Gone at Zero Hundred 00:00 (12 page)

He gave me a long look, before he nodded. “I guess it would
be okay. At least I can keep an eye on you. After that, I want you home getting
some sleep. You can come by in the morning to sign a statement.”

I nodded. With my mom gone, it was good to know I still had
somebody I could turn to, even if he irritated me earlier.

CARTER CRANKED over the engine, and
pulled the vehicle away from the throng of spectators that were descending on
the scene. “You said you have info on the family, where am I going?”

“Vanderbilt Drive,” I said. “She
worked for Howard Grant. He has a son, Aaron. A maid and butler also live in
the home.”

“So they’re loaded. I hate dealing
with money.”

I didn’t say anything but I knew what
he meant. People with wealth and power usually questioned every move of the
detectives which made the investigation difficult.

“What does Mr. Grant do?”

“Ever heard of Grant & Levy,
attorneys at law? I gave him the names of some of the firm’s wealthy and
powerful clients - a few congressmen, and a senator who has hopes for the
presidency.

He glanced over at me. “Oh, he’s that
Grant?”

“Yes.”

“That means the media will be
swarming. The housekeeper of a prominent attorney with political ties,
murdered…”

“He hasn’t seen Tamara in a while,” I
said. “They had problems, and eventually, she moved away.”

“What about her family?”

“The notes in the file say she came
to live with the Grants at a young age. The file didn’t say why.”

I laid my head back on the seat and
closed my eyes. I needed the silence. I was afraid I was just going through the
motions. I couldn’t help but think I might hit overload soon. He must have
sensed my feelings. He glanced over at me and put his hand over mine.

***

Howard Grant’s mansion sat on three
acres of meticulous landscaped grounds. Carter pulled into the long-winding
driveway, and followed it to up to stone walkway. The ivory-stucco exterior was
framed with imported Italian Stone giving the home an air of opulence. They
were rich - extremely rich.

“This place is something.” He glanced
around at the posh surroundings.

As we headed toward the mahogany
doors, I noticed someone watching us from an upstairs window, but chalked it up
to my imagination. It was the middle of the night. Nobody knew we were coming,
did they?

Carter rang the doorbell. A few
moments passed before the butler, Jose Hernandez, answered the door. He seemed
hesitant to let us in. He glanced up the stairs, almost as if he was afraid
he’d be reprimanded for opening the door.

Sutter Beach Police, I’m here on
official business.” He flashed his badge and identification.

Jose realized he had no choice. He
pulled the door aside, and we stepped into the foyer. Italian marbled tiles
covered the floors and expanded down a long hallway, and onto a staircase that
went up to the second floor. In the center of the room, an imported Italian
chandelier was hanging from the cathedral ceiling, directly over the staircase.

Just then, a short and plump,
Hispanic woman with gray hair shaped into a tight bun, rushed down the hall.
Her eyes were wide, and her hands covered her mouth as if she knew something
horrific had happened.

Jose put his hands on her shoulder,
and willed her to be quiet. “Margarita, it’s the police. They are here to speak
with Mr. Grant.”

Margarita said a quiet prayer as Jose
excused himself to let Mr. Grant know he had guests. A moment later, Margarita
guided us toward the den, which was a room the size of a gymnasium.

Floor to ceiling bookcases were built
into the walls, extending at least twenty-feet high. The hardwood floors were
covered with expensive Persian rugs of burgundy and gold. Two off-white sofas were
centered in the room opposite each other, with mahogany end tables. Leather
wingback chairs sat at the corners, facing each other. It looked like a room
where a lot of political discussions went on, while smoke filled the air from
the cigars.

WE WAITED at least fifteen minutes
before Howard Grant graced us with his presence, bellowing about having
visitors at that time of night.

Carter showed his badge, again. “Mr.
Grant… I’m Detective Carter with the Sutter Beach Police Department. This is
Sydney McSwain. We’re very sorry to disturb you at this late hour.”

“No problem, Detective, I suppose
you’re here because you have something to discuss with me.”

“It’s about your housekeeper, Tamara
Marquez.” He waited a moment to observe Mr. Grant’s reaction. “I’m sorry, sir,
but she is dead.”

We both watched him, looking for some
display of emotion. He clenched his jaw, and turned his face away so we
couldn’t see his expression. A moment later, he seemed to realize our eyes were
on him. He started to pace the room. I couldn’t help but think he wasn’t
exactly stunned by the news. It was almost as if he expected a visit from cops
in the middle of the night.

Now, why would that be?

I was so busy watching Mr. Grant; that
I hadn’t picked up on the muffled cries from the hallway. When I glanced that
way, I noticed the butler attempting to comfort the maid and was trying to
usher her away. She was falling apart from the news.

Carter said, “When was the last time
you spoke to Tamara, Mr. Grant?”

He wouldn’t look either of us in the
eye. He sat down on one of the sofas. “I’m afraid Tamara had some issues. She
ran away a few years ago. I haven’t seen, or heard from her since.”

“Mr. Grant, where were you earlier
this evening, around midnight?” Carter inquired. Everyone was a suspect when
you were a detective. Family members, or employers, as was the case here; were
the first on the list.

Mr. Grant was immediately on guard.
“I was home, in bed doing a little reading. Why do you ask?”

The two men locked eyes. There was an
immediate tension in the air. It was so thick you could slice it with a knife.
But it wasn’t because of the conversation. It was because of the new visitor
that just made his presence known.

Mr. Grant’s twenty-five-year-old son,
Aaron Grant, strolled into the room dressed as if he had just returned from a
night on the town. “Father, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have an urgent
phone call.”

