  His hands fell away from the table, and suddenly he sat more upright, defiant.  “You’re sounding a lot like an interrogator on a mission, Detective Dederscheck.  I demand to know what this is about!”  His words were loud but unconvincing.  Nearby customers’ conversations stopped momentarily as they glanced in Ken’s direction.  Just as rapidly, his body language reflected a slight retreat from his confrontational posture.

“You’re sounding a lot like an interrogator on a mission, Detective Dederscheck.  I demand to know what this is about!”

Nik pushed his coffee aside and leaned across the table. In a low voice edging toward a snarl, said, “This morning, Mr. Jacobs found Mr. Prescott murdered in your office building.  We’re investigating the murder.”  His tone was even and hard.  The big detective leaned back in his chair. “To that end–”

“Murdered?”  The attempt at shock rang hollow in Mosley’s voice.

Dederscheck moved on. “Do you have any idea who might want Steven Prescott dead?”

“Why, no!  Steven could be aggravating as hell, but I don’t know of anyone who’d go to the point of murdering him.”  He paused as if turning a notion over in his mind.  Suddenly, he wore a tight, worried expression.  “Surely you don’t consider me a suspect?”

“I assume you’ve been around the law and courtrooms long enough to realize, at this early stage of an investigation, everyone’s a suspect, Mr. Mosley.”  Dederscheck’s voice was flat, toneless.  The color drained from the attorney’s face.  Nik finished his thought, “By the way, do you still have a key to the Belvedere Building?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Where is it?”

“I have it right here, Detective,” the lawyer said as he retrieved a set of keys from his pants pocket.  He handed them to Nik, with the one in question held separate from the rest.  The big blond cop examined it, noting the same shape and manufacturer’s name as he’d seen on Jacobs’s key.  The two were identical.

Returning them to the lawyer, Dederscheck followed with, “Do you own a gun?”

“Yes, I do.  It’s an old thirty-two-caliber revolver which belonged to my father.  And before that, to his father.”

“Where is it?”

“I’m uncertain it will even fire.”

“Where is it, Mr. Mosley?”  Nik asked again in a no-nonsense tone.

“The last time I saw it was in a sock drawer in my condo.”

“We’ll need to see it.”

“I’ll search for it and contact you when I find it.”

Tyrone reached across the table with one of his business cards.  “If you think of something which might help our investigation, please call us.”  Then he admonished, “Of course, you understand you’re not to leave town in case we want to speak to you again.  I’m certain we’ll be getting back to you soon.”

“Sure,” Mosley said hesitantly, as he glanced at the card and tried to project a relaxed air. “I’ll do whatever I can to help, Detective.”  He stood and shook hands with the detectives.  Brewer felt he held her hand a little longer than necessary.  She jerked away without making a show of the effort.  A dishonest smile pulled at the corners of the lawyer’s mouth before he turned and hurried through the coffee bar’s door.

*  *  *

Back in Nik’s car, Dederscheck started the engine to get heat to Dell.  He was beginning to feel that the task was turning out to be his number one mission for the day.  The three sat for a moment and talked with the older detective starting the discussion.  “Well, what was your impression of the man, Tyrone?”

“I don’t know.  He didn’t come across as forthright.  I’m not yet sold on his alibi provided by the women in the Prescott household.  Maybe I’ll feel better in regards to him after I’ve checked with the doorman and reviewed the security video.”  After a second to review his notes, he shook his head and finished. “His frequent visits, by his own admission, to Prescott’s home without the husband being present strike me as a little odd.  But I will say this.  The wounds Steven suffered resulted from something larger than a thirty-two caliber.”  The men looked at each other and nodded in agreement before turning their attention to the backseat.

“Hey, look,” Brewer began, “my opinion is biased because he comes across to me as a creepy slime bag.  But, as I’m sure you guys will tell me, being a creep doesn’t make him a murderer.  One thing that hit me, though, was the fact that he referred to his partner in the past tense.  ‘We were’ and ‘we got along fine’ as opposed to ‘we are and we get along fine’ before you told him someone had murdered Prescott.  Second, he didn’t pose any questions about how his longtime associate was killed.  And finally, what was behind his blowup over being PC?  If you ask me, it falls under the heading of ‘the best defense is a good offense’.”

