Havoc-on-Hudson (5 page)

12

Christina Hernandez-Asprino didn’t want to end up like Princess Diana. Having just fired her chauffeur/bodyguard because she’d smelled alcohol on his breath once too often, she was on the lookout for a new man-of-all-work to take on both roles in a sober condi
tion.

Christina was a native of Caracas, but, early on, that city had become too provincial for her. Oh, yes, it boasted sky-high glass-walled buildings and tourists from many countries. Of course, tourism flourished—or waned—depending on the political situation. (There’s nothing more unappealing to travelers than military bunkers surrounding a city and soldiers with shouldered guns at the doors of luxury ho
tels.)

A six-foot-tall Latina beauty, Christina had been voted Miss Caracas, 2005, and although she hadn’t made the final cut for Miss Venezuela, she had been discovered by a top agent and flown to New York to receive a modeling contract. Once in America, which she called a “sweet poison,” she returned to her homeland only occasionally to visit aging relatives. She liked America’s poison all too
well.

Then, in Las Vegas as a showgirl, she landed the best contract of all: Raul Henriquez, the celebrity racing car driver married her weeks into a whirlwind courtship. Unfortunately, their marriage came to a sad ending when, after only a few months, Raul died in a Monte Carlo grande prix. But, fortunately for her, Raul, the only child of a Venezuelan millionaire, left Christina a huge estate. Also, fortunately, she had a wise attorney. Although she was long on beauty, the woman was charmingly short on common sense—especially when it came to predatory men. Her attorney thought it prudent for Christina to find a sensible bodyguard to look after her on a daily basis, but she didn’t like any of the candidates at the agencies he recomme
nded.

In the building where she now lived in Manhattan, an underground garage boasted an appealing parking valet. He was a tall, strong fellow, good-looking and always very respectful. His name was Nicky, and she queried the manager of the garage about him. It seemed Nicky was a really good driver. Her attorney checked his credentials including whether he had a criminal record of any kind. Nicky Pardo was found to be c
lean.

So, Christina hired
him.

Nicky Pardo, aka Daniel Joseph Farrell, went to work for Christina Hernandez-Asprino feeling as high as if he’d just won the lottery. He’d been doing a little of this, a little of that, from driving farm tractors to swabbing out stables at race tracks. Buying his new identity from a drifter he’d met somewhere along the highways had been worth every penny it had cost
him!

But, Danny Joe had a bigger dream: he planned to become a high-class escort, the kind who took rich ladies to concerts and parties. The kind who took them to bed. The kind who took them for everything they had. In Juvie, he’d watched enough TV to know how a sophisticated man should look, should dress, should behave. He saved every cent he earned in the backsides of race tracks, until he had enough to get himself to Manhattan, enough to buy a decent wardrobe, piece by piece, enough to rent a room to keep that wardrobe in. He was handsome, smart, glib, and he knew how to use his blue eyes, his respectful but fascinated sky-blue masculine gaze, to drive any woman wild. It wasn’t that he especially liked women, because he didn’t. But he was instinctively good at charming them—it was the only talent he had. He planned to use that talent to get him out of the sewer and head him right to the
top.

13

Each time I closed my eyes, I envisioned the nightmarish scene in the whirlpool tub. Each repetition of that vision was accompanied by yet another wave of nausea. But the worst part had been learning the identity of the victim of this brutal crime: Amy Honeywell, a local broker—part girl, mostly barracuda. Amy had stepped on a lot of toes along the way, making plenty of enemies, yet no one deserves to be murdered—and especially to die the way that poor woman had.

Each time I opened my eyes, I was still in Chief Betsy’s office at the Hudson Hills Police Department. It was almost midnight, when the guys from homicide finally left, but Betsy had asked me to stay, along with the Mullers. I sank my weary head and aching shoulders into her soft brown leather chair. Sue Muller sat on the sofa with David, asleep with her head on his shoulder. I don’t remember ever feeling so physically and mentally drained. Of course, I had never before seen a brutally murdered person, or been questioned by the police for so many hours. Nor for any time at all, for that matter!

Plus, I was barefoot. The forensic team had taken my shoes to the crime lab—they wanted to remove glass and blood samples imbedded in the soles. Andrew had brought comfortable flats from home for me to wear in place of those wildly expensive Ferragamos. I didn’t think I’d ever want to put them on my feet again!

When Andrew appeared in the massive oak-framed doorway of Chief Betsy’s office, my favorite soft leather loafers dangling from two fingers, I’d managed a wan smile. “Thank God you happened to be in town, Andrew. I’d be limping up my driveway in bare feet if you hadn’t.” I sighed happily, picturing him by my side for the rest of the questioning—sort of like a twenty-first-century Perry Mason.

