Thomas Prescott Superpack (37 page)

We chatted for another couple minutes, then I asked, “Is there anybody else that might know anything?
Anybody else I should talk to?”

He tilted his head back and said, “The nanny.”

“Who?”

“The nanny.
Resmelda or something like that. Been with them for like the last eight years.”

“Does she still work for them?”

“As far as I know.”

“How do I get in touch with her?”

“Ride the ferry.”

I put my hand up.
“Slow down there, cowboy. We’ve only just met.”

He blushed and stammered, “I didn’t mean—“

“I know you didn’t.”

When his face had returned to its natural color he said, “They, well, Adam, has a large waterfront property on Bainbridge Island.”

Adam had mentioned the place. So had the
Forbes
article.

Bainbridge Island is an island twenty miles due west of Seattle.
The waterfront properties, with views of both Seattle and Mount Rainier, were rumored to go for upwards of $10 million. Both Steve Allen and Howard Shultz owned properties on the water.

I asked, “Do you know the address?”

He hit the Blackberry a couple times and told me the address.

I thanked him, apologized for being such a jerk off, and left.

Chapter 19

The ferry station was a short forty-five-minute drive north. A barrage of rich businessmen, real estate developers, software moguls, and Seattle Seahawks were coming into Seattle, but I was just one of a handful going out. A single ride cost $11.85. A twenty-ride card, $189.60. I opted for the former.

I drove the car onto the platform, then hopped out and found the sitting area on the top deck.
It was still early, before the afternoon storms, and there wasn’t a touch of blue in the sky. It was chilly, probably hovering around fifty, and I had traded out the blue button down for a gray hooded sweatshirt.

Six other people were scattered about, decked out in coats, scarves,
the whole nine yards. I looked out of place in my sweatshirt and jeans. I caught a couple hard stares, the Seattle elite wondering why the shoddy figure before them was going to their forbidden island. One lady in a fur jacket threw me a strained look and I mimed clipping hedges. She gave a nod as if this made perfect sense.

I walked down a flight of stairs and grabbed a coffee at the small café.
This is where most of the people congregated, and there was airport-type seating as well as five or six small TVs. One of the TVs was tuned to the news and a red breaking news banner ran across the bottom of the screen.

I assumed I knew what was coming next.

They cut to footage of the courthouse steps and a voice-over said, “Just hours ago, authorities arrested Adam Gray in connection with his wife’s murder.”

Seconds later, the courthouse doors opened and a handcuffed Adam Gray emerged.
By his side, none other than Ethan Kates, Erica Frost, and two uniformed officers emerged.

I shook my head and took a step forward.

Ethan was holding one of Gray’s arms.
His long fingers choked Gray’s biceps like five baby anacondas. He was standing tall, shoulders back, his jaw working double time on the Juicy Fruit lodged in his cheek. He reminded me of Kevin Costner from
The Untouchables
.

 
Erica was holding the other arm. She looked almost the antithesis of Ethan; slouched, eyes down, touching Adam’s elbow as if she might contract a deadly disease.

As for Gray, he appeared stoic.
Eyes forward. Head up. I imagined he would look no different being escorted to the first green at Pebble Beach. 

I found it a bit tacky that Ethan had decided to arrest Adam at the courthouse.
Usually with these celebrity types, they have the decency to
arrange
an arrest, whereby the cuffs usually stay on the belt and the celebrity can dress dignified and say rehearsed statements. Today had been a publicity stunt. No doubt an anonymous phone call had been placed to one of the networks that something was going to happen at the courthouse around noon.

The voice-over came back on. “Gray was at the courthouse finalizing documents concerning the Proctor case, which had wrapped up just yesterday.
Until today he had simply been considered a person of interest in the death of his wife, Governor Ellen Gray. Reports from the Seattle Police Department indicate that he is now their prime suspect.”

They didn’t have much else to go on but promised more during the five o’clock edition.
They began recounting the saga and I turned and made my way up the stairs and back to the top deck.

The rest of the brave souls had called it quits, so I had the entire deck to myself.
The ferry plowed through the water, and a slight breeze came off the ocean.

