Pier Pressure Page 7

  I sat in a spot where I could see both the back door and the front door as I called Gram. I doubted she’d put her ear plugs in for the night. She’d be thinking about me, worrying about me. She answered on the first ring.

  I told her about the kid and the bike, but I never mentioned Jude. Some things Gram handles poorly, and Jude’s one of them. Even though I tried to make light of the bicycle’s near-theft, Gram heard the strain in my voice.

  “Why you no sleep at my place tonight, Keely? You be safe here. Cops keep Duval safe.”

  “I’m fine right here, Gram.” I didn’t tell her about the murder suspect list Jass, Punt, and I had drawn up, knowing that, too, would worry her. “Beau arrived home from the fishing tournament and talked with us for awhile. Of course he was almost down and out with grief. He really looked terrible.”

  “Dumb to grieve over that phony biddy,” Gram snapped.

  “His wife, Gram. His wife. He loved her.”

  “Tell me again, you be okay.”

  “I’m okay and I’ll see you bright and early in the morning as usual.” I breathed easier after I ended our conversation. Usually Gram showed a live-and-let-live attitude toward people, but never toward Margaux.

  How long had it been since I’d eaten? I could hardly remember. I smiled, thinking of Jass’s irritation whenever I said I forgot to eat. Jass claimed she’d never forgotten a meal in her life, and she probably hadn’t. This day seemed to have lasted a month. Breakfast. A few dishes in the sink reminded me of toast, orange juice, and Cheerios.

  I’d grabbed a Heath bar from my desk drawer after Detective Curry left my office, and Jass had offered snacks at her house. My stomach growled. Although I’d rather have dropped right into bed, I forced myself to scramble a couple of eggs, shred lettuce for a salad.

  I checked my stoneware mushroom keeper. Forget mushrooms. Old age had left them restless. Toast. Hot tea instead of coffee. I wanted to sleep tonight.

  The food soothed my stomach and a hot bath soothed my body. I always slept in the buff, hating the restriction of a gown or pajamas. Once in bed, I thought I’d sleep immediately, but no. I reached under my pillow to assure myself the small canister of pepper spray still lay there. I had slept with that bit of potential protection since my divorce. Nikko tried to persuade me to replace it with my gun, but guns made me nervous. Guns reminded me of Mom’s death and now of Margaux’s.

  As I lay tense and exhausted, my mind retraced the day’s happenings. When I closed my eyes, the image of Margaux’s body seemed imbedded on the back of my eyelids. Would I be accused of that murder? The thought chilled me. I knew Margaux hadn’t committed suicide. I agreed with Jass that the guilty person must be found in order to protect the names of the innocent and in order to get a killer off the streets. The person finding the body…

  When I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness, outdoor night sounds seemed amplified. In the distance I heard a car horn honk followed by the squeal of tires. Closer at hand the wind whispered through palm fronds. Then a thump outside told me something had hit the front door. Hard. Bolting upright and suppressing a scream, I slipped from bed.

  Without turning on a light, I crept across the cool floor to the living room, pulled the drapery aside a crack, and peeked out. Yeowl! A neighborhood cat clung to the door screen for a few moments before jumping to the porch and darting away on cat business. I relaxed and returned to bed.

  I still lay staring at the ceiling when someone knocked on the front door. Don’t answer it. I lay still, listening. Who could it be at this hour? Jass? Beau? Punt? Jude? Please, God, not Jude.

  If I didn’t answer the knock, someone might try to break in. I had promised the Moores to protect their house. The next knock sounded louder, more demanding. I grabbed a robe, felt its cool silkiness glide over my body. Turning no light on, I eased barefoot into the hallway and peeked through the security hole in the door.

  Detective Curry and a woman stood on the porch. Plain clothes. They both wore gray suits and white shirts.

  “One minute, please,” I called. I fumbled with the security chain and then with the lock until I could open the door. “What is it, please?” A screen door stood between us, but I didn’t open it or invite them in.

