CHAPTER FIFTEEN

TO THE SLAUGHTER

The temperatures dropped as scattered clouds blocked the late afternoon sun. Maggie Reardon sat at her desk finishing up the day’s paperwork. She held hope that Misty Waters would call the number on the card. The woman’s eyes held less fear. And there was a faint glimmer of, what was it, hope? Despite not having yet solved the Armando Salazar murder, Maggie had accomplished something important. Something good. She leaned back in her chair, satisfied.

“Hey Irish.”

“Montana.”

“Man, you’re face looks like raw hamburger,” he said, eyeing her bruises.

“You come to gloat?”

“No, actually I’m here to call a truce.”

“A truce?”

“We’re fighting on the same team, Maggie. I want to apologize for giving you a hard time. I didn’t really mean anything by it.”

“It sounds like a bit of Aaron Iverson is rubbing off on you.”

He shrugged.

“I’m willing to put it behind me if you are,” she said.

“Friends, then?”

“Let’s not go that far, not yet anyway.”

“That’s a start.”

* * * *

Prowler sat on Maggie Reardon’s lap while she ate a donut and watched the early morning news. The cat licked up the powdered sugar that sifted onto her bathrobe. The heat had dropped ten degrees and there was a vague reference to rain in the forecast. It wasn’t carved in stone, the weather never was, but it was a step in the right direction.

“This is a tough one,” she said to the cat. “I thought Misty Waters was hiding something, but she was hiding from something. I doubt that she’s our perp. The two drugged up hippies don’t have motive.”

Prowler meowed.

“I know, I could’ve busted them for drug paraphernalia and I suppose I could have even busted Mary Rose, but why bother? No harm, no foul really. Jake and Mouse have enough problems and Mary Rose, well, I like her. So would you. You might even like her cat.”

Prowler settled into her lap.

“Calypso is too much of a scatterbrain,” she rambled on out loud, “although it wouldn’t be impossible. So that leaves Belinda Blume, Paloma Blanca, and maybe Rocco La Crosse.” There’s those little butterflies again, she thought, dismissing them. “If Barbara Atwell had motive I can’t figure it. Adrian Velikson definitely had motive. The oldest in the book. And then there’s always the unknown. The random element. But we’re narrowing things down.”

Maggie jumped when the cell phone rang. She reached over to the side table and picked up.

It was forensics.

“Reardon here.”

“I’ve got some results for you, Detective Reardon. Toxicology came back. Armando Salazar had traces of cocaine in his system and his blood alcohol was 0.10, so he was definitely flying high. And we were able to pull a few partials from the largest clay shard.”

“That’s great,” she said. The break she’d been waiting for. The prints wouldn’t necessarily be that of the killer but it was more likely than not. They’d only had a few pieces of clay to work with but they were, after all, fragments from the murder weapon.

The other end of the phone was silent.

“Yes?” Maggie said.

“We got matches on both prints.”

Maggie pushed the cat off her lap. She reached over for her notepad and pen and began writing.

Two suspects, two motives.

One dead body.

* * * *

“I’ll get it,” Barbara Atwell said to Adrian. “It’s probably another nosy neighbor. That yellow tape really brought the vultures out to feed.” When she answered the door she was surprised to see the detective standing there.

“I hope this visit means you’ve caught my Armando’s killer,” she said as she ushered Maggie inside. “I’ll never rest until he’s caught.”

“We’re close,” Maggie said, observing the exchange of glances between Barbara and Adrian.

“A cup of coffee?” Adrian offered.

“I could use one, thanks,” she said. “Black.”

Adrian retreated to the kitchen and came back with a steaming mug, hands trembling as she handed it to the detective. Maggie pretended she hadn’t noticed and let the hot liquid burn across her tongue and down her throat, then leaned back in her chair.

“We’ve lifted a few prints from the murder weapon. Or what was left of it,” she said.

Again the two women exchanged glances.

“The murder weapon?” asked Barbara.

“We can go into that later. Adrian, would you mind coming down to headquarters with me? I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

“Detective Reardon! Are you arresting her?” Asked Barbara, alarm in her voice. “You can’t possibly—“

”Barbara, be quiet, I can handle this,” said Adrian.

“No, I’m not arresting her. There’s just a few things we need to clear up.”

“And if she chooses not to go?”

“I can get a warrant, come back, cuff her and take her anyway.”

“Barb, I told you I can handle this.” Adrian shot a look at her that said shut up.

The two women definitely knew something.

“I’d appreciate your cooperation, Adrian. We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way.”

Adrian Velikson looked down at the floor and ran her hands through her short hair. Barbara leaned over and put her arms around her. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “Just tell her no.”

Adrian pulled away from her and stood up.

“I’m ready to cooperate with you any way I can,” she said, holding out her tattooed arms. “Do you need to cuff me?”