Andrew strode toward me and let the shoes fall. They landed on the rug with two soft thuds. He took both my hands in his. “I’d never let that happen, Sweetie,” he said. “But, listen, I can’t stay—I have to get back to the city tonight. I do hate to leave you, but I have an absolutely crucial breakfast meeting in the morning.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed.

He didn’t note my distress. “More important, I don’t think Sue Muller has the stamina to take Metro North home at this late hour. And David’s in worse shape than she is! I’ll drive them home, drop them off at their apartment on the way to mine.” He lowered his voice. “She’s so close to her delivery time, it wouldn’t be responsible for me to put her on that rackety train.

He was right. I nodded in wan agreement.

“But,” he went on, “you can call her tomorrow and talk about the house deal then.”

I gazed up at him, speechless.
The house deal! After seeing a body in her bathtub, Sue Muller would never want to hear from me a
gain!

He bent down and kissed me. “You’re exhausted. Go home. Rest.” Then he whispered in my ear, “I love you, my beautiful Maggie. Sorry you have to deal with all of this.”

Standing up, his hand still on my shoulder, he concluded, “I’ll call you first thing tomorrow.” He nodded, businesslike at Chief Betsy, rallied the Mullers, who were still dozing on the sofa, and left the office.

My hero!
I thought, sardonically.

A half hour later, the Chief was still writing up her report. I shifted in the soft chair—it was an effort to move, even that little. But I stayed because every once in awhile she needed to ask me a question. It was three o’clock before she finally called in a patrolman to drive me home.

After today’s ghastly experience, my shingled Victorian, on a knoll overlooking the calm waters of the river felt welcoming. Andrew had thoughtfully left lights on in the house and on the garden walk for my return. Once inside—even though it was the middle of the night—the first thing I did was to call Claire to tell her about Amy.

She took the news hard. “I liked Amy! She may have been a bitch, but she was so alive. I just can’t believe someone could kill her!” Claire said, her voice catching in a sob. “What an awful tragedy! And right here in Hudson Hills, too!”

14

I’d always loved Hudson Hills, but in the days immediately after Amy Honeywell’s murder the atmosphere in town was either grossly titillating or sickeningly morbid. Everyone was in denial that the murder had anything to do with the rapist we’d previously obsesssed about. The local paper quoted a psychologist at Westchester Community College who said that serial rapists very rarely murder their victims. Otto Schultz at Otto the Butcher insisted that either Amy’s husband or lover had killed her. Luigi Caruso at Caruso’s Italian deli was making book as to which one it was—husband or lover. The odds were two to one for the husband. Josie’s Café, the coffee house on Main Street, was gossip central, standing room only; Amy’s horrid murder kept the coffee brewing, the cappuccino machine steaming, and the old-fashioned cash register dinging. But the realty offices in town were, for a change, quiet, sober places: the one undeniable common denominator between the first two attacks and, now, Amy’s murder, was that all three victims had been licensed real estate agents. There was no getting away from that.

And there was no getting away from the murder. It was all over the news. Fox News reported that Amy had a secret life, a love affair with a married man. That was a rumor that many real-estate colleagues had heard, had greeted with some credulity, but had seldom voiced.

Amy’s husband was being questioned. Word got around fast; he’d been seen by both the Methodist minister and the kindergarten teacher—two unimpeachable sources—stepping out of a police cruiser and being ushered into Hudson Hills Police Station. Then an unnamed “person of interest,” probably her lover, was also called in for questioning. Several locals reported seeing him—wearing a Borsalino hat—but since nobody knew who the man was or what he looked like—or even if the lover was a man—I took that news with a grain of salt. But, oh, what juicy scandal! Hudson Hills was abuzz!

And Chief Betsy wanted to keep me in the loop, because I was so well placed to ask “casual” questions. The time of the murder being critical to the investigation, I called Carmen, the woman who ran the local cleaning service. Her crew had finished their work cleaning what had come to be known as the “murder house” at 10:30 a.m., and they’d made sure all doors and windows were secured before they left the premises. However, I had found one of the doors to the patio unlocked when I got there at 5:00 p.m. And at some point within that time frame—from 10:30 to 5:00—a good six and a half hours—Amy had been murdered.

Chief Betsy had retrieved Amy’s date book from her leather case at the murder scene and turned it over to the D.A.’s office. It noted an 11 a.m. appointment and a reminder to meet her client directly at the property, but there was no name written next to the time slot. Who else but that client could have killed her there? To obfuscate things, the killer had locked the front door and left the house through that patio door.

But, then, for all we know, someone other than her mysterious client might have gained access to the house in the brief period after the cleaning service left and before Amy and her client arrived. And he certainly could have hidden himself there until after the client left. The murderer might be a local. Or he—and, in public opinion, it was most definitely a he—might have taken the train to Hudson Hills from just about anywhere and walked to the house from the station—nothing in Hudson Hills is very far from anything else. Plus, the Old Croton Aqueduct runs behind the property the “murder house” is on, and many people use that walking trail as a shortcut to the station.