“… my opinion is biased because he comes across to me as a creepy slime bag.”

“Did I miss something?  What happened?” Tyrone asked.

“Nothing, partner.  I’ll tell you later.”  Nik arched an eyebrow.  “Yeah, I noticed his use of the past tense, too.”  Looking sideways at McDaniel, the sergeant added, “What say we add any computers Katherine and Kenneth may have to your search warrants?” 

Tyrone nodded.  “My gut tells me to put the cell phone records of the pair on the list, too.”

*  *  *

The three detectives made their way across the police headquarters’ parking lot under still-lowering skies, foretelling the ugly something coming.  Inside, Brewer parted from the men to meet with her partner and follow up on their ongoing investigations.  McDaniel and Dederscheck moved to their adjoining desks in another part of the detective bullpen. 

A DVD labeled “Prescott–parking deck security” lay on Tyrone’s desk.  Because Officer Harless, with whom Tyrone had worked the streets and knew well, had already reviewed it and reported his findings, he decided to check it later.  His immediate task was to get search warrants for the computers and phones belonging to the prominent players in the case so far.  

While McDaniel completed this paperwork, Nik contacted the condominium Ken Mosley called home.  He spoke to the building’s manager, Miss Tina Aldridge, to get a copy of the security camera tapes the attorney had mentioned.  She was cooperative and agreed to duplicate the videos for the last twenty-four hours.  Dederscheck told her he’d pick them up later that afternoon.  

Just as he was hanging up from the call, Lieutenant Wood, Chief of the Crimes Against Persons Unit, approached their desks.  Tyrone nodded at him.  “LT.”

“What have you got so far on Prescott’s death, guys?”

Nik looked up from his desk and smirked.  “Expecting a lot kinda quick, aren’t you, LT?  How d’you learn the victim’s name so fast?”

Wood smiled at the pair.  “You know how word gets around in this building.  Look, Prescott may have been a general pain to law enforcement, but he had a considerable number of influential friends in this city.  They’ve been climbing up my a–”  He glanced sideways at Detective McDaniel, “People have been ‘checking in’ with me through the commissioner all morning.  So, anything yet?”

Nik looked at his partner, who was smiling at the lieutenant’s imagined faux pas, pushed away from his desk, and leaned back in his swivel chair.  He glimpsed Tyrone again before returning his gaze to the lieutenant.  “Well, we’ve ruled out suicide, boss.”  Tyrone chuckled, and Wood released an exasperated moan.

“Well, we’ve ruled out suicide, boss.”

Before his superior responded, Nik smiled crookedly and went on, “No, nothing of substance yet, Carl.  There wasn’t a lot to learn from the scene as far as the ‘who’ of the matter.  We’ve notified the widow and have spoken to Prescott’s law partner.  Each has a motive, but both have alibis, sort of.  It’s not for publication, but there are things to follow up on in both instances. 

“We’re going through the usual process: interviewing anybody else who was close to or worked with Prescott, obtaining phone records, examining computers.  In other words, we’ll be completing a psychological autopsy on the victim.”  Nik tossed his pen onto the desk.  “Could be a murder-for-hire killing, but it’s too early to tell yet.  It just feels more professional than personal.  Conceivably both, one leading to the other.  Someone with a personal motive getting the help of a pro with their problem.”

“Professional?”  Wood’s face showed mild shock.   “What makes you think that?”

“Well, the murder occurred in a locked, supposedly secure building.  Robbery definitely wasn’t the motive.  And it appears to have been a larger caliber weapon, with no shell casings left behind.”  As Carl Wood started to speak, Nik held up a restraining palm, looked askance at Tyrone, and continued.  “Yes, the shooter could have used a revolver, but the victim took two center-of-mass shots close together.  There were no signs of a struggle.  The entire thing occurred on an elevator.  Our guess is that whoever it was ambushed or somehow surprised his victim last night as he left his firm.  Potentially, the killer was someone who had been in Prescott’s office with him earlier. Then they struck on the way down in the lift.” 