  “We’re sorry to bother you at this time.” Detective Curry’s steely eyes bored into me. “This’s my partner, Detective Winslow. May we come in?”

  I nodded to Detective Winslow as I opened the screen and let them enter. Detective Curry met my direct gaze while Detective Winslow’s dark eyes inspected me from my clinging robe to my bare feet as if looking for incriminating flaws. Her head with its mane of tawny brown-gold hair barely reached Detective Curry’s shoulder, and she moved with a cat-like grace. The word “tiger” leaped to mind.

  “How may I help you?” I didn’t invite them to sit down.

  “We’d like you to accompany us to police headquarters,” Detective Curry said.

  “Why?” My reply sounded blunt and revealed my irritation, but I didn’t care. “Do you have a warrant?” Was that a logical question? Seems like I’d heard it on TV shows.

  “We have no warrant, Miss Moreno,” Detective Curry said. “We just have a few more informal questions we’d like you to answer. Informal questions. It’s your privilege to refuse to come with us or to answer queries, of course.”

  “Of course.” I tried not to sneer. “May I get dressed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please have a seat. I’ll be quick.”

  I tried to guess what strategy the detectives might be using. If they suspected me of murder, surely they’d hold off questioning me and alerting me to the direction of their investigation until they had developed a strong case against me. Surely they hadn’t had time to develop such a case. On the other hand, they might believe that quick and early pressure might cause me to confess and save them lots of trouble.

  They both sat on the couch, staring after me as I retreated to the bedroom and closed the door. My hands shook as I let the robe slide from my shoulders and pool into a puddle of crimson silk on the floor before I reached for my bra and panties. I wondered about the meaning of this visit. Detectives in the middle of the night? It reminded me of a Gestapo movie. Then a glance at my watch told me it was only a bit after nine o’clock. Maybe detective teams drew round-the-clock detail—our tax dollars at work.

  What did one wear to the police station on a Sunday night? Now I bit on my tongue to quiet my chattering teeth, and I eased into my workday outfit—a khaki jumpsuit. They looked professional; I looked professional. When I returned to the living room, both detectives rose as if on signal.

  They led the way out the front door, and I followed, pausing only long enough to lock the house again. Nobody spoke until we reached the gray Ford parked in front of the house.

  “You’ll ride in the passenger seat, please,” Detective Curry said. Detective Winslow opened the car door for me, waited until I seated myself, then closed the door and crawled into the back seat behind me. Did they think I might try to escape if they let me ride in the back seat alone?

  Detective Curry drove to Truman Avenue and then headed toward the newly opened police headquarters near the fire station. Tonight artificial light cast a pink glow on the tall pillars at the entrance of the building. I gave only a glance at what appeared to be a small fountain with a brass plaque mounted on a pedestal. Who cared what the words on the plaque said!

  Once we entered a small foyer inside the station, I glanced casually at the white benches against the wall next to the elevator. Tonight the benches were empty, but the lingering smell of stale cigarette smoke snapped me back to the problem at hand. The questioning. What more could they ask me? I had told them all I knew early this morning.

  Detective Curry punched the elevator button and we slowly ascended to the offices above. I followed him, almost unseeing, into a large room, still light and bright with newly applied paint.

  “Have you ever been fingerprinted?” Detective
Curry asked.

  “No.” The one word seemed to be a complete answer to me.

  “You’ve never been booked before?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Do you mind if we take your fingerprints now?”

  “No.” The word came more slowly this time. Did I really have the right to protest? What would my protest tell them? I stuck to my reply—no, I didn’t mind. At least not very much. What would it hurt to have a record of my prints at the police station?

  Detective Winslow led me to a counter to wait while she slipped behind it and readied the fingerprinting equipment. White paper form with a blank square for eight fingers, two thumbs. Ink pad. She wrote my name and the date at the top of the form, then one by one, she pressed each of my fingers onto the ink pad and transferred a print onto the white page. After that she allowed me to clean my fingers on a bit of damp tissue.

  “Do you mind if we take your picture?” Detective Curry asked.

