A Slow Walk to Hell (4 page)

Enrique waited for Amanda and me by the rear gate in the pool fence. He greeted us with a smile and we shook hands. As he turned away from Amanda, his eyes dropped to her ring. I expected him to offer his congratulations on her engagement, but he never did.

Curious.

When I mentioned we’d seen Harry leaving, Enrique confirmed that he’d had the day off.

“Simon called and said to meet him here ASAP. My place is over by Balston Mall, so I got here pretty quick. About the same time as Simon.”

“Where was he tonight?” I remembered Charlie Hinkle’s comment that the Arlington PD chief of police had been trying to locate Simon.

“At a Kennedy Center concert. The chief had an usher hunt him down.” He nodded toward the cars parked along the fence. “Some response, huh, Marty? We’ve got twice the usual crime scene units. Forensics, CID, investigative support. Must be thirty people inside. Even the ME got here in under an hour. But, hey, it’s not everyday the nephew of the next president gets knocked off.” He turned and started across the decking toward the house.

As Amanda and I sidled up to him, she asked, “Who’s the ME?”

“Who else? Cantrell.”

Dr. Agatha Cantrell was the natural choice. A thirty-year veteran, she was easily the most experienced ME in the coroner’s office.

We skirted the edge of the pool. Amanda slipped me a glance which I interpreted and answered with a nod. Enrique wouldn’t take offense. You can’t be a gay cop and have thin skin.

Amanda still sounded like she had a mouthful of marbles when she said, “Ah, Enrique, there were some rumors about Major Talbot. The military is concerned whether he might be—”

“The answer is, we don’t know,” Enrique said, smiling at her awkwardness. “We haven’t turned up anything which suggests Talbot was gay.”

“You checked his computer?”

“Doing it now. The problem is Talbot had one of those programs that scrambled the internet addresses of sites he visited. That doesn’t necessarily mean much. A lot of straight people cover their tracks on the net.”

I said, “I don’t.”

He looked at me. “You’ve never visited a porn site?”

I hesitated. “Well…”

He winked. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Amanda appraised me with an amused smile. I did my best to ignore it and her.

But she kept right on smiling at me.

“Anyway,” Enrique said, thankfully changing the subject, “they’re reading his emails. Might be something there. Simon asked if I’d seen Talbot at some of the clubs. To be honest, he looked a little familiar, but I can’t swear to it. Could be I remembered him because his picture had been in the paper.”

Amanda asked if Simon had questioned the housekeeper.

“He tried. Mrs. Chang’s from China and her English is pretty poor. Finding the body also threw her for a loop. She was shaking so badly, she could barely talk. Simon had her driven home. He’ll question her tomorrow, with an interpreter.”

We were approaching the French doors and Amanda and I stopped to don latex gloves. Enrique was already wearing a pair.

“So,” he said, eyeing us, “you figure out that Major Talbot was one paranoid man.”

I said, “The electrified fence?”

“For starters. Notice that?” He pointed above our heads, to what looked like a light fixture. “That’s a video camera. There are fourteen on this property. Eight monitor the fence, six the house. All computer controlled and linked to motion sensors. Simon and I were checking out the surveillance room when you drove up. It’s a concrete box in the basement with a keypad entry system. The door’s made of steel that has to be two inches thick. You should also see the alarm system. Infrared beams on all the windows and doors. It’s even got a back-up power supply, in case the electricity was ever cut off.” Enrique shook his head. “Major Talbot didn’t screw around when it came to security. If someone did manage to get inside his house, Talbot was determined to preserve them on tape. Now the question is, what the hell was Talbot so afraid of?”

Amanda and I exchanged glances. I could tell she was getting excited and so was I.

Beating me to the punch line, she said, “With that many cameras, the killer must be on videotape.”

“Depends. We need to review the remaining tapes. Could be the killer missed one.”

Amanda and I were deflated by his response. She said, “Missed one?”

“Five tapes were removed from the video recorders. Had to be the killer. Billy Cromartie’s in the surveillance room, checking out the ones that were left.”

Amanda swore.

I was frowning, trying to understand. “But the surveillance room door. You said it had a secure entry system.”

Enrique was reaching for one of the French doors, when he turned back to me. “Right. We had to call the security company to get inside.”

“That must mean—”

“I know where you’re going, Marty. You think the killer must be someone pretty damned close to Talbot for him to have entrusted that person with the entry code. Not necessarily. We figure the killer could have obtained the code from—”

At that instant, the door flew open, striking him hard. He spun. “Dammitt. Why don’t you look where—”

A young woman rushed past us and ran over to a flowerbed at the edge of the decking. She bent over and began throwing up.

Enrique looked away from her, his annoyance fading. “Marva’s new. Worked in CID less than a month.”

Amanda said quietly, “That bad, huh?”

Enrique nodded. “That’s why we figure Talbot told the killer the entry code to the surveillance room. He wouldn’t have been able to help himself. Someone tortured the poor bastard before killing him.” He motioned us through the door with a tight smile. “Welcome to church.”

“Church?” Amanda said.

“You’ll see.”

