“I don’t trust her,” said Heather.
Steve swept his cane side-to-side as he stepped from the elevator onto carpet with a loud paisley print. “Keep an open mind. We’re on the front end of this. We have three of Vic’s classmates to interview before Detective Tubbs rides in on his sway-back horse.”
“No, we have four.”
“Who’s the fourth?”
“Michelle Chan-Stewart’s husband, Dirk.”
After knocking on the door of a room on the tenth floor she leaned into Steve. “Her name is Badrah Patel.”
Introductions and the mention of working in coordination with the police gained Heather and Steve entrance into a hotel room of modest size in comparison to what they’d just left. “I see your room adjoins another. Is one of your classmates staying there?” asked Heather.
“I could care less,” replied Badrah.
Heather couldn’t help but be startled by the differences between the curvaceous woman they’d already spoken with and the angular one that directed them to sit on a pair of matching chairs. Badrah faced them in a small office chair, her posture rigid.
“I expected a police detective, not private detectives,” said Badrah Patel as she read their business card. The lilt in her voice indicated English was not her only language.
Steve placed his cane beside his chair. “Both Ms. McBlythe and I are former police detectives. We’re here to do some background work that will make it easier on my former partner, Detective Vega. He’ll be by later today to interview you. The more information we can give him, the fewer questions he’ll have to ask.”
Badrah leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Please make your questions concise. I hate to waste time.”
“Very well. Did you kill Victor Yancy?” asked Steve.
“No.”
“Is his death the result of an accident?”
“I don’t know.”
Heather looked for a reaction. The woman’s face appeared as a mask of stone. She didn’t seem the least offended by the questions or the accusation behind them, but the staccato answers indicated deception by omission.
“Do you know anyone who wanted to harm or kill Victor?” asked Steve.
“No.” She paused, and her eyes darted once to the left before she returned her focus on Steve. “I will say that Victor was a very wealthy and opinionated man. He was a difficult person to work with in high school, and he didn’t improve with age.”
“You stayed in contact with Victor after high school?”
“Some. I did contract work for him last year. He hired me to recheck the mathematic calculations on various inventions he was developing.”
“Did you see or speak to Victor any time yesterday or last night?”
“Yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
“He invited me to dinner.”
She evaded that question.
“Did you go?”
“Yes.”
“Did he keep the date?”
“It wasn’t a date. He came and we talked briefly.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Heather interrupted. “Would you rather have an overweight, cranky police detective handcuff you and take you downtown for questioning?”
Badrah looked like a middle-eastern statue come to life. She turned her sharp gaze to Heather full-on. “I do not frighten easily, Ms. McBlythe.”
Steve jumped in. “If you frighten easily or not isn’t the issue. A refusal to cooperate with the police can, and probably will, result in them detaining you. That means handcuffs, a ride in the back seat of a none-too-clean car or van, and having to hire an attorney. That’s not to mention the police woman that will give you a very thorough pat down. You’ll learn what groping means.”
“I’ve done nothing to warrant that kind of treatment.”
“Ms. Patel,” said Steve in his calm voice. “There’s an old saying among cops. ‘You can beat the rap, but you can’t beat the ride.’”
Heather nodded. “The ride need not be necessary, Ms. Patel, if you cooperate within reason.”
“What is within reason? Victor and I discussed issues of a very sensitive nature, things that have the potential to be worth hundreds of millions of dollars. I can’t have those things in a police report.”
“If they ask, tell them you discussed confidential business,” said Steve.
“And will that satisfy them?”
“No, but it will keep you out of handcuffs.”
“Did you hear a scream last night?” asked Heather.
“Yes.”
“Did you look to see what it was?” asked Steve.
“I went to the balcony and saw a body on the sidewalk below.”
“Did you know it was Victor Yancy?”
“No. It’s ten floors down.”
“Did you see anyone else on the balconies?”
“No.”
Heather jumped in. “Patel, that’s a common Indian name. What does your first name mean?”
Badrah gave a nod of acknowledgement. “You are well informed.”
Heather issued a nod of her own.
“To answer your question, Badrah means full moon. It can also mean to be early, ahead of the others.”
“The second meaning fits you,” said Heather. “You finished high school at sixteen, completed your Bachelor’s degree in three years, and earned a Ph.D. in mathematics by the time you were twenty-three.”
Badrah tilted her head. “Your parents should have named you something better suited for you. Do I detect an Ivy League education, Ms. McBlythe?”
“Princeton.”
“Ah, yes. I thought so. I also suspect you’ve always eaten your meals with a silver spoon. You have the looks and bearing of an advertiser’s ideal American woman.”
The comments had shards of broken glass in them.
“Do I detect a note of jealously?” asked Steve.
“Regret,” said Badrah. “My dream in high school was to go to MIT. Alas, I could not make it happen.”
“Why not?”
Badrah could not have sat any straighter if she had a metal rod for a backbone. Her sharp features became sharper with the clenching of her teeth. “My family disowned me when I was sixteen. They also wrote to the universities I’d applied to and withdrew my applications. By the time I realized what they’d done, it was too late to reapply. I had to work to support myself for a year while I used the scholarship monies I’d received to attend a local junior college. Top universities are not impressed with junior college transfers.”
“But you made it to Stanford, didn’t you?” asked Steve.
“It took me too long.” Her gaze had sparks of flint hitting steel.
They had pressed Badrah hard enough to get a strong reaction. Steve kept going. “Was Victor Yancy the reason your family disowned you?”
“No!” snapped Badrah. The granite persona returned. “I alone am to blame.”
“Tell us what happened between you two.”
“You either already know or you’re smart enough to figure it out.”
The room grew quiet. Heather broke the silence by saying, “It’s my understanding your culture practices arranged marriages. You lost much more than your choice of college, didn’t you?”
Badrah stood with chin raised and defiance lacing her words together. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I learned to stand on my own and not be enslaved by outdated customs and traditions.” She took a step toward the door. “Unless you have questions to ask me about the murder of Victor Yancy, I’m through with this conversation.”
Steve remained seated. “Did two uniformed officers question you?”
“Yes, a short time ago.”
“Did they tell you Victor’s death was a murder?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know?”
“Simple geometry. Ask your debutante from Princeton to explain.” Badrah took another step toward the door. “I’ll bid you good-day.”
Heather found herself in the hallway with Steve’s hand on her shoulder. He issued a tongue-in-cheek, “Was it something I said?”
“That’s one cold fish,” said Heather. “She could have pushed Victor Yancy from that balcony and not thought a thing about it.”
“What did she look like?”
“Five foot eight inches. a hundred twenty pounds. She has a nose like a hawk, skin the color of nutmeg, and eyes as black and expressionless as a stuffed teddy bear.”
“Hmm.”
Heather opened her mouth to suggest they find the next person on their list when Cassie New emerged from room 10157. She whispered to Steve. “It’s time for lunch.”
“We ate not more than forty-five minutes ago.”
She ignored his comment and said, “Excuse me, Ms. New? Would you mind if we treated you to lunch?”