Death On the Dlist (2010) (27 page)

WILL WAS THERE. SHE COULD SEE HIM. HAILEY REACHED OUT BOTH
her arms for him to come closer, but he wouldn’t. Will smiled at her, then evaporated. There were voices . . . a low buzzing that seemed far away. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids wouldn’t work. The voices grew louder, no longer just a buzz.

When Hailey finally opened her eyes, Will was definitely gone, leaving an empty feeling in her chest. But there were cops, uniformed and plainclothes, everywhere, swarming all over the room. Hailey could see them beyond the door in the office of the GNE CEO suite. She looked down to see she was now lying stretched out on a long, deep-blue velvety sofa off in one corner.

Glancing around the room, now brightly lit with overhead fluorescent lights as well as every floor and table lamp, Hailey immediately spotted Kolker, his back to her. He was huddled over Tony Russo, who was lying in a heap at the door of Noel’s office. Noel himself was sitting up, awake and alert, the blood wiped from his face and a bandage over his eye. He was talking into a microphone held by a young, thin man who squatted on the floor while balancing a camera on his right shoulder.

Two cops were trying to attach a huge piece of cardboard to the window gaping open and framed by splinters of clear glass, what little was left after the shooting, in order to curb the blasts of winter wind gusting in. The thick carpet on the floor was covered in broken glass, shards of every shape and size.

Sookie Downs was strapped on a gurney. Her hair stuck to her head and the sides of her face in dark red tendrils. Tears were running down her cheeks and she was staring venomously straight at Hailey Dean. “Kolker, is Sookie Downs cuffed?” Hailey sat up straight and called it out loud and low across the room . . . just in case they hadn’t all figured out exactly who had been shooting at whom.

Kolker stood up and turned around. He was smiling.

“Yeah, Hailey. She’s cuffed.” He stepped over to Sookie’s gurney and pulled the thin blanket up off her body, revealing that she was cuffed to the metal side rails, hands and ankles. A thick white gauze bandage was over her right kneecap, blood flowering out through the thick cotton. She had a similar patch across her left shoulder, the sleeve of her lavender silk blouse now cut off and lying on the floor next to the gurney.

“Nice shooting, Ms. Dean. I can only assume this was your handiwork. I can’t wait to hear about it.” He gave Hailey a thumbs-up, as he replaced the blanket.

“What happened to Tony? Is he okay?” Hailey felt sick to her stomach looking at Tony, pale and crumpled.

“We’re not totally sure yet, but we think he came looking for you, saw blood, and passed out. He’s okay, just a little case of shock.”

Hailey tried to stand, but settled for sitting when the dizziness hit. “Quick, Kolker. Call the corporate jet company. You gotta get the bathroom drain out of the plane Sookie took out to LA.”

“What plane? And why do we need a bathroom drain?”

Hailey realized they didn’t get it yet. She tried to capsulize as best she could. “Sookie took the GNE corporate jet to LA, cooked up a dinner meeting with Cassie Lake, shot her, and flew back. She colored her hair on the way. It was Sookie Downs in the passenger seat of Cassie’s car. She’s the dark-haired man . . . she’s tall enough, right?”

“She’s the man? She dyed her hair?” Kolker looked over at Sookie, who looked as if she wanted nothing more than to get her hands around Hailey’s neck.

“Yes. She’s the killer. She didn’t want to arouse suspicion, sending Tony out for a brunette wig, so she sent him to the drugstore for hair dye instead, thinking he’d never notice the shade was brunette, not bright red. Tonight, she came here to get rid of the evidence . . . the corporate jet log naming her as the only passenger, Teterboro to LAX, the same day, right after the
Harry Todd
taping. Cassie Lake gets home around 4 p.m. California time. Sookie beats her out there by taking the GNE private jet, meets her; they head to the Italian restaurant in Cassie’s car. By flying charter, she can smuggle on a gun, no metal detectors, and has the plane’s bathroom all to herself for four hours to dye her hair. They probably didn’t even check her driver’s license, much less do a firearms check.”

Kolker looked at Sookie Downs as if a light had just turned on over his head. “And speaking of the gun, it’s her father’s, from the Second World War. When you call LA, get them to process Cassie’s car seats for red particles. They’re paint . . . They’re off the gun handle. Look at it, Kolker. He must have painted it with the old lead paint while he was in Burma. I saw a picture of it in Sookie’s wine cellar . . . on the steps.”

