Cold Justice (22 page)

Hank cut in. “And if she wasn’t having an affair, then why
was she half naked?”

Annie added. “And why no signs of sexual intercourse?”

“On the other hand,” Hank said. “If she wasn’t having an
affair, then was it an attempted rape gone wrong?”

“It doesn’t seem like a rape to me,” Annie said. “Because of
the wine. A rapist doesn’t usually bring wine with him. There were two glasses,
remember?”

Hank nodded, and said, “Going back to the way she was
dressed, or rather not dressed, it seems obvious, given the Blackley’s failing
marriage, she had not dressed that way for her husband. Therefore, I think we
can conclude she was having an affair of some kind.”

Jake added, “I think the wine stains found on the floor of
Blackley’s home show that as well. There was definitely some wine tasting going
on that day.”

“I talked to some of the neighbors as well,” Hank said. “And
the woman across the street remembers seeing a red Mercedes convertible parked
in the Blackley driveway on occasion. She remembered it so well because she had
often wanted one herself, but could never afford it.”

“That’s interesting,” Jake said, “There’s gotta be a lot of
those cars around, but it does tell us she had a visitor. Somebody with some money.”
He paused. “He may be the other man.”

“So,” Annie added. “We’re back where we started. Who’s the
other man, and why did he kill her?”

“Here’s the most interesting thing,” Hank said, as he
glanced at Jake. “It’s in the autopsy report you’re holding, Jake. Remember the
hammer?”

Jake nodded. Annie frowned and said, “Yes.”

Hank continued, “There was blood on it, along with Blackley’s
fingerprints, and a strand of hair from Mrs. Blackley. However, the coroner
report states there was no blunt force trauma to her head, or anywhere else on
her body. There seems to be no way she had been hit with that hammer.”

“And yet,” Jake said. “Her blood was on it.”

“I had a problem with that hammer right from the start,”
Annie said. “Now, I think it’s part of the frame-up.”

“You might be right, Annie,” Hank said. “There was a small
cut on her wrist. The only place blood was drawn.”

“And that’s where the blood came from,” Annie concluded.

Hank shrugged. “Could be.”

“Were there any defensive wounds on her body?” Annie asked.

Jake answered, “There seems to be a whole lot of them.” He
waved the report. “According to this.”

“I’m not sure what that tells us,” Annie said. “Except she
tried to fight off her attacker.”

Hank added, “There was nothing under her fingernails to show
she scratched him, or anything else on the body that would show exactly who he
was.”

“What about the stuff that was in the garbage bag, in the
bin?”

Hank said, “The wine glasses, the bottle, the cork, and the
cloth, along with the wine stains on Blackley’s floor, all came from the same
source. And there were no prints on any of them.”

“So, they were wiped clean,” Annie said.

“Almost,” Hank said. “There were small traces of lipstick on
one of them, consistent with the lipstick Vera Blackley had on.”

“So, one of the glasses was hers,” Jake said. “No surprise
there.”

“True,” said Annie. “But it does tell us they drank some of
the wine. There had obviously been some conversation going on prior to the
murder.”

Jake interrupted. “And that proves, to me, she knew her
killer.”

“That rules out attempted rape,” Hank added.

Annie laughed. “So, we’re back to our original theory. I
think we’d better stick to that.”

Jake and Hank agreed.

Chapter 38

Friday, August 19th, 9:32 AM

PIERRE BOUTIN was a perpetual tourist.

His grandfather had made an uncountable amount of money on a
goldmine in northern Quebec, and Pierre had never known what work was all
about. He spent most of his days, just wandering around from city to city,
country to country, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of the world. He
used to call Montreal his home, but it had been so long since he had been
there, he almost forgot his old town.

This morning, he was running a little late. He had partied
too long last night, and slept in. It wouldn’t do to miss his morning run, so
he donned the jogging bottoms he had picked up in Paris, along with a Nike
sweatshirt, and runners that bore an American label.

He popped a couple of Tylenol, and downed a bottle of water,
grabbing one more for the road, and fast-walked from his hotel room. He took
the stairs down five flights to the lobby. He drew stares from the front desk
as he jogged across the Italian marble, and out the door, giving a merci
beaucoup to the doorman on the way through.