“You’ve been watching too much television. We’re just going to talk.”

“Let’s go then.”

“I want to come along.”

“Stay here, Barbara. I’ll be right back.”

Barbara Atwell watched from the window and when the car pulled away, she retrieved her key to the gallery and walked down the stairs. Memories of Armando drenched in his own blood flooded over her as she entered the room.

Life would never be the same.

She sat at her desk and fished through the file drawer, then retrieved a stack of papers. She sorted through them and settled on the last page. She rose and walked through the rooms of The Mosaic Gallery, at the walls, the paintings, at a lifetime of work. She walked back to her desk and sat down. She picked up her pen, wrote something on the document and carried it with her as she walked back up the stairs.

* * * *

Detective Maggie Reardon walked Adrian Velikson down the long hallway at the police station. Jerry Montana spotted her and rushed up, pulling her aside.

“What is it, Montana? If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little busy right now.

“I was just wondering,” he whispered, “if you need somebody to help you play good cop/bad cop.”

“I’ve got it under control,” she said, “but thanks. I’ll buzz you if it comes to that.”

“I’m really good at playing bad cop.” He smiled, and walked away.

She led Adrian through the door, shutting it behind them.

Detective Maggie Reardon and Adrian Velikson sat across the table from each other in the interrogation room. Maggie turned on the tape player to record their conversation. She looked up at the corner of the ceiling to double-check that the video camera had been activated. It’s red light winked back at her. Adrian stared at her hands then looked around the room.

“I’ve asked some of these questions before, but I’d like to go over them again. Why don’t we start with your relationship with Barbara Atwell.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What do you want to tell me?”

“You know everything, detective. We’re friends. We’re soul mates.”

“And her marriage to Armando?”

“I learned to accept it.”

“The night of the reception, what time did you leave?”

“When it closed, I’ve already told you.”

“And you went straight home?”

“Yes.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“Not unless you want to count the gang-wannabees that hang out in front of my apartment building. I doubt you’d consider them credible witnesses.”

“And the last time you saw Armando?”

“When I found him dead. Detective, you should be looking for someone intent on robbing the gallery. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“It might if something had been stolen.”

“The Gaia statue was stolen,” she said.

“Before we continue I need to inform you that you have the right to an attorney,” Maggie said and reeled off the Miranda Rights to the woman across from her. “Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“And you’re willing to continue?”

“Yes.”

“I think you know who the murderer was.”

Adrian fidgeted, shifted her weight, looked around the room to avoid eye contact with Maggie. Then she straightened up in her chair.

“I killed him,” she said.

That wasn’t the response Maggie had expected. Not yet anyway. The tough little woman folded like she’d been under water torture, catching Maggie by surprise.

“Because?” she asked.

“I was tired of sharing, you can understand that. He was in the way. Is that all?” Her voice was controlled, her demeanor calm.

This was easy. Maybe too easy.

“The murder weapon?”

“What?”

“What did you use to kill him?”

“I hit him over the head. Hard.”

“With what?”

“I can’t remember,” she said. “It all happened so fast.”

“We have your prints on the murder weapon,” Maggie said.

“Well, I just told you I killed him, didn’t I?”

“But you can’t remember with what?”

“I guess you’ll have to refresh my memory. Better yet, why don’t you just book me and get this over with? I’ve held this inside long enough. I’ve confessed and I’m ready to accept my punishment. That’s all you need.” Then she added: “I’m tired of talking to you, detective.”

“Just one more question,” Maggie said.

There was a knock on the interrogation room door.

“Just a minute,” Maggie said as she rose and crossed the room.

When she opened the door Jerry Montana stood there.

“Could you come out here for a minute?” he asked.

“I hope this is important.”

“Oh, it’s interesting,” he said with his usual smirk.

“Stay put Adrian,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Do I look like I’m going anywhere?” she said, looking up at the surveillance camera.

Maggie stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

“What is it, Jerry?”

“We’ve got a real looker up at the front desk. Tall, pretty blonde says she needs to talk to you. Name’s Barbara Atwell. That’s your widow from the gallery, isn’t it?”

Maggie nodded.

“Anyway, she’s all frantic and says it’s important. I told her you were busy, but—”

Detective Reardon headed for the front desk and Jerry followed, not wanting to miss any of the action. Heck, maybe he could end up consoling the grieving widow, who knows?

“Barbara, I’m busy right now,” Maggie said to her. “If you could wait here, I’ll get to you shortly.”

“This can’t wait, detective.”

“Why?”

“I need to see Adrian. And I have something I need to tell you.”

“Let’s go then, but this had better be important.”

Maggie motioned Jerry Montana to back off and give her some space. He watched as the two women walked down the hall to the interrogation room. Adrian turned and rose from her chair as Barbara rushed through the door and embraced her.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Adrian said.