Nik threw a knowing glance at his partner.  “Either the murderer followed Prescott onto the elevator and shot him, or may have been waiting for him on the ground floor.

“We’ve ruled out that last possibility because of the number of large windows across the front of the building and the lobby’s lighting at night.  There’s too much exposure to the casual observer on the busy street, even at a late hour,” McDaniel interjected.  Nik nodded his agreement.  “Maybe the attacker somehow knew Prescott was the only person on the sixty-third floor, which is the top level. He merely waited on a lower floor for the elevator to retrieve his target.  After watching the elevator’s floor indicator on his floor, it would then be a simple matter for the killer to get the car to stop on its way back down. Then he shot the man when the doors opened.”

“Maybe the attacker somehow knew Prescott was the last person on the sixty-third floor, the top floor. He merely waited on a lower floor for the elevator to retrieve his target.”

Lieutenant Wood expressed his misgiving.   “A lot of ‘ifs’ at this stage.”  Dederscheck gave Wood a bored look as if to say it was always that way early in an investigation.  The lieutenant took his meaning.  “Okay, great!  Keep me posted!”  After a second’s reflection, the lieutenant turned and started back toward his office.  “And don’t retire, Sergeant, until this one’s cleared by an arrest,” he tossed over his shoulder as he moved away.  The comment brought a few titters from the other detectives in the bullpen area.  Nik caught Detective Brewer’s grinning presence across the room.  His face reddened, but he smiled.  McDaniel and Dederscheck looked at each other over their desks for an instant before lowering their eyes to their tasks. 

The black cop completed the paperwork for the computer and for the phone record search warrants.  Meanwhile, the other half of their team telephoned the number Mrs. LeMaistre gave them for Prescott’s operative.  Nik left a message asking the man, Jimmy Ballard, to give him a return call.  He also phoned the cleaning service and arranged to speak with the crew who cleaned the Belvedere Building.  The service’s owner explained his employees would be available later in the afternoon when they reported for the night’s work.  After reviewing the deck video where the victim parked his car, detectives confirmed he had not left the previous night.  The manager of Ken Mosley’s condo building called to let Nik know their security recordings were ready for them to pick up.

*  *  *

Jimmy Ballard didn’t return Nik’s call before the pair left their office to follow up on a few items later that afternoon.  Detective Dederscheck decided to reach out to him again after they’d finished their immediate objectives.  Their first stop was the large, modern condominium building Mosley called home. 

The manager was at her desk when they arrived.  Miss Aldridge was an attractive woman with curly black hair and soft, intelligent eyes.  Nik estimated her to be in her mid-thirties.  She reminded him of someone from the silver screen, but he couldn’t put a name to the recollection.  They introduced themselves, and the detectives received the disk copy from the CCTV. After explaining that the recording covered every means of entering or leaving the building, Aldridge invited them to sit for a minute.  Although Nik was ready to be on his way, something in her invitation aroused his curiosity.   After everyone took their seats, she leaned across her desk and asked, “Can you tell me what this is concerning?”

Tyrone looked askance at his partner, who replied, “I’m sorry, Miss Aldridge, but we can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

The woman’s forehead furrowed slightly, and her eyes narrowed.  “Look, detective, I’m not good at being coy.  Despite what some may assume, I didn’t get this far by my looks.”  Her statement came across as an utterance of fact rather than a self-centered boast.  “I heard on the news earlier today that the attorney, Mr. Prescott, was murdered.  And I’m aware he was the law partner of one of my tenants.  It doesn’t take a Mensa member to figure this out.” 

When Nik started to speak, Tina held up a hand, staying the detective’s words, and continued, “Mr. Mosley’s employment and emergency contact info are in our records.  Besides, the man isn’t shy with respect to telling every female he meets he’s a lawyer, as if it makes him more attractive.  He thinks he’s a ladies’ man, sure enough.  Ken has hit on all the women in this building, except Mrs. Stillwell on the third floor.  And she’s a seventy-two-year-old widow.  Frankly, I thought when you eventually showed up here regarding him, the allegation would be some sort of sexual assault.”  She leaned back in her chair.