Without pausing, he took a deep breath of the city air,
better than most, worse than some. He pounded up the sidewalk, twisted and
weaved around the bustling pedestrians, heading for a place where he could go
all out. He loved to run, and his destination was the park he had enjoyed the
last few days, just a couple of blocks from the hotel.

He spun around a curve in the sidewalk and took a quick left
onto a wide path leading into Richmond Valley Park. He sang lustily as he
jogged, his clear voice catching the ear of a few curious who were strolling
about.

As he blurred past a row of cedars, something red caught his
eye. Looks like somebody is sleeping back there. He continued on.

The pathway that wound through the trees, past benches and
picnic tables, snaked in and around for almost a mile. He would take the route
twice, and then head back to the hotel for a much-needed shower, and an adult
beverage. Or two.

As he passed the wading pool, near the park entrance, he
paused and knelt down, cupped his hands, pouring some of the cool liquid over
his head. It drenched his short hair, ran down his face, his neck and back, and
refreshed him. Ready for another lap.

He rose to his feet, and as he began to pick up speed, he
glanced again toward the sleeping guy behind the bush. Except, when he
curiously pulled the bushes aside, it wasn’t a guy, and she wasn’t sleeping.

He stepped around the evergreens for a better view.

“Sacré Bleu,” he shouted. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

He stepped back onto the path, hurried past the wading pool,
and onto the sidewalk. A woman lugging two bags of groceries was hustling by,
muttering to herself.

He stopped her. “Telephone, please.”

She frowned at him, looked the other way, and hustled
faster.

Along came a boy on a skateboard, leaning over, burning up
the sidewalk. Pierre stepped in from of him, flagging him down. The boy spun to
the side, almost wiping out in the grass. He looked angrily at Pierre and
swore.

“Bonjour. Telephone, please?” Pierre asked.

The skateboarder cursed again. “I don’t have a phone. Get
out of my way, you idiot.” He dropped back on his board, and rolled away.

Pierre sighed. Nobody wants to help. He spun around, stepped
through a row of parked cars, and into the street. A taxi was cruising by,
looking for a fare. It squeaked to a stop as Pierre took another step forward
and raised his arm.

He swung the front door of the cab open. “Police. Telephone,
please. Need police.”

The cabbie cocked his head and ogled him for a moment.

Pierre pointed toward the park. “Body. She dead.”

The driver grunted, threw the car in park, and climbed from
the cab. “Show me,” he said.

Pierre rushed away, turning often to beckon the lumbering
man to hurry.

The cabbie followed Pierre, jiggling and puffing, to the row
of evergreens, and then behind. He stopped short when he saw where Pierre was
pointing. He cursed and turned his head from the sight of a woman, rotting in
the heat, covered with flies. The flow of blood from her almost severed head
had spread out, dried, and been devoured by the rich soil beneath her lifeless
body.

He called 9-1-1.

Chapter 39

Friday, August 19th, 10:05 AM

JAKE HAD BEEN discussing their plans for the day with Annie,
when his iPhone buzzed. It was Hank.

“There’s been another murder,” Hank said. “I thought you
might want to come down here. It’s a friend of Abigail Macy.”

Jake’s eyes popped. He leaned forward and looked at Annie. “Another
murder,” he whispered, as he put the phone on speaker and set it on the desk.
Annie leaned in.

“It’s at Richmond Valley Park. I’m there now,” Hank
continued. “Near the wading pool.”

“We’ll be right there,” Jake said, hanging up the phone and
tucking it away.

Annie looked at Jake and raised a brow.

“A friend of Abigail Macy,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Annie grabbed her handbag from the kitchen and followed Jake
out the front door to the Firebird. They jumped in and the engine thundered,
tires squealed, and trees blurred by as they sped up the street.

The park was near the downtown core, but traffic was light
this time of day. In a few minutes, they saw flashing red and blue ahead of
them. A dozen police cars were pulled over, one or two halfway on the sidewalk.
A cop was directing traffic, the flow bogging down as drivers slowed and
twisted their necks in the direction of the commotion.