“Enough is enough.”

“But I’ve already told her what happened.” She held Barbara firmly by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I already confessed, so please. Just. Go. Home.”

“You two ladies need to sit down,” said Maggie as she pulled up a chair for Barbara. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

The two of them sat.

“Just shut up,” said Adrian to Barbara. “It’s done.”

“No, it’s not. I can’t let you do this!”

“I already told her that I killed him.”

“Detective Reardon,” Barbara said over Adrian’s protests, “I killed Armando. It was me.”

Was Barbara protecting Adrian or was it the other way around? Maggie asked her the one question that Adrian seemed unable to answer.

“What was the murder weapon?”

“The Gaia statue,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Then why do you think we found Adrian’s prints on it?”

Barbara thought hard.

“I remember,” she said. “Belinda brought in the statue and sat it on the pedestal. I remember Adrian going over and lifting it, commenting on how beautiful it was. And how heavy. I’m sure that’s how her prints got there. As sure as I am that several other people touched it during the evening. It got a lot of attention.”

It made sense. The only other prints they were able to pull belonged to the artist, Belinda Blume. There were likely even more prints from more people, but a few small pieces were all forensics had to work with. And Barbara knew it was the murder weapon. So far, Barbara’s answers made more sense than Adrian’s but Maggie needed more. Barbara waived her Miranda Rights and chose to continue.

“Don’t do this,” Adrian said.

“I love you Adrian, it’s what I have to do.”

“I’m listening,” Maggie said. “Why don’t you start from the beginning.”

* * * *

The last of the customers left the gallery and Barbara Atwell locked the door. Armando walked over and gave her a kiss.

“I think it went well,” he said as they walked into the far room. “I sold many tonight.”

“Why don’t we go upstairs and catch up with other things?” she suggested.

“Mañana, my love, tonight I am going out for a while. And you need your sleep.”

“I’m tired of you always leaving me. Why can’t you stay home and give me what you’re giving every other female in this town?”

“I thought we had an understanding. Don’t demean yourself.”

“I’m tired of understanding.”

Armando walked over to the bar and emptied the remainder of a bottle of champagne into a glass. He drained the glass, set it down hard and looked at his watch.

“Not now. This will wait until morning.”

“No, it won’t wait,” she said, moving towards him.

He shoved her.

“We need to talk now,” she demanded.

He shoved her harder and she reeled backwards and into the shelf that held his statues. Several of them fell and broke at her feet.

“You foolish gringa! Look what you have done.”

Barbara looked down at the broken figurines, bent over and lifted one, ready to apologize. White powder poured out of the broken statue and onto the floor. Armando turned as white as the powder.

“What is this?” She dampened her finger and ran it along the inside of the piece.

“What it is is no your business,” he said.

She touched her finger to her tongue and tasted it.

“How could you do this to me! How could you do this to the gallery?”

“Is no your business,” he repeated.

“Smuggling cocaine in those stupid little statues is none of my business? No wonder they sell! You could ruin me!”

Armando shoved her again, harder this time. Barbara had never been so angry as when he came at her once more, his fist raised. She turned and picked up the Gaia statue and held it over her head.

“Don’t come any closer. I’m warning you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, laughing as he turned away.

* * * *

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Barbara said. “I worked my whole life to build up The Mosaic Gallery and he was going to ruin everything. I couldn’t let that happen. I never wanted him dead, but he was. So I swept up and threw things into the neighbor’s trash bin.”

Adrian took her hand.

“You should have let me take the blame,” she said.

“You could be charged with withholding information,” said Maggie to Adrian.

“She didn’t know until yesterday.”

“And how long has Rocco La Crosse known?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“Your best friend? I find that hard to believe.”

“I couldn’t put him in that position.”

“Being?”

“Making the choice between supporting his friend or doing the right thing.”

Maggie looked at the two women. Barbara reached into her purse, pulled out a paper and handed it to Adrian.

“What is this?” Adrian asked.

“The gallery is yours now. Yours and Rocco’s.”

“But....”

“Don’t argue, I want you to have it.”

Maggie couldn’t help but feel touched.

It wasn’t often she saw such deep love and dedication.

“I’m not a lawyer and I can’t give legal advice,” said Maggie, “but this wasn’t First Degree Murder. Not by a long shot. Call it a crime of passion or even stretch it to self-defense. Get a good enough lawyer and he can probably plea it down from there.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” said Adrian.

And Maggie knew she would.

* * * *

Drops of rain fell on the blacktop as Detective Reardon walked across the parking lot to her car. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and punched in the number.

“Hello Rocco,” she said. “This is Maggie.” She raised her head and let the welcome rain wash against her face. “If you’re still interested, I’m ready for that cup of coffee.”