E
nrique had exaggerated; it wasn’t a church.

But it wasn’t far off.

Amanda and I found ourselves in an open room of maroon tile and textured gold wallpaper. The proximity to the pool and the built-in wet bar suggested it was intended to be a family room, but it didn’t look like any family room we’d ever seen.

The furnishings were Victorian, heavy and somber. The sitting area consisted of several ornately carved wingback chairs spaced across from a similarly intimidating couch. Heavy tapestries and formidable gilt-framed paintings lined the room. All depicted religious scenes. An enormous mahogany curio cabinet filled with icons and symbols of the Christian faith dominated an adjacent wall. In one corner sat a life-sized statue of Jesus; in another, a smaller one of Mary.

Amanda made a slow 360. “This is…amazing.”

“Gets your attention, doesn’t it?” Enrique said, coming forward. “Talbot was a big Catholic. Almost all the rooms are decorated like this. A spare bedroom upstairs even has an altar.” He winked. “Simon must have felt right at home when he walked in.”

He was only partially kidding. Before becoming a cop, Simon had attended seminary school. He never explained why he passed on becoming a priest, but I had a pretty good guess. His father, a big Miami real estate developer, got his rocks off by strangling young girls between business deals and dumping their bodies in Biscayne Bay. Simon learned the truth when he was something like ten or eleven. Since then, it’s been the defining event in his life. He became a homicide cop not because he wanted to; he had to. In his mind, hunting down killers was the only way to atone for his father’s sins.

Amanda said to Enrique,
“Almost
all the rooms…”

He shrugged. “Several are decorated with a single gold cross. Talbot’s bedroom is the only place where I didn’t notice anything religious. Just the opposite, in fact. It’s pretty wild. C’mon. The body’s in the west wing.”

He led us through a door into a carpeted hallway. Large windows lined the left side, providing a view of the softly lit center courtyard. The hallway made a left and we passed a series of rooms: a spacious kitchen with dirty dishes in the sink, a formal dining area with a table that could seat a dozen, a music room complete with a grand piano. All contained a variety of religious images and icons. As we walked, Amanda said to me, “We can relax. Talbot’s probably straight.”

I tended to agree. Devout Catholicism and a gay lifestyle didn’t strike me as compatible.

We entered a dramatic mosaic-tiled foyer designed to resemble a Mediterranean grotto. A tapestry depicting the crucifixion hung over a bubbling faux-stone pool. On either side of the foyer were marble hallways, leading to the two wings of the house. Amanda and I gazed up the staircase, which rose to a balconied landing. Several latent-print technicians were dusting the handrails. From the second floor rooms, we could hear the sounds of voices emanating down.

“Simon’s got half the team searching Talbot’s bedroom and his office,” Enrique explained.

Amanda and I nodded; it was a given as to what Simon was hot to find.

Enrique swung toward the corridor on our right, then pulled up, frowning at Amanda. “Problem?”

She had stopped to study the oak front door. We could see the knob had already been dusted. Amanda looked at the nearest technician, a thin guy with tightly curled blond hair that looked suspiciously like Berber carpet.

“Did you dust the door knob?” she asked him.

“Yeah. Five prints. Three partials.”

Amanda nodded slowly. Assuming the killer was moderately intelligent, the fact that he hadn’t wiped the knob indicated he either hadn’t entered through the front door or had worn gloves. Probably gloves.

She glanced at Enrique. “You find signs of forced entry on any doors or windows?”

“No.”

“Major Talbot was home alone?”

“As far as we know.”

“Do you know if he went into work today or—”

“The lunch plates in the kitchen suggest he took the day off. Either that or he came home early.”

I scribbled a mental note to check with Talbot’s co-workers.

Amanda’s eyes went to an electronic keypad on the wall. “How about the alarm? Was it on or off?”

“What Simon got from Mrs. Chang was that it was off when she arrived. He couldn’t confirm with her whether Talbot usually set the alarm when he was home. Odds are he did. We also can’t rule out that the killer jumped him while he was outside.”

Amanda and I were thoughtful at this possibility.

“Anyway,” Enrique said, “Mrs. Johnson can probably tell us.” He picked imaginary lint off his suit and turned to go.

Amanda said, “Mrs. Johnson?”

Enrique was disappearing down the corridor. Amanda and I trailed after him, our heels clicking on the marble floor. We came to a game room. In addition to a pool table and a dart board, I noticed a single gold cross on otherwise bare walls.

Amanda repeated her question about Mrs. Johnson. This time Enrique answered; she was another housekeeper.

“Works part-time. Simon tried calling her, but she’s not home.”

We passed a bathroom, then a well-equipped gym. Each contained a single cross on the walls and nothing else. Since we were obviously in the leisure section of the house, I finally deciphered Talbot’s logic when it came to displaying religious symbols. In rooms that served a strictly functional or nonreligious purpose, he’d hung up a solitary gold cross and left it at that.

From a doorway at the far end, we heard a woman’s voice. Her tone was soft and soothing, as if addressing a child. “It’s okay, baby. I won’t hurt you. I only want to turn your head a little. There. That wasn’t so bad…”

“Dr. Cantrell,” Amanda said.

