Cut and Run (4 page)

“That's just it—Davey claims that not only was the video a fake, Marssai was in on it.”

“Why?”

“His notes were a little vague on that part. I can tell you why the fictional version of Marssai Guardon participates in the hoax: She wants to embarrass her family because they've reduced her allowance. He writes her character as shallow, stupid, sex-obsessed, and greedy.”

“So the book could not only make her look bad, it could get her in hot water with her folks. Think that's enough to trigger a murder?”

“Depends on how accurate it is.”

Tripp nodded. “Where we headed?”

“The Glitteratti Hotel. Marssai's publicist says she's staying at a suite there.”

“Publicist? What does she need a publicist for? I'd think more publicity is the last thing she'd want.”

Natalia shook her head. “People that grow up under a spotlight aren't like everyone else, Frank. It's like they breathe a different kind of air. It's around them all the time, so they take it for granted—until something takes it away. Then they realize how much they need it.”

“Sounds like you know a little something about the subject.”

“I've—known people like that, yeah.”

Frank heard the tone in her voice and didn't pursue it. “So…how about the bloodwork?”

“No hits from CODIS—but I don't think she's in the system.”

They pulled up in front of the Glitteratti, a brand-new Miami hotel a block away from Ocean Drive. Its green-tinted windows and angled top made it look like a spaceship carved from a single, immense emerald.

The lobby was opulent, with a gold-veined black marble floor and a huge fountain shaped like a globe of the world done in blue glass and illuminated from within. Tripp strode up to the front desk as if he'd just pulled the clerk over for speeding, flashed his badge, and asked for Marssai Guardon's room number. The clerk gave it to him without an argument.

“Think she'll be there?” Natalia asked as they rode up in the elevator.

Frank checked his watch. “It's almost three. Should be out of bed by now.”

Natalia couldn't tell if he were joking or not.

Tripp rapped on the door to the suite, noting the two empty room service trays outside the door, each one holding several empty champagne bottles and glasses.

“Looks like Miss Guardon was celebrating last night,” said Frank.

The door opened. A young blond woman stood there, dressed in a short pink robe and blinking sleepily. “Yes?”

“Miss Guardon?” said Natalia. “I'm a crime scene investigator with Miami-Dade PD, and this is Detective Frank Tripp. Can we come in and ask you a few questions?”

“Uh—can you give me a minute to put some clothes on?” she asked.

“Go ahead,” said Tripp. “We'll wait out here.”

She shut the door. Frank glanced over at Natalia. “When I was a beat cop, we called this part the Bathroom Break.”

“I don't get it.”

“This is when the perp flushes all his drugs down the toilet. If there's already a warrant for his arrest, he tries to climb out the bathroom window.”

Natalia frowned. “If you
know
he's going to flush the drugs or run, then why—”

“On a serious bust, we wouldn't give them any warning. But if we're just making inquiries, it does two things: makes them nervous, and gets rid of the drugs. Two birds, no stone.”

“So you think she's—tidying up?”

“Could be. Keep your eyes open.”

The door opened again. Marssai Guardon had thrown on a tracksuit of dark purple, but was still in her bare feet. She smiled at them and said, “Come on in.”

The suite was large and luxurious, with a full bar at one end and a large, sunken hot tub in the center of the room ringed by curving couches. If anything illegal had been going on, there was no trace of it now. Marssai led them to a large, glass-topped table and sat down in one of the chrome-and-leather chairs around it, motioning for them to join her. “What's this all about?” she asked.

“Did you know a man named Hiram Davey?” asked Natalia.

“Hi Davey? Sure. I met him at a party—about six months ago, I think. He's
funny
.”

“Not anymore,” said Tripp. “He was found dead this morning.”

Marssai's large blue eyes got even wider. “Ohmigod. What happened?”

“We're trying to figure that out,” said Natalia. “Were you aware that Mister Davey was planning on writing a novel?”

“Well, yeah. He mentioned it at the party. Said he was going to fill it with crazy Miami types—it made him real popular. Everybody wanted to be in it.”

“Did you know,” asked Natalia, “that
you
were in it?”

“Really? No—no, I didn't know that.”

“That's strange,” said Natalia. “Because among his files were a number of interviews—including an interview with you.”

Marssai sighed. “Do you have any idea how many interviews I do? When I had a part in that gross-out comedy last year, I did, like, a
hundred
of them in one week. They all kind of blur together after a while.”

“I didn't know you were an actress,” said Natalia.

“Well, it was only a small part—my character drowns in a vat at a vodka distillery. I just did it as a favor to the director.”

“So you don't remember doing the interview?” asked Natalia.

“No.”

“Where were you between midnight last night and noon today?” asked Tripp.

“I was out clubbing until three—I don't remember all the places I went to, but I could put together a list if I talked to some of my friends. I came back here with some of them, and we were up till about six. Then I crashed.”

“Alone?” asked Natalia.

“No,” said Marssai. “I was with Rudolpho, a friend of mine. A friend with benefits, you know? He was gone when I woke up—I don't know what time he left.”

“Rudolpho and your other…
friends
can verify your whereabouts?” asked Natalia.

Marssai shrugged. “Sure. I can get you cell phone numbers if you want to talk to them.”

“We'd appreciate that,” said Tripp.

 

“What the
hell,”
said Wolfe slowly, “is
that
?”