Amy’s Lexus, still in the driveway when I’d arrived at 5 p.m., had by now been driven away by the police. Surely, they’d checked for other tire marks in the driveway; I’d been the only agent after Amy who ended up showing the house. The other appointments had been scheduled for later in the evening, and were, of course, cancelled, yellow police tape circling the entire perimeter of the property.

“I always caution my agents to first meet new clients at our office,” Sally Whitten, the manager at Amy’s office told Mike, the cop, tapping her manicured, blood-red, fingernails nervously on the black leather desk pad. “They’re required to sign a NYS disclosure form at the first substantive meeting anyway, and it gives the agent, and others present in the office, the chance to size up these people.”

“What’s a disclosure form, Ma’am?” Mike asked Sally. (At Chief Betsy’s suggestion, I’d casually dropped in on local real-estate agents at the precise moment Mike was scheduled to show up to question them. I guess Betsy thought I could provide expert knowledge to catch my colleagues out in any evasions or prevarications.)

“It’s a law that requires a real-estate broker to declare who she represents,” Sally explained. “In fact, since we first learned about the rapist, we’ve been asking new clients for an I.D. and now attach a copy to the disclosure for our files. Poor Amy should have followed normal procedure. At this point, when it really matters, we don’t know anything at all about the people she was to meet at the house.”

Hmm, I thought, if Amy had followed the protocol, she might still be alive.

15

“A Mighty Fortress is our God, our hope for years to come,” the congregation sang. “Our shelter from the stormy blast, and our eternal home.” On the word
home
, the All-Saints-Episcopal-Church-of-Hudson-Hills organist held the note so long my singing voice almost ran out of song.

The sanctuary was packed. River-town real-estate agents, soberly clad in black and navy blue, were well-represented, and were also probably responsible for the ostentatious displays of Calla lilies that packed the nave and threatened to choke the mourners with their cloying scent. I reminded my little inner list-maker, In Funeral Preparation Instructions: Number One:
Lose the li
lies!

It was a week after the murder, the forensics had been completed, and the police had released Amy’s body to her family for burial. The funeral was now being held at All-Saints, the most picturesque house of worship in this picturesque town.

I sat in a mahogany pew toward the back of the large nineteenth-century-Gothic stone church, with its long aisles and decorative finials, so I could get a good look at the entire gathering—my own initiative, not Chief Betsy’s. Betsy had been avoiding me lately, probably because I’d become obsessed with finding Amy’s killer. That wasn’t because I’d been fond of Amy—I hadn’t—but because she was the third broker to be attacked in the past few months. During the service I found my mind wandering, still troubled by the fact that local agents were being targeted for rape—and now, murder. Who’s next? I wondered.

I did hope it wasn’t me; Andrew would be heartbroken.

Many of the funeral attendees were known to me: Sally Whitten from Amy’s office, wearing, instead of sober black, a spiffy red suit and not looking terrifically broken-up; Chief Betsy, of course, dressed in civvies—a stunning gold-and-brown African inspired print dress—for the occasion and sneaking sidelong glances at Amy’s husband; Amy’s family, her stoic husband, Frank Honeywell and two gangly teenage daughters. Just about everyone I’d expected to see was there, and more, their low-key, but pricey, attire marking them as local residents.

Then my glance fell on Doc Bondi, the retired vet, tanned and wearing a green sport jacket over his golf regalia. Note to Self:
Call Lily Gould to follow up on her interest in former Veterinary Hospital.
I had to get that property back into play.

When a tall man wearing a brown felt Borsalino slouch hat passed by my pew, my heart gave a little leap. The Lover! Then the man’s female companion elbowed him in the ribs and hissed something, and he snatched off the hat—his wife then. Directly behind him came another man in a Borsalino, a yellow straw fedora, this time.

Oh.

With a brief intro from the organ, we once again launched into song. “Jerusalem, my happy home,” the congregation intoned. Who chooses these songs? I wondered.

Amy’s daughters were weeping now. Was it the
happy home
lyrics that had gotten to them—their happy home gone forever. Or—I took a second look at the girls, now dabbing tissues to their eyes—were they even weeping at all? Maybe, like me, they were simply allergic to lily pollen.

I sneezed, earning a look of disapproval from an attractive young man who’d come in late and sat at the end of my back row. Now
he
didn’t look local, with his longish dark hair pulled back in a tight bun at the nape of his neck. That, along with the unstructured oatmeal linen jacket and high-end black jeans, made him look more Downtown than River-town. One of Amy’s younger conquests, I assumed.

The service was short and the eulogies perfunctory; Amy had never seemed like a churchgoer to me. By the time we launched into the final hymn, “How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place,” it finally hit me: our eternal home, our happy home, how lovely is thy dwelling place. All the hymns had been about Real Estate!

Amy was still selling!