“Ken has hit on every woman in this building, except Mrs. Stillwell on the third floor.  And she’s a seventy-two-year-old widow.”

Dederscheck took a turn leaning across the desk.  “Because you broached the subject, Miss Aldridge, let me ask whether you’ve ever had anything other than a landlord-tenant relationship with Ken Mosley?”

Tina stiffened.  “Allow me to be perfectly clear, Detective.”  Her voice had taken on a curious, edgy sound.  “I’ve adopted certain rules for myself since I moved into this line of work.  They’ve served me well.  The first one is ‘don’t crap in your own nest.’  The woman’s candor took Nik by surprise. 

After a momentary silence, during which she fidgeted with a ballpoint pen, she added, “Oh, Mosley’s tried to come on to me. But, as oily and sleazy as he comes across, he’s easy to say ‘no’ to.  Besides, he has the personality of a school crossing guard.  I wouldn’t be interested in him if he were the last man on earth.  And if he claimed to be, I’d demand a recount.”  Tyrone’s mind strayed to Dell Brewer’s comments regarding the lawyer earlier in the day.  “So, the answer is not only no but hell no,” she seethed softly.

Dederscheck glanced at his partner and stood.  Tyrone followed his lead.  “Well, thank you for your time, Miss Aldridge.  We appreciate your cooperation in getting us the security video.  And we may have additional questions.”  The woman agreed to cooperate in any way possible as the cops left her office.  As the pair departed, they stopped and spoke with the doorman.  He confirmed what Mosley had told them of his comings and goings the afternoon and evening before.  But when they asked what time he returned later that night, the man explained he went off duty at ten p.m.  After ten, the tenants had to let themselves in with their building keys. 

As they approached Nik’s car, Tyrone expressed his hope that the security video would give them what they needed in the way of corroborating Kenneth Mosley’s movement.  “Or not,” he added as an afterthought.

Nik nodded.  “I’ll say this. Miss Aldridge certainly holds Mosley in high regard,” he chuckled sarcastically

*  *  *

Twenty minutes later, Tyrone and Nik were sitting with a third person in what passed for a conference room in the offices of Ekre’s Janitorial Services.  The man across from the detectives, Derek Ekre, was elderly and sallow, with hollow, dark eyes and a short black beard streaked with gray.  He had a saturnine expression, the outward manifestation, Dederscheck supposed, of a pessimistic disposition or a chaotic liver.  The room’s dim brown walls added to Derek’s sullen aura.  “You sure this ain’t about some claim against my folks for a theft?  I’ve got good people workin’ for me, Detective.”  The man’s words held a shade less confidence than he intended them to impart.

“No, Mr. Ekre.  As I said before, this has nothing to do with allegations of your employees stealing.  I’ll be glad to go into more detail with you after we speak with your cleaning crew.”

After several awkwardly silent minutes of waiting and listening to the old man’s raspy breathing, there was a low knock at the door.  It brought forth a gruff response barked from the business owner.  The door opened enough for a dark-complexioned female to push her head through it into the room.  “They’re all here now, Mr. Ekre,” she announced with a moderate accent.

“Come on in with ‘em, Mrs. Báscula,” her boss said in a gentler tone.  “We’ll probably need you to translate.”  With that, the woman opened the door wider and escorted well over a dozen people in.  Nik and Tyrone exchanged exasperated glances.  Now they understood why they’d adjourned from Ekre’s office to the larger space for the meeting.  The newcomers, consisting predominantly of women, bore hangdog looks to Nik’s way of thinking.  So far, he’d gathered working for Mr. Ekre was not an overall joyful experience.  The owner cut to the chase.  “These policemen have a few questions for you.” 

The faces of those present quickly took on more anguished expressions.  Nik wasn’t certain how much English they understood, but the word “policeman” seemed to hit a nerve, for whatever reason, even before Báscula spoke.  “Estos policías tienen preguntas para usted.” 