Kolker turned and spoke quickly over his shoulder. “O’Brien, quick. Get a warrant and get out to Downs’s mansion in the Hamptons. Call Suffolk P.D. to assist. We have to get that photo before she has somebody destroy it. And seize all the computers, hard drives, search the desk, the bedroom . . . anything connected to the victims or the murders.”

“Right. I’m on it.” Paddy turned on his heel and left the room, already talking into his police radio.

Hailey went on. “And now that I think about it, have CSI go back over the floor at the rear of Fallon’s elliptical and the rear of the machine itself. There may be more red particles there, since hers wasn’t a contact wound. And, Kolker, Sookie was there in Fallon Malone’s kitchen before. I saw it in the footage Tony gave me to review for you.”

Sookie gave Tony Russo an evil-looking stare and all but hissed.

“I didn’t know!” Tony responded to Sookie’s look.

“It wasn’t that long ago . . . she’d have remembered. She was there in the kitchen. She was right in front of the service entrance. She knew how to beat surveillance, probably even where Malone kept the maid’s key.”

Kolker injected, “But, Hailey, working on the timeline, every time I spoke to Russo about his and Sookie’s whereabouts at the times of the murders, he covered for her . . .” Kolker looked confusedly over at Tony.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Tony piped in, his eyes now wide open. “I covered for her all right, but it was because she was having an affair with Derek Jacobs. I thought they were over at the Mandarin Hotel in the GNE guest suite . . . it was lie or lose my job . . . and I always pick up Sookie’s hair dye at the drugstore . . . in case she can’t get to the salon and has a root emergency . . . I don’t know anything about any
murders
!”

“I thought this was all about Noel Fryer. You mean she killed them all? Leather Stockton, Prentiss Love, Fallon Malone, Cassie Lake . . . Sookie Downs killed them all?
Why?
” Kolker was having a hard time taking it in.

“To stay on top. It’s a long story, Kolker. Just trust me, get the drain out of that plane before it’s too late. I guarantee you, there
will be
brunette hair dye in it. And it’ll match any hair you manage to pull out of Cassie Lake’s car.”

Kolker turned away and began barking orders into his police-band radio.

“And find the pilot. For all we know, he’s dead, too. She sure knows how to cover her tracks.”

The paramedics were wheeling the gurney from the room. “Bitch!
I hate you!”
Sookie Downs called it out over her shoulder. “It’ll never hold up in court . . . I’m calling my lawyers! Watch my knee, you stupid girl!” She bit the words out at the female paramedic helping to minister to her.

Just then the gurney “slipped” from the EMT paramedic’s hands and banged onto the floor.

“Oops.” The EMT said it calmly as Sookie screamed out in pain.

Once they got her down the hall and into the elevator, the room was calm. Noel Fryer continued detailing his ordeal into the camera. Hailey looked over in the corner and spotted Tony sitting up whispering furiously into his cell phone, shielding his words by holding his left hand over his lips and the phone. Even as he spoke, the pictures changed on the bank of flat-screens mounted on Noel’s wall.

Instantly, the images switched from another political talk show with shots of the president walking across the lawn of the White House to a waiting helicopter. They suddenly cut from the White House lawn to shots of Cassie Lake singing and playing the piano on
The
Harry Todd Show,
then to her murder scene, cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, suspended in the air and dancing up and down in the night breeze.

The lower third of the screen was now covered with a huge red banner that screamed,
Breaking News! Suspect, Hamptons Socialite, in Custody for Cassie Lake Murder! Implicated as D-List Serial Killer!

Hailey immediately jerked her head away from the screen to glare over accusingly at Tony Russo. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.

THERE IT WAS. HE HEARD IT AGAIN. IT WAS DEFINITELY A THUMP.
Downstairs.

Before Scott Anderson could roll over and turn on his bedside light, he felt hands jerk him out of his bed and throw him face-down on the bedroom carpet.

The carpet’s blue fibers burned his face as he was dragged a few feet away from his bed. He felt cold steel of handcuffs snap into place around his wrists, now forced behind his back.

“I don’t have anything! Take my wallet, it’s on the dresser by the bed. I’ve got two flat-screens, they’re all yours. The keys to the BMW are in the kitchen, take it . . . I won’t tell a soul, just don’t hurt me!” Anderson screamed it down into the carpet crushing into his mouth.

He felt a swift kick to his right leg.