Jake pulled up behind the line of cruisers and shut down the
engine. They stepped from the vehicle and hurried into the park, past the
wading pool.

An area to the left had been cordoned off with familiar
yellow tape. Investigators were busy, placing evidence cones as cameras
clicked, evaluating and collecting physical specimens, studying, and consulting
with each other. Two or three officers guarded the area, making sure the
gathering group of onlookers stayed well back.

Jake pointed. “There’s Hank,” he said.

Hank was just outside the yellow barrier, talking to Rod
Jameson, the lead investigator. He nodded a hello as they approached, and
pointed to a short row of evergreens. “She’s right back there,” he said. “You
can circle around and take a look if you want, but I wouldn’t suggest it. It’s
a pretty gruesome sight.”

“What happened?” Annie asked.

“Her throat was slit. Her head is nearly half off. Pretty
messy.”

Annie wrinkled her nose and looked at Jake. “I guess we won’t
bother,” she said.

Jake shook his head vigorously. He didn’t want to see
either.

Hank pointed to a man, just inside the tape. He was sitting
forward in a fold-up chair, his head in his hands. “That’s Pierre Boutin,” he
said. “He discovered the body.”

Annie looked over. Boutin sat up and rubbed his face, looked
around, and dropped his head again. Annie looked at Hank. “Did she have ID on
her?”

Hank shook his head. “No, she had no identification. Nothing
at all, but I recognized her right away. Her name is Samantha Riggs, and she
worked for Philip Macy. I talked to her briefly when I interviewed Macy a few
days ago.”

Jake whistled. “She knew who killed Mrs. Macy. That’s why
she’s dead.”

“I think you’re right,” Hank said. “Or perhaps, she knew who
killed Vera Blackley.”

“Or both,” Annie said.

Jake turned and scowled as he heard a familiar screech. It
was the voice of Lisa Krunk. She was rushing toward them, microphone pushed
ahead of her, Don bustling along behind.

The red light glowed. Lisa looked down her thin nose and
spoke, “Detective Corning, can you tell me a little bit about what’s happening
here?”

Hank looked at the microphone three inches from his nose,
and then at Lisa. “A body of a woman was discovered here. We don’t know much
else at this point. The investigators have just arrived.”

“Who was she, Detective?”

Hank frowned. “She had no identification with her,” he said.

Lisa turned to Jake. The camera followed. “Mr. Lincoln, you
and your wife are private investigators. Do you have an interest in this latest
murder?”

Jake thought a moment before saying, “It’s too early to
tell. There may, or may not, be any relation to something we are working on
now.”

“Are you saying this may be related to the murder of Vera
Blackley?”

Jake frowned. “No, I’m not saying that at all.”

Hank spoke up. “I’ll make a comment when we know more, but
right now, excuse us please.” He motioned toward Jake and Annie to follow him
as he lifted the tape and stepped inside. They were right behind.

Lisa Krunk tried to pursue, but a uniform stepped up,
cautioning her back.

“Detective Corning,” she called. “Can you tell me who
discovered the body?”

Hank disregarded Lisa and went over to Pierre, touching him
on the shoulder. Pierre looked up. “Could you come with me?” Hank asked.

Pierre stood and followed.

Hank looked back at Lisa, and then led them to a spot where
she couldn’t overhear, out of the way of the investigators. He turned to
Pierre.

“I’m Detective Hank Corning. I understand you found the body
and reported it?”

“Oui. Oui.”

Hank frowned. “Do you speak English?”

“Oui. Little bit. Yes.”

“Your name is Pierre Boutin?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me how you happened across the body?”

“How I find?”

“Yes.”

“I run in park. Saw le rouge, red in bush. I move bush and
find woman.”

Hank studied Pierre for a moment, and asked, “Are you a
tourist? Visitor?”

“Oui. Visitor. Nice city.” He frowned and glanced toward the
evergreens. “Not nice that.”

Hank nodded. “It sure isn’t. Pierre, where are you staying?”

Pierre pointed toward the street. “Hotel.”

“The Hilton?”

“Oui. Hilton.”

“Are you staying there for a few days?”