One woman mumbled a comprehending “yes” in her native tongue.  That understanding summed up Nik’s grasp of the Spanish language.  “We’re interested in learning whether any of you saw Mr. Steven Prescott anywhere in the Belvedere Building last night.  His office is on the sixty-third floor.”

Before Mrs. Báscula rendered an interpretation, Mr. Ekre interjected, “Is that what this is about?  Surely, you don’t think —”   

Nick raised his hand quickly to stop the old man’s interruption.  The move succeeded.  Then he nodded to Mrs. Báscula, who did her part to deliver the question.  At that point, the same woman who’d murmured earlier perked up.  “Sí, sí lo vimos trabajando en su escritorio en su oficina.  Un buen hombre.”  The interpreter gave the detective the answer.

Old man Ekre interjected that the woman was one of a trio of people assigned to clean the building’s sixty-third floor.  Each team of three workers, he explained further, cleaned various floors during the night.  Calculating the few number of “teams” standing before them and the work they were expected to complete in a short time, Tyrone realized why the elevator remained smudged with so many fingerprints.  “And at what time did you see him?”

“¿A qué hora lo viste?”

After a brief, quiet discussion among three of the workers, the woman responded, “Un poco después 9:00.”  The others wagged their heads in silent assent.

Although Nik thought he understood the answer, he let Mrs. Báscula translate it.  He looked at Tyrone, who nodded and said, “Yeah, that fits.”  After a momentary pause, he added, “Was he alone when you saw him?”

“¿Fue solo cuando usted lo vio?”

The workers assigned to that floor chimed in with sharp nods and affirmative answers.

Nik turned his attention from those tasked with Prescott’s floor to the entire group.  “One last question, Mrs. Báscula.  Did any of them see someone else, any person at all, while they were there or anybody coming or going from the building?”

“Did any of them see someone else, person at all, while they were in the building or see anyone coming or going from the building?”

“¿Has visto a nadie en el edificio?”  After a brief exchange of glances, the group shook their heads sharply.  “¿Viste a alguien entrar o salir del edificio?”  The last question brought forth the same response from the custodial workers.

Nik asked Tyrone whether he had any questions.  The junior detective smiled and wagged his head.  With Mrs. Báscula’s help, McDaniel took the contact information from the three people who had worked on the sixty-third floor on Steven Prescott’s last night on earth.  As the officers rose from their chairs and gave thanks all around, Mr. Ekre appeared somewhat relieved.  His employees looked even more so.

*  *  *

McDaniel drove the pair back to the station house while Dederscheck again reached out to Jimmy Ballard on his cell phone.  This time, the private detective answered.  After Nik’s brief account of the situation, Jimmy explained he was out of town on a job and hadn’t heard the news of Steven Prescott’s death.  It shook Ballard.  He said he’d be returning early the next morning and would get with Nik after he took care of one matter. 

The private investigator promised to do everything possible to help solve the murder.  Ballard concluded by telling the big cop what a good man Prescott had been.  Dederscheck gave him his mobile number and said he looked forward to hearing from him the next day.  Nik returned his phone to a coat pocket and peeked at Tyrone.  “I guess you caught that.  He’ll catch up with us in the morning.”

McDaniel nodded, “What the cleaning people related ties in with the ME’s initial estimate of the time of death.  But it doesn’t get us any closer to who killed Prescott or why.”

“Maybe Ballard can help on that count.”

“Yeah, or perhaps the computers or the phone records will provide a clue.  Hopefully,” Tyrone said tonelessly as he eased the unmarked vehicle into a parking space outside their office building.  The cops sat in the car for a time, pondering the case’s facts.  “I guess it’s kind of foolish, but I was hoping my first murder would be something simpler, easier to resolve, if there is such a thing.”

Nik recalled a conversation where Tyrone had mentioned playing shortstop on his college baseball team.  The senior detective had jokingly told his partner he was too tall to be very good at that position. McDaniel had laughed and asked him whether he’d ever heard of Cal Ripken Jr., who stood six-feet-four-inches.  Dederscheck grinned at a point well taken. 

