Shades of Murder (The Mac Faraday Mysteries) (2 page)

“Hey, kid!”

Startled, David dropped his keys in the driveway. Out on the road, Police Officer Art Bogart laughed from the front seat of his cruiser. On his way to the station, where he was acting as Spencer’s chief, he had pulled off the road to give David a good-natured hassling.

Bogie was the oldest, and most respected, member of Spencer’s small police force. With the size and condition of a body builder, he had been challenged more than once by a cocky rookie, only to put the youngster in his place by pinning him to a mat in less than thirty seconds. In contrast to his size and strength, a heart of gold beat behind his silver shield.

“You going to work or not? Your daddy’s away, so you decided to play around and be late?”

David knelt down to pick up the keys. “I’m coming. I had to make sure everything was locked up.”

“Well, get your butt in gear, son!” Bogie called out to him from across the driver’s compartment of his cruiser. “There was an accident last night. We have a car that hit a deer on Spencer Lane, rolled, and landed in the lake.”

“Any fatalities?”

“So far we have a six-point buck. Miracle if the driver made it. No witnesses. A couple of runners found the car this morning.” He waved his arm at him. “Get a move on! Two-point-three miles down Spencer Lane toward Pelican Court. The divers should be there already.”

Bogie hit the gas pedal so hard that the tires spit gravel when he pulled out to speed down the road like he was trying to merge into rush hour traffic. On the shores of Deep Creek Lake, among the Shenandoah Mountains, he was only dealing with the rush minute.

David climbed into his police cruiser to head in the opposite direction, along the tree-lined shore road, to take him to the scene of the accident.

On Labor Day, the seasonal residents along the lake were waking up to enjoy the last breath of summer before closing up their vacation homes for winter. Meanwhile, up at the top of the mountain overlooking the lake, behind the scenes, the Spencer Inn was gearing up for snow season to start in eight weeks.

Thoughts of Spencer Inn made David’s mind wonder to that of its owner, Robin Spencer, a good family friend, which brought his mind back to that of Archie Monday.

The green-eyed blond had come to work for Robin Spencer while he was serving in Afghanistan. They had only met briefly after he had returned from overseas, before goingoff to the police academy. Now that he was back home, he considered the possibilities.

I wonder if Archie Monday likes men in uniform. Robin’ll certainly put in a good word for me.
David made a mental note to call the restaurant manager at the Spencer Inn.
He’ll know what wine would impress Archie.

Bogie’s voice burst from his radio to jar David back to reality. “Change of plans, kid! Go to the Hathaway Estate on Pelican Court instead. I’ll send Fletcher to take care of the car accident.”

David snatched the mike from the radio. “What’s at Hathaway’s estate?”

“They got a DB, kid. Dead body.”

David flipped the switch for the lights and sirens and pressed his foot on the gas pedal.

Neal Hathaway’s summer home was the only residence on Pelican Court, a secluded lane that crossed a mountain stream to cut through some thick woods. A rarely used entrance to the state park marked the other end of Pelican Court. Anyone not curious enough to travel the lane would never notice the mansion hidden behind the thick grove of trees.

The owner and CEO of Hathaway Industries lived behind a brick wall and iron gates with a brass “H” marking them. The estate’s driveway snaked down a landscaped hill to the stone house that had one of the best views on the lake.

David O’Callaghan had encountered more than his share of exposure to murder investigations. With his father being chief of police, and working with the military police in the Marines, he had been called to more than one crime scene that involved a homicide.

Such scenes had an atmosphere of somberness. Everyone, including the investigating officers, would speak in soft tones with an air of respect for those who had passed on.

This, however, was the first time that David had been called to the scene of a dead body at a multi-millionaire’s estate.

During the short time it took him to drive around the lake to the Hathaway Estate, David tried to recall what he knew about Neal Hathaway.

Self-made millionaire. Always wanted to be an astronaut. Was also a science geek. When he failed to become an astronaut, he used his talent for science and rocketry to build what was now a Forbe’s Top 100 company. Hathaway Industries was one of the government’s biggest contractors for launching and maintaining defense satellites. They were also in the race to become the first to offer private flights into outer space.

Neal Hathaway was indeed a real live rocket scientist.

Other than that, David was unsure about anything else.
Guess I’m going to find out now.

David drove through the gates and pulled his cruiser around the circular driveway to a multi-car garage with a black SUV parked in front of it. The lights and the sirens failed to break up the fight taking place next to the vehicle.

Two women were rolling on the ground with their hands in each other’s hair. Judging from the disheveled condition of their clothes and the exhausted grunts they uttered between their high-pitched curses, David surmised the fight had been going on for a while.

With a head full of curly platinum blond hair that looked like a mop, one of the women appeared to be on the losing end of the fight. The shoulder strap of the blonde’s white dress had been ripped off to expose her voluptuous breast. The rest of her garment wasn’t in a much better condition. The side seam had been ripped wide open to show a white girdle.

Even though she was winning, the blond’s opponent wasn’t in much better shape. During the course of the battle, her bright purple mini skirt had been pulled all the way up her hips to reveal that her underwear consisted of a black thong.

Several feet away, a woman dressed in a housekeeper’s uniform, was pleading for them to stop. When David brought his car to a stop, she yelled over the siren in a thick European accent. “Help, please! They’re going to kill each other.”

Turning off the lights and siren, David threw open the car door. “Okay, that’s enough. Break it up.”

Not seeming to notice him, they continued wrestling with their fingers entwined in each other’s hair.

“Give it back,” the brunette in the purple skirt grunted in an exhausted voice.

“No!”

“I said to break it up!” David rushed over to where they were fighting.

The brunette rolled over to straddle the blond and slapped her face repeatedly.