I flopped up the hood on my sweatshirt and walked to the edge of the boat.
No whale tails, no shark fins, no mermaids, just miles and miles of open water. A distant land mass stood regally amid the vast blue. The island carried that gray-green color that screams, “Pristine and Untouched.” At least that’s what it said on the billboard. Five to one, there was a Starbucks somewhere on the island.

Thirty-five minutes later we hit Bainbridge Island.
And ten minutes after that, I was pulling up to the Gray mansion.

As I approached the gated entrance, a black man in a uniform put down a magazine and stepped from the security booth. I noticed a surveillance camera pointed in my direction.

I rolled down my window.

The security guard asked, “Can I help you?”

I whipped out a badge and said, “Todd Gregory, FBI.
I’m here to see the nanny, Resmelda.” The badge was legit. Agent Todd Gregory wouldn’t need it where he was.

He surveyed the badge for a moment before handing it back to me.
He walked back to his booth and returned with a clipboard. He informed me I was not on the day’s list of scheduled visitors.

I said, “I don’t know if you heard, but Mr. Gray was arrested this afternoon.”

He nodded. The guy signed his check; of course he’d heard. I added, “We just have a couple more questions for Resmelda.”

He eyed me suspiciously, then walked back into the booth, hit something that started the gate opening, and picked his magazine back up.

So much for hired help.

I pulled through the gate. The estate was marked by finely manicured gardens, densely packed with flowers that should have read their obituaries six weeks earlier.
There were two fountains, a few statues, and a bunch of other stuff that looked out of place on a private residence. As for the house, it was a behemoth. It was all angles and sharp edges. White columns supported baby-blue eves. Gray brick fed into gray shingled roofing. Off to the far right looked to be a greenhouse. To the left was a putting green and a sandtrap. I assumed the stable was somewhere in the back. 

There was a buzzer box near the door and I pushed the middle black square.
After about a minute, the door opened. Standing in the doorway was a well-fed woman of around fifty. She had dark hair held up in a bun and dark skin, looking more Spanish than Mexican.

I asked, “Are you Resmelda?”

She gave a slight nod. “Si.”

“Can I ask you a couple questions?”

“Si.”

“May I come in?”

“Si.”

She seemed a bit nervous and I said in my best Spanish, “I’m-o not-o with-o immigration-o.”

She brought her hand to her forehead and said in perfect English, “Thank God.
They might send me back to Toronto.”

El bitch-o.

She stepped out onto the front porch and said, “Can you make this quick? I have some vacuuming I need to finish up.”

“Sure thing. Just a couple questions concerning Mr. Gray.”

“Mr. Gray’s secretary called less than an hour ago saying he was arrested.”

“That’s true. This is just standard follow-up. No stone left unturned and all that.”

She shrugged and said, “I’ll tell you what I can.”

This, of course, was somewhere between
I’ll tell you what I know
and
I’ll tell you what will make you leave the quickest.
 

I asked, “How often did Mr. and Mrs. Gray fight?”

She rocked her head from side to side. “Seldom. But then again, they seldom saw each other.”

“Were the fights bad?”

“No worse than other married couples, I suppose.”

“Anyone ever get hurt?”

She stalled, then said, “Once.”

“He beat her up?”

“Other way around.”

I stifled a laugh.
“What happened?”

“They were arguing.
Mrs. Gray threw a glass at him. I don’t know if she meant to hit him, but she did. Hit him right in the back of the head. He had to get six stitches.”

“Why were they fighting?”

“They were fighting over this house. Mrs. Gray had the governor’s mansion at her disposal, but she only stayed there a couple nights a week. She hated taking the ferry here then back to the city, plus a forty minute drive. She couldn’t understand why they couldn’t all live in the governor’s mansion like past governors. But Mr. Gray wouldn’t have it. He found it proletariat. His words. But to be honest, I think Mr. Gray dreaded the commute just as much as his wife. But he’d never admit it. He sleeps at his office half the time anyway.”

Actually, he slept at his condo and he didn’t sleep alone.
I kept this to myself.