He and Delko stood in the chilly confines of the concealed freezer. At the very end was a plastic sheet hanging from the ceiling; they had pulled it aside to reveal what hung behind it on a hook.

It stretched from floor to ceiling, looking like a whale that had been run over by a steamroller. One flat, triangular fin was folded across the huge, disk-shaped expanse of flesh, while a single eye stared blankly at them from near the floor. Its skin glistened wetly.

“It's a mola mola,” said Delko. “Also known as a sunfish or moonfish. They're native to these waters, but they're not a sport fish.”

“Are they edible?” Wolfe asked, eyeing the thing dubiously.

“Not particularly. In fact, I have no idea why someone would go to the trouble of catching one, let alone keeping it.”

“Well, it must be here for a reason.”

“It's a big specimen,” said Delko thoughtfully. “Moonfish can run as large as five thousand pounds—this one looks close to that. Maybe it's here because of its size.”

Wolfe nodded. “As a container, you mean? Like drug mules swallowing condoms filled with heroin?”

Delko ran one gloved hand along the fish's right edge. “More like a turkey full of illegal stuffing. It's been cut open—give me a hand, will you?”

They each grabbed an edge of the incision and pulled in opposite directions, opening a gaping hole. Delko shone his flashlight into the wound. “Nothing but entrails. If there was anything in here it's already been removed.”

“Or hasn't been placed yet,” said Wolfe, releasing his edge. It slapped back into place with a wet smack.

“You notice the temperature in here?” asked Delko.

“Yeah, it's nice and cool. I wish the rest of the crime scene were this comfortable.”

“Cool, but not cold. The fish isn't frozen—obviously, they didn't plan on it being here for long. We need to get it back to the lab and take a closer look. If there was contraband in there, it may have left some transfer.”

“Great. Think Alexx has a drawer big enough?”

 

Natalia and Tripp collected the names and numbers of Marssai Guardon's friends, thanked her, and left.

“Think her alibi will pan out?” Tripp asked as they got back in the Hummer.

“Depends on how loyal her pals are. They'll back her up about being out in public—it's what happened afterward I'm not so sure about.”

The first name on the list was Rudolpho Senzo, the one who had supposedly spent the night with Marssai. Rudolpho was a male model who was staying at another expensive hotel, the Shoremont. The lobby of this one was done in classic Art Deco, with lots of fluted silver piping and sweeping marble arches; the front desk looked like a counter from a 1950s diner that served nothing but caviar burgers and champagne milkshakes.

They had some trouble locating Senzo's room at first—he wasn't registered under his own name. The desk clerk, a perky young woman named Alyssa, finally figured out that the room had been charged to his agency, Adonissy, Inc.

A young woman with pink hair answered their knock. She was wearing even less than Marssai had been, just a white T-shirt with a picture of an attractive woman on it. The picture, Natalia realized, matched the face above it.

“Rudolpho? He's, ah, still asleep,” the woman said, tugging her T-shirt down. “Can you come back later?”

“Afraid not,” said Tripp. “Tell him this is his official wake-up call.”

She disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the door open. Natalia glanced at Tripp and shrugged, then walked in.

The suite wasn't quite as upscale as Marssai's, but then, Rudolpho actually worked for a living—
if,
Natalia thought,
you can call being paid thousands of dollars a day to look beautiful work.

The pink-haired woman came back, wearing a fuzzy green terry cloth robe. “He says he'll talk to you in there,” she said.

“Okay,” said Natalia.

Rudolpho Senzo sat upright in bed, knees bent, rumpled bedclothes gathered around his waist. His bare chest and arms were smooth, muscular, and perfectly tanned. His face had the sort of sharp-boned generic beauty that somehow made him seem less than human; it was like looking at a magazine ad that had learned how to talk. Later, Natalia's memory would insist on portraying him in black and white.

“What's this all about?” Rudolpho said. His accent hinted more at New Jersey than Italy.

Tripp and Natalia identified themselves. “We're conducting a criminal investigation,” said Natalia. “We were wondering if you could tell us where you were last night, starting around midnight.”

Rudolpho scratched his dark, tousled hair. “Let's see…” He thought for a moment, then rattled off a list of nightclubs. “We wound up in Marssai's suite around three, I guess.”

“Who's we?” asked Tripp.

“Me, Kirsten, Violetta, Chad, and Beemer.”

Natalia nodded—that was the same list Marssai had given them. “And you left at what time?”

“Uh—around eight, I guess.”

Natalia raised her eyebrows. “Weren't there very long, were you?”

“I had things to do.”

Tripp stared at him, arms crossed. “According to Marssai Guardon, you two hit the sheets at around six. Two hours is a pretty short night.”

Rudolpho gave him a dazzling, perfect smile. “Long enough, if you know what I mean.”

“So you two have your jollies,” said Tripp, “and you take off when you're done.”

“Yes and no.”

Natalia frowned. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“What it means is, I wasn't exactly done.” For the first time, Rudolpho looked uncomfortable. “See, I took these pills. Me and Marssai had a lot of fun, but then she just wanted to go to sleep. I was still…you know.”

“Primed?” asked Tripp.

“Yeah. So I called Kim—she's a morning person. Thought she might be interested in a little early AM delight.”

“Uh-huh,” said Tripp. “From the looks of things, she was up for it.”

“And I'm guessing,” said Natalia, studying the blankets bunched around Rudolpho's waist, “That
you
still are.”