Then, using an analogy from the young man’s sport regarding his wish for an easier initial homicide, the older man opined, he opined, “No such luck, my friend.  At least not often.  I remember my earliest murder case as a detective.  My partner was a crusty son of a b … buck,” Nik caught himself, “named Corley.   Regis Corley.  Named for an old-time actor his mother had liked.  One thing we had in common–the only thing–was a love of old movies.  But he was a helluva teacher. 

“Anyway, our first call-out on a murder together was to a car in flames in a vacant lot on the outskirts of the city.  Initially, we thought it was only a burning vehicle, maybe arson.  After the fire department put it out, they found a body in the front passenger seat.  The corpse had no identification on it, and he was in a stolen car,” he added.  “Let me tell you it was one hell of a case to solve.”  Nik glanced at his partner, who didn’t seem to notice the slip of the tongue.  

The big cop went on, “It ended three months later with the key guy in the multi-perpetrator killing being extradited from the Bahamas.  And that was only after the district attorney agreed to take the death penalty off the table.  Those Brits are touchy about turning over their people to face the ultimate punishment here in the States.

“It turned out the dead fella had come into town to make a big drug buy.  Then the cocky mope got it into his head to rip off the dealers for their drugs and whatever money they might be carrying.  Unfortunately for him, he ran his mouth to the wrong person.  He’d hooked up with a local working girl, and, in an effort to impress her, bragged about his scheme. 

“Word got back to the druggies, who beat him to the punch.  With him unaware of their knowledge of his plan and sitting in the front passenger seat, they took him to the somewhat remote location.  There, a guy seated behind him gave him one extremely effective nine-millimeter shot to the noggin.  They emptied his pockets and set the vehicle on fire before scattering.”  Tyrone was shaking his head.  “And, believe it or not, the lead that started the investigation rolling was the DNA on a cigarette butt found beside the burned-out car at the scene.

“But,” Nik continued, “first-time cases aren’t always like that.  A classmate of mine from the academy, who’d made detective when I did, caught a murder the same week.  In his incident, the perp shot his girlfriend, her daughter, and the girlfriend’s mother during a domestic dispute.  When the police arrived at the ‘shots fired’ call, the guy was walking down the driveway with his hands in the air. He freely told the officers he’d killed the victims, and the gun was inside on a kitchen counter.  Now that’s what I’d label a slow roller.  So, you see, it’s the luck of the draw.  But who knows?  Sometimes what comes off the bat looking to be a hard-to-handle line drive suddenly dies, drops, and becomes an easy one-hopper.  This one may not be a grounder, but it could be worse.”

“Sometimes what comes off the bat looking to be a hard-to-handle line drive suddenly dies, drops, and becomes an easy one hopper.  This one may not be a grounder, but it could be worse ….”

“Yeah, I know we’ll get it resolved.  I didn’t mean to sound like I was whining.”

“I didn’t take it like that.  We’re just talking.”  Both men agreed with the assessment and got out of the Chevy to make their way inside.

On his desk, Tyrone found a copy of the video from the traffic camera outside the Belvedere Building.  The detectives watched the grainy black-and-white recording carefully.  They saw nothing significant until the frame beginning at eleven-twenty-two p.m., when a figure in a fedora and a large overcoat crossed the street from the Belvedere’s direction.   Despite a noticeable limp, the person moved quickly along the sidewalk and disappeared into the shadows.   The men replayed the segment several times.  In the few streetlights of the old district, the fedora’s brim cast the person’s face in shadow.  Their features weren’t clear.  After a brief discussion, they agreed that the form in the video could have been a man or a woman, which didn’t rule anyone out yet.

“That limp–” Nik began.

Tyrone was quick to put his opinion into play.  “It might be a red herring to throw us off if the person knew there was a camera on him or her, or if there happened to be any witnesses in the area.”

“True enough.”  A weary Dederscheck sighed heavily, “The security video from Mosley’s condo can wait.  We’ve done what we can for tonight.  Let’s call it a day and start fresh in the morning.  Hopefully, we’ll get phone records and pull the computers with the warrants.  Also, we need to talk with Ballard and see if he gives us anything useful.”   ©

To be continued.