I asked, “So why didn’t they sell the place?
There are plenty of other rich neighborhoods. Mercer Island is right there in the city.” Mercer Island isn’t really an island, connected to the heart of Seattle by a half-mile-long bridge. It was even a step up from Bainbridge if that’s possible. Bill Gates had a $30 million estate somewhere on the island.

She smiled and said, “The girls.
They love it here. The schools are good. And the girls love riding the ferry into town. I think if it weren’t for the girls, they could do without the house.”

From the tone of her voice, I got the impression the girls were the only thing holding the marriage together.
I wondered if Resmelda knew Mrs. Gray was thinking of leaving Mr. Gray. I would get to this later.

I said, “Tell me about the girls.”

She beamed. “Adrian is eight and Shelly is five.”

I nodded.

“Poor things. Mr. and Mrs. Gray worked so hard that I practically raised them myself.” Paused for a moment. “They’re staying with my parents in Toronto for a couple weeks. Get them away from it all.”

“What about Ellen or Adam’s parents?”

“Ellen’s parents still have the farm in Wisconsin. They were never close with their granddaughters. They never once came here and Mrs. Gray only made it back there once. For Christmas, I think. And Mr. Gray’s parents died when he was just a kid. He was raised by one of his aunts.”

“Was there ever any talk of divorce?”

“Not that I ever heard.”

After a slight pause I asked, “Do you think he did it?”

She went silent. After a brief couple seconds, she said, “I think deep down, Mr. and Mrs. Gray loved one another. There were times you could see it in their eyes. I think it was more the situation than anything else. Two high-profile people. High profile jobs. They just didn’t make the time.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“No. I don’t think he did it.”

I wasn’t sure if she was saying this out of loyalty or if she truly felt this way.
The way she eyed her feet told me it was the former.

I said, “There’s quite a bit of evidence that says otherwise.”

She nodded, but said nothing.

I asked if there was a number I could reach her at in case I had any more questions and she gave me one.
Then I said, “Well, I’ll let you get back to your vacuuming. Thank you for your time.”

She nodded, then receded back into the house.
I started down the brick path, counted to twenty, then turned and made my way back to the door. I pressed my ear against the wood and heard the faint thrum of the vacuum cleaner.

I turned the door handle and pushed it inward.
It opened. The noise from the vacuum cleaner was coming from somewhere on the ground floor. Your average person will vacuum from the ground up, and I hoped Resmelda was just getting started rather than wrapping things up. From what I could see, the ground floor was mostly hardwood, whereas the second and third stories would be mostly carpeted.

I wasn’t exactly sure what it was I was looking for.
If Adam was going to hide something from his wife, he would either keep it in his office or his condo. Or apparently—in regards to his gun—on his yacht. But that was now safely tucked away in the Seattle Police Department impound. Ellen wouldn’t have it as easy. I wasn’t sure what her level of privacy was in the governor’s mansion, but my gut told me she would be reluctant to hide anything there. I had a feeling if she were hiding something, it would be here. I was thinking maybe photographs of Adam intertwined with another woman.

Anyhow, from my experience, when you aren’t looking for anything at all, you are usually apt to find something.
Deep, I know.

I made my way up the stairs, the thick burgundy carpet absorbing every inch of sound.
There were three bedrooms and two baths on the second floor. Both the girls’ rooms, plus a guest bedroom. I took a quick peek inside each, then continued up to the third floor. The third floor housed a second guest bedroom as well as the master bedroom.

I poked my head into the guest room.
It was empty. There was a sliding glass door on the far wall. I slid the door open and stepped out. The balcony looked out on the water and had a clear view of both Seattle and Mount Rainier. The view was priceless, or maybe
pricey
is more accurate.

I scanned the water and noticed each house had a pier jetting out into the dark water.
Docked and lapping idly against each was either a yacht or a speedboat. Some had both. The pier directly below me looked freshly stained, a dark brown that gleamed under heavy clouds. Thick white ropes lay silently on the wood. A yacht—more specifically, the
Habeas Corpus
—had been tied up to that small pier just days before I’d pulled Ellen Gray’s remains from the water. Were the two events connected? Had Ellen’s body been aboard that yacht at one time or another? And if so, had Adam been at the helm?