To clarify something Enrique had mentioned, I said to him, “Earlier you indicated that Talbot wasn’t necessarily close to his killer—”

“No, but he must have known him. Why else would he let him in the house?”

My point exactly.

We were almost to the end room. Dr. Cantrell was still talking. Enrique slowed to a stop and appraised me. “We’re also pretty sure that the killer must have visited the house before.”

“Why?”

“Because of
where
he chose to kill Talbot.” Enrique nodded toward the open doorway just ahead. “It’s a soundproofed media room.”

Amanda nodded grimly at the implication. I could only shake my head.

“Yeah,” Enrique added, his voice hardening. “The cold-blooded bastard knew exactly where to take Talbot so he could work on him. He wanted a place where Talbot could scream his head off and no one would hear—”

He broke off, looking past us. Amanda and I turned at the sound of clicking heels.

A man in a long-tailed black tuxedo was entering the hallway, listening to a cell phone. His face was locked in a grimace. Moments later, he ended the call with a tight-lipped: “Yes, sir. We’ll be expecting you.”

Tucking his cell phone into his jacket, he continued toward us, his eyes shifting between Amanda and me as if confused by something. A hesitant smile played across his lips.

“I’m glad you could make it.”

I had the distinct feeling Lieutenant Simon Santos wasn’t talking to me.

Smoothly elegant.

Those two words fit Simon to a T, and not only because he happened to be wearing a tuxedo instead of his trademark dark blue Brooks Brothers suit. A youthful thirty-eight, he was tall and dark, with a gaunt, unlined face topped by longish black hair combed straight back. Most people who meet him for the first time are unsettled by his piercing black eyes, which seem to look right through you. As he approached, those eyes were focused on Amanda and I was getting a funny feeling why.

Stopping before Amanda, Simon squeezed her hand affectionately. This was an unexpected gesture and not only because he wasn’t into touching. He and Amanda had never been particularly close. Both strong willed and outspoken, they had a history of butting heads over the nuances of a case. Amanda often initiated their disagreements; she had a hard time blindly accepting Simon’s theories, even though he was usually proved right. That’s not to say she didn’t respect his opinions; she did. When Amanda agonized over whether to reveal how she felt toward me, Simon was the person she’d called for advice.

“He was the obvious choice,” she said. “He’s one of your closest friends and I knew he’d give me a straight answer.”

An accurate assessment, which explained why I was bothered by what I’d witnessed.

Simon had squeezed Amanda’s
left
hand. He must have felt her engagement ring through the latex glove. But as Enrique had done, he offered no congratulatory comment.

My earlier suspicion was reinforced and I tried to decide how I felt about it.

Was I angry that Simon had known and hadn’t told me? Not really. Despite our friendship, I realized that if I’d been in his position, I’d probably have done the same thing.

Turning to me, Simon was all smiles as he asked about Emily. He wasn’t simply making small talk; he genuinely wanted to know. Since Nicole’s death, he’d appointed himself Emily’s unofficial godfather.

I told him about the dance, how beautiful Emily looked. As Simon listened, his mood became somber, his eyes going to the media room. From within, we heard Dr. Cantrell say, “I have to take your temperature, honey. Is that okay? Jerry, get some pictures before we cut the ropes. Maggie, hand me that knife—”

“It’s a bad one, Martin,” Simon said quietly.

Everyone in the world called me Marty, including my mother. Not Simon. “We’ve heard. Who was that on the phone?”

“Congressman Harris.” He addressed Enrique, speaking quickly. “Pass the word that the congressman plans to arrive by nine-forty-five. Tell everyone I don’t anticipate a disruption in our activities. Also have Teriko check Talbot’s computer for a listing of his friends and acquaintances, including email contacts.”

Enrique swung around to leave.

“Oh,” Simon added, “and ask Richard to request printouts of phone calls that Talbot made over the past six months. From his home and his cell phones. Have the lists faxed to the car.”

By car, he meant his limo, which had two satellite phone lines and all the high-tech communication equipment a millionaire homicide cop could ever want.

As Enrique hurried away, I checked my watch. It was only eight-fifteen. “Harris wasn’t even supposed to land until nine-thirty.”

“His flight departed early,” Simon said. “He should land at Reagan National in less than an hour. There’s a chance he could be delayed by en route weather, but for now, he wants us to assume that he will be on time. He’s determined to view his nephew’s body. I tried to advise him against it, but…” He shook his head.

Simon hated outsiders barging into a crime scene. But he’d obviously gotten the word to handle Congressman Harris with kid gloves.

When I asked, he said he hadn’t broached the topic of Talbot’s sexuality with the congressman. “What’s the point, Martin? Do you think he’d tell us the truth?”

“Probably not.” Harris had spent political capital by publicly denying that his nephew was gay and odds were he wouldn’t change his story now.

From the doorway, Cantrell said, “Take two more shots of his hands, Jerry. Zoom in close. Get the knot. That’s it. Careful of the blood.”

Simon removed rosary beads from his jacket and we filed into the media room to see the body.