  “No.” Was politeness dictating that he avoid calling the picture a mug shot?

  Again, Detective Winslow did the job, positioning me against a plain backdrop, face to camera, then silhouette to camera. I tried not to imagine my photo hanging on a post office wall. After the fingerprinting and the photo sessions I followed Detective Curry into a small office barely large enough for his desk and chair, a four-drawer steel file cabinet, and a straight-backed chair for me. Detective Winslow stood guard at the doorway.

  “Your name, please,” Detective Curry asked.

  I answered that question and several others that he’d already asked that morning. Then he cut to new material.

  “Do you own a gun, Miss Moreno?”

  “Yes, I do.” I knew almost immediately I should have called a lawyer. Police have a way of making you say things you never intended to say, and they frequently lie to suspects. I’ve seen enough episodes of NYPD Blue and Law and Order to know that. I’d say lying is basic to police interrogations. I couldn’t trust these detectives, but I didn’t know what lawyer to call. If I phoned Beau, he’d suggest Hubble & Hubble and probably make the call for me, but that’d place Jude in an in-the-know position. No way.

  “Is the gun registered in your name?”

  “It is.”

  “What kind of a gun is it?”

  “It’s a .32 caliber pistol.”

  “When did you purchase this gun?”

  “About four years ago. I’m not sure of the exact date, but I have that information in my office on Duval.”

  “Where did you buy this gun?”

  “At a pawn shop in the Winn-Dixie Plaza on Big Pine Key.”

  “Why did you buy the gun?”

  “For protection.”

  “Did anyone help you with this transaction?”

  “Yes. Nikko Fotopoulos, a retired police officer. He taught me gun safety rules, and he also taught me to shoot on a practice range in Key West.”

  “Miss Moreno, the gun you have described for us, the gun you admit to owning, that gun is the weapon that we found in Margaux Ashford’s hand this morning.”

  Somehow I didn’t think they were lying to me now.

  Nine

  DETECTIVE CURRY’S WORDS stunned me. I couldn’t get my breath. My lungs felt as if someone had tightened a steel band around them—a band that grew tighter by the second. This man who’d pretended to be my friend had led me into a trap with his questioning. No, that was wrong. He’d never said anything about friendship. That thinking had formed in my own mind because I’d allowed it to. He had merely signed up for a reflexology treatment. That made us business acquaintances, not friends. There’s a big difference.

  My face, which had burned only seconds ago, now felt like an icy mask. Never in my life had I ever fainted, but my head began to swim. Detective Winslow rushed to my side to hold me upright on the chair while Detective Curry brought me a Dixie cup of water. The room stabilized and I drank the water before I said anything.

  “My statement concerning the death weapon startled you?” Curry asked.

  I took a slow, deep breath that helped me regain some of my composure. “It startled me because it’s a lie. It can’t be true.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Curry asked.

  “Because my gun’s in the bottom of my desk drawer on Duval Street. You can check it out. It’s there, right where I said it is.”

  “Then you won’t object to coming along with us to your office and showing us the gun?”

  “Of course not.” This time I felt in charge of the situation and I stood, ready to accompany them to Duval Street. “You were very quick to verify my alleged ownership of that gun.”

  “It wasn’t a long process this time,” Detective Curry said. “Sometimes when the police find what they believe is a murder weapon they have to spend precious time determining who owned it. Your gun held an engraved number. It was purchased in the state of Florida. It took only a few minutes to make sure that you were the legal registered owner. Of course there’s the possibility that someone else had possession of the gun at the time of the murder. And we’ll have to determine for sure that the bullet that killed Margaux Ashford came from your gun. Before we place anyone under arrest, we’ll have to determine who fired the gun. Those things will take longer. I told you this was informal questioning. We’re merely trying to be sure that the gun found in Margaux Ashford’s right hand is your gun. We appreciate your cooperation.”