David reached down to grab the brunette around the waist and lifted her off the other woman. Screaming in a high pitch, she twisted in his arms in an attempt to break loose. As soon as she was free, the blond jumped up to her feet and charged to swing her fist at her assailant’s face. As luck would have it, the brunette dodged the blow.

David wasn’t so lucky. The blond’s fist made direct contact with his nose. His sunglasses went flying.

The stars that burst before his eyes could only be described as multi-colored brilliance. He swore he could even hear the fireworks explode inside his head. Later, he would recall with pride that even while he was stumbling after the assault that had broken his nose, which caused blood to splatter all over his white shirt, he did not lose sight of the matter at hand. Even as he was staggering around the driveway while trying to shake off the blow, he still kept hold of the brunette, who was struggling to get back into the fight.

The explosion of pain inside his head was amplified by the blast of an air horn behind him.

The brunette stopped struggling.

The women stopped shrieking.

Even the ringing in David’s ears subsided in obedience to the air horn.

“Now that I have everyone’s attention,” David heard Bogie call out from somewhere behind him. “I believe someone called 9-1-1 about a dead body.”

Like a student in a classroom answering a question, the housekeeper raised her hand. “That would be me,” she said with a thick accent. “It’s Ms. Ramsay.” She pointed up over their heads to a second floor above the garage. “Mr. Hathaway found her in her studio. Someone …” She choked. “…killed her.”

“I think you can put her down now.” Bogie stepped over to where David was still holding the brunette up off the ground with his arms around her waist. “Are you going to behave, Miss?”

For her answer, the brunette glared over at the blond.

While he retrieved his sunglasses from the grass, and a handkerchief from the cruiser to hold on his nose, David noticed that the blond was older than he had first thought. The thick nest of blond curls and voluptuous build were misleading. Up close, her face revealed lines under heavy makeup.

“She started it,” the brunette pointed at the other woman. “She was trying to make a run for it.”

“I was not,” the blond said. “I was getting my car ready to go.” She told the two officers. “I have an important meeting in Pittsburgh tomorrow that I have to get ready for. Mr. Hathaway said I could leave as soon as I give the police my statement.”

David asked, “And you are—”

“Susan Dulin. Neal Hathaway’s executive assistant.” With one hand, she tugged up on what was left to the shoulder of her dress, while adjusting her white high-heeled sandals with the other. With every move, her nest of platinum spirals spilled into her face and over her shoulders.

Seeming to notice David’s handsome form for the first time, the brunette pulled down her skirt and smoothed her hair. “I’m Rachel.” She held out her hand to him. “I hope you don’t think I’m a nut, but Susan was trying to get away; and I know that when it comes to crimes like this, the police need to question everyone.” She flashed him a grin. “I used to be a journalist.”

With a wicked grin, Susan said, “Rachel is married to Scott, Neal’s son.”

Rachel shot her a glare, which Susan returned with equal hostility.

While David made notations in his notepad, Bogie called over the housekeeper who was watching them from the other side of the SUV. “What’s your name?”

“Greta.” She cast her eyes down to the ground.

“What can you tell us?” Bogie asked her.

“Nothing,” she said. “I was cooking breakfast when Mr. Hathaway called on the intercom, and told me that his wife was dead and to call the police. After I called you, I came out here to wait.”

“Where is he?” David asked.

“He’s up there with her.” She pointed again to the upper-level of garage.

“I guess we need to go see Mr. Hathaway.” Noticing the bloody nose, Bogie asked, “What happened to you?”

David wiped his nose and examined the thick, sticky red substance on his handkerchief. The bleeding was letting up. “I got sucker punched.”

“By a girl.” Bogie laughed. “I can’t wait to tell your pa about that.”

The older officer’s radio crackled. “Hey, Bogie?”

Pressing the handkerchief to his nose, David leaned his head back to stop the bleeding.

“Yeah, Fletcher?” Bogie answered with a laugh in his voice.

“We got a problem with this car in the lake,” the officer reported. “The driver’s dead. It’s a rental car checked out by a Charles Smith at Dulles Airport yesterday. He’s got a Miami, Florida, address. Problem is that Charles Smith is alive.”

They exchanged glances. “What’s that?” asked Bogie into the radio.

Fletcher explained, “I called the phone number that the rental car company has for Charles Smith. A guy answered. He’s Charles Smith. He says that someone stole his identity months ago, and he’s been trying to straighten it out since forever. When I told him this dude was dead, he said ‘Good’.” The officer asked, “What do you want me to do? We have nothing to tell us who this guy really is.”

David cracked, “Maybe the real Charles Smith killed him.”

Hearing him, Fletcher’s voice came over the radio, “It wasn’t a homicide. At least, I don’t think it was. The buck killed him.” He chuckled. “The buck that killed him is dead, too. I guess we could call it a murder-suicide.”

Bogie said, “Get this guy’s fingerprints and run them through AFIS. If he’s an identity thief, maybe he’s in the system.”

When they climbed the stairs to the floor above the garage, David and Bogie could hear wrenching sobs coming from inside the room that appeared to be a studio apartment. The door leading into the studio was ajar.

Unsure exactly what would be waiting for them inside, they both placed their hands on their guns. Bogie eased the door open and stepped inside.

It was hard to believe that the sunny studio with a full view of the lake through the deck doors was now the scene of a bloody homicide. A kitchenette took up the far wall of the great room. A spiral staircase led upstairs to a loft.

The studio had canvases displayed on the walls and works in progress lined up on easels. Most of them were lake scenery or nature. Others were still life. A paint-covered smock lay across a stool resting before an empty easel.

On the floor, a man cradled the bloody body of a woman wrapped in a white terry-cloth bathrobe that matched his. “It’s okay, baby,” he assured her in a raspy voice while stroking the blood-soaked red curls from her face. “It’s going to be okay.”