Mr. Grant glanced at his son with a
look of uncertainty. In my mind, it looked as if he was hesitant about leaving
him alone in the room with us.

“Go on father. I can deal with the
detective and his…um, protégé.” He glanced at me, with a look of arrogance that
would make you think he was the wealthy and powerful head of the household, and
not the prodigal son.

“I’m sorry,” Carter said. “And who
are you?”

I told Carter Mr. Grant had a son,
but I’m guessing he wanted to let Aaron know he wasn’t intimidated by his
attitude.

“Aaron Grant,” he said. He offered a
firm handshake.

“Detective Carter. This is Sydney
McSwain,” he said motioning toward me.

Aaron leveled his father with a look.
“Father, please don’t keep the caller waiting.”

Mr. Grant reluctantly, but
obediently, left the room.

I couldn’t help but think the situation
was contrived. Who would be calling in the middle of the night? Was Aaron
trying to get him out of the room? He sat down in one of the wingback chairs,
like he was lord of the manor. Without looking at us, he lit up a cigar and
took a long drag as if we weren’t even there.

Carter and I glanced at each other
with raised eyebrows.

“Detective, my father can’t be much
help to you. You see, he and Tamara had a parting of the ways a few years ago.”

“And why is that, Mr. Grant?”

He smirked. “As you already know she
was one of our housekeepers, but she wasn’t very good at her job. Naturally, my
father singled her out for reprimands.”

“So she ran away?” I said, wondering
what he meant by reprimands, verbal, or physical?

“Not at first. She acted out, caused tyranny
within the household; then she rebelled. It wasn’t her fault, really. She was
the product of illegal immigrants. Tamara’s mother couldn’t handle the
responsibility of raising Tamara, so my father hired her and let her live here
to go to school.”

“Did the two of you attend the same
school?” Carter inquired.

He scoffed, as if the thought was
preposterous. “Of course not. I attended Chadmont, a private school for the
privileged; then went onto USC. Tamara went to Sutter Beach High.”

I was stunned. Tamara was my age, and
we went to the same school, but I had never seen her before. Sutter Beach was a
large school, but still.

“How did you do at Chadmont?” Carter
said, trying to keep the conversation going.

I assumed he was trying to stall time
while waiting for Mr. Grant, and at the same time, try to get a feel for
Aaron’s personality.

Aaron smiled. “I was like my father -
driven to succeed, excelled in academics and sports. Things came rather easily for
me. So, of course, I became president of my class at USC.”

“I imagine being the son of Howard
Grant helped you along the way?” Carter said, purposely trying to gage Aaron’s
relationship with his father.

Aaron clenched his jaw, and took a
hit on the cigar before he answered. “That honor, being his only son, granted
me easy access into the law firm and connections with the financial industry.
My future was set.”

“That was fortunate,” Carter added.

“Yes. Unfortunately, Tamara was not
so lucky. She took after her mother, a gold digger who tired of the family life
giving up on Tamara so easily.”

“And you hated her for that,” I said.
“Her Mother, I mean?” I know I shouldn’t have said it, but I couldn’t help
myself. As I watched the exchange between Aaron and Carter, I couldn’t help but
notice he was as arrogant as they come. He didn’t seem to give a rat’s behind
that Tamara was dead. She may have only been their housekeeper, but they were
raised in the same household. Wouldn’t that make them like siblings? What the
heck was missing from this scenario?

The two of us glared at each other.
“Yes,” he said, with no embarrassment whatsoever. “It’s not news that I hated
Tamara’s mother. She was a coward, and weak.”

Howard Grant came back downstairs a
few minutes later. Before he joined us in the den, he glanced toward his son,
almost as if he was waiting for permission to enter. He informed Carter the
call was from a neighbor concerned about seeing a police car at his house. We
knew he was lying. It was impossible for a neighbor to see over the landscaped
grounds into the circular drive. And, how would they know the Charger belonged
to a cop?

Carter said, “Mr. Grant, I’d like to
have my officers come here to take a look around. I imagine Tamara had a room
when she was here?”

Aaron clenched his jaw. “Wouldn’t you
need a warrant for that?”

Howard smiled, and tried to shrug off
his son’s comment. “I’m sure it would be no trouble, detective. They can come
here first thing in the morning. I’ll leave word with the butler.”

Carter nodded. “I also need you to
come into the station in the morning, if that’s convenient.”

Mr. Grant sat back down on the sofa,
and looked surprised. “I don’t know what help I could be. As I said, I haven’t
talked to Tamara in quite some time.”

Carter’s brow furrowed. That meant he
was losing his patience. He knew he had to handle them delicately. They’d
lawyer up, and that was the last thing he wanted. “I understand what you’re
saying Mr. Grant, but it’s just routine procedure. We need someone to identify
the body, as well as make a statement. As your son pointed out, you were the
family that raised her. You understand.”

“I see,” Mr. Grant said, with
resignation. “Of course, I’ll have my legal counsel meet us there.”

Aaron darted another look my way -
his eyes roving up and down, as if he was sizing me up. “You’re what, eighteen
or nineteen? I’m surprised I’ve never seen you around, before.”

I shrugged, not wanting to divulge
too much information. “I’m somewhat of a wall flower.”

He took another drag on his cigar;
then stared at me as if he was trying to look through me, to discover my white
lie. “I would think even a wallflower would venture out once in a while. To the
mall, the local cinema, the beach…”

Like him, I couldn’t help but let my
disdain for him show through my attitude. “I’m sure we just traveled in
different circles. Sutter Beach is a pretty big city.”

His eye settled on my Levi’s and
cowboy boots. “You’re probably right. So, how did a
wallflower
happen to
be involved with this…?”