  Detective Curry’s words left me to consider how a gun registered to me, a gun I knew was in my desk drawer, could be connected with Margaux’s murder. Again I rode in front while Detective Winslow sat directly behind me. Did she carry a gun? I supposed that she did, that all detectives carried guns. I wondered if she hated that part of being a detective or if she reveled in it. Traffic moved more quickly now and when we reached my office, we found a parking place within the block. Gram had closed her shop, but I could sense her watching from an upstairs window. Not much happened on our end of Duval that escaped Gram’s ever-watchful eye.

  I unlocked the door, snapped on the overhead light, and then stepped to my desk to punch the switch on the desk lamp. I have the type of desk drawers that automatically lock until someone opens the top drawer, and I opened that drawer.

  “You leave your desk unlocked?” Curry asked.

  “It was locked,” I said. “You saw me open the top drawer and release the lock.”

  “But the top drawer was unlocked? It required no key to open it?”

  “That’s right. I keep nothing valuable in my desk.”

  “Nothing except your gun,” Curry said.

  Again, my face grew hot. I’d never considered the gun valuable, and suddenly I knew I’d been very careless with it. I hated the thing, but I knew that in Curry’s eyes a gun probably held great value and I knew I should have been more careful with it.

  “Show us your pistol, please,” Curry demanded.

  I yanked the bottom drawer open and shoved a box of envelopes aside. I pulled out part of a ream of paper and slapped it onto my desk blotter before I slid my hand beneath the envelope box. No gun. I yanked the envelopes out and tossed them beside the paper. My hands began to sweat as I forced my gaze to meet Curry’s.

  “It’s gone. I can’t believe it. The gun’s gone.”

  “We have it at police headquarters,” Curry said.

  “Then why…why did you bring me here?” I demanded. “You could have shown it to me right there.”

  “Would you have recognized it? Many guns look similar to other guns. Could you have picked it out of a group of weapons? Are you sure you would have recognized it as yours?”

  “No. No, I’m not sure. I can’t guess how it came into your possession.” I lied. I could imagine how the gun got into Margaux’s hand. Jude. Jude had to be at the bottom of this. I’d seen him on Grinnell Street. He’d threatened to see me dead. This was his way of carrying out that threat—to have me accused and convicted of Margaux’s murder. When I spoke again, my voice came ou
t a whisper. “Are…are you going to arrest me?”

  “No, not yet. I told you that this’d be an informal questioning. It remains that. We appreciate your cooperating with the authorities. There may be a good explanation as to why your gun isn’t here…as to why Margaux Ashford clutched it in her hand this morning. We’ll do our best to find that reason. And we’ll make certain that this is the gun that fired the bullet which penetrated Margaux Ashford’s head.”

  “I hope so, and I suggest you start your investigation by questioning Jude Cardell. I wonder where he was last night.”

  “Your ex.” It was a statement, not a question so I didn’t reply. “You think Jude broke into your office and took your gun, broke into the Ashford home, murdered Margaux Ashford?”

  “I’m not sure what I believe.”

  Detective Curry offered his chair to Detective Winslow, then he stood behind her as he began questioning me again. “When was the last time you saw Margaux Ashford alive?”

  “A week ago on Sunday morning. She had a regular house call appointment.”

  “When was the last time you saw the gun in your drawer, Keely?” Now he used my first name. A trap, an attempt to establish false friendship? I wondered what his response might be if I started calling him Jon. Men in authority sometimes use the first name trick to try to diminish a woman’s sense of importance. I didn’t call him Jon. I tried to answer his question.

  “I can’t remember when I saw the gun last. As I told you, I never use it. I dislike the thought of using it. I only keep it around because Nikko and Gram insist.”

  “Who has access to that bottom drawer?” Curry asked.

  “Me. I’m the only one.”

  “You and anyone who comes to your office for treatments. Isn’t that right?”

  “I’ve never known anyone to go poking through my private desk.”

  “But someone might if that someone needed a gun and knew one lay in your drawer. Isn’t that right? All a person’d have to do would be to send you away on some errand that might seem perfectly legitimate. Or a phone call in your apartment might call you away. Or your grandmother might ask you to help her. Many things could entice you from your desk. Right?”