“Moron. We’re not a robbing crew. We don’t want your car or your wallet. We wanna know why you murdered Fallon Malone and Prentiss Love. Why’d you put a bullet in their heads? Why’d you kill Leather Stockton?
She played a cop. Did you know that? Leather Stockton played a cop! And you killed her!
”

He got another kick to the shin. “And why’d you have to kill Cassie Lake? She’s a mom, for Pete’s sake . . . a mom!” Another kick landed on his hip and Scott Anderson grunted out loud.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by the shoulders, lifted up off the ground, and thrown back down on the bedroom floor, this time face-up. The bedroom lights were all on now and instead of looking up at home invaders wearing ski masks, he saw a gang of uniformed cops towering over him, all talking loudly at once. One was standing over near the door, reading a
Miranda
card out loud.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”

The cop kept reading out loud although no one, including Scott Anderson, could really hear him over the other cops yelling down toward the floor at him. Suddenly, one of the cops with hands the size of Virginia hams yanked Anderson up off the floor as if he was as light as a pillow. Dragging him by the arms into the den, the cop then tossed him into a sitting position onto his pit group.

Anderson was so scared, a wet spot spread across the front of his boxers. The cops looked disgusted as the urine soaked Anderson’s shorts.

“Okay, you little freak . . . Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?” Anderson couldn’t comprehend what they wanted him to say. “All I did was sleep with Fallon Malone . . . that’s it . . . I swear to God!”

The big cop bitch-slapped him right across the face with the back of his hand.

“Don’t you even say her name, you rich-boy perv! Now tell us . . . Why’d you do it? And why’d you follow Prentiss Love to the Javits Center; we saw you in the TV footage, you little freak, staring at her, practically drooling. It’s all on video.”

“I wasn’t at the Javits Center . . .”

“Yes, you were! Don’t lie! It was two years ago in the summer. We
saw
you, Anderson. Stop lying. You were there, stalking Prentiss Love!”

“Okay! I was there! I was there! But it was to see Phil Niekro! Not Prentiss Love! I got a signed baseball! It’s in my sock drawer! I swear to God! Go look!”

“BS! You don’t deserve to even say Niekro’s name! Give me one stat on Niekro and I won’t shove your mouth down your throat, just one!”

Scott Anderson’s heart was racing and his face was dripping in sweat. “Knuckleball! Knuckleball!” His voice came out high-pitched like a woman’s.

“That doesn’t count! Any idiot could say that!” The cop drew back the big ham at the end of his arm but this time it was balled into a fist. Just before he rammed it into Anderson’s nose, a cop in the corner with his radio to one ear yelled out, “Stop! Wait a minute! It’s not him! He didn’t do it!”

The big cop hulking over Anderson looked disappointed, but still holding his fist wound back, mid-air, he yielded and didn’t land the punch still aimed at Anderson’s face.

“They got the killer downtown. It’s a woman, believe it or not. Some nutso TV producer. Whatever . . . It’s not him.”

The big cop still held Anderson pinned with his fist pulled back. “I don’t believe it. This creep did something . . . I feel it.”

“Oh yeah, he’s a perv, all right. You ought to see the porn collection he’s got hidden in his closet. But he did get the baseball.” One of the rookies stepped into the doorway to the den. He held up a baseball. Niekro’s signature was scrawled across it in blue ink.

“Damn.” The big cop, obviously disappointed, let go of Anderson, who fell back down into the deep brown cushions of his beloved pit group. Another cop rolled Anderson over and uncuffed him.

“I would say we’re sorry, Anderson, but to tell you the truth, you got off easy. We know about that restraining order that girl had against you. And we know all about your wife calling the cops when you smacked her and threatened her. Her face was a mess. And it wasn’t the first time, either . . . you piece of crap.”

They all stood looking at him and for the first time, Scott Anderson realized somebody saw through him . . . saw through the manners, the good looks, the bleached teeth, the scratch golf game. He said nothing back.

The cops filed out of his den, through the arched door to the living room, and out the front door, shutting it behind them when they left.

Anderson looked around. Everything was the same, nothing was out of place. How they’d gotten in was a mystery, and if he didn’t have a carpet burn on his right cheek and a bruise growing on his shin, he’d never have believed what just happened.

He looked at the digital clock glowing green on top of his cable box. It was 1 a.m. Scott Anderson pulled himself out of the deep cushions of his leather pit group, stood up, and headed back to his bedroom to change his underwear.