Cupid (4 page)

O
vid Island’s
police headquarters sat in a turquoise and pink castle with glittery sea shells outlining the roof and windows. Old man Libbey, the longest living resident on the island, had donated the small castle to the force. Due to him being such a power guy in the community, the police chief couldn’t refuse.

And so all official police business happened within the candy-colored space. Most newcomers mistakenly thought the police building was a children’s museum or art center. Others joked that the facility’s décor was fitting because the police represented the biggest jokes on the island.

Most considered them clowns.

Many found them useless.

A few island residents voted to change their turquoise and white uniforms to ones more representative of their true occupations—big red clown purple, squeaky red noses, polka dot parachute pants, glowing suspenders, and flowers tucked in their shirt pockets that squirted out water.

What could these men really do anyway? The police, themselves, barely made enough to pay their mortgage and fund their boat commutes back and forth from their homes in Miami to their jobs on the island. They held no real authority against the rich. Half the time they argued with the residents’ lawyers about what they could and could not investigate.

Smart Ovid cops had a plan. They saw the island as a vacation from the mean, dirty streets of Miami where prostitutes strolled, parents abused children, and men shot down each other just for several feet of block space to sell drugs. The clever police took bribes from the residents, kept their pockets heavy, mouths closed, and eyes blind.

The dumb cops sought justice. They peered where others said to turn away. They combed the island, hoping to maintain harmony among the madness that came with people with too much money and time. The dumb ones usually were transferred to somewhere else within months.

As Diana sat in the police interrogation room, she wondered which cop Officer Slattery was, smart or stupid. Could he be trusted or did he have his hand in someone else’s pocket, was he another’s puppet?

Why am I here? Is Neil in jail? Is that why he hasn’t been answering my calls?

The officer plopped down in the seat in front of her, his belling jiggling a little with the movement. The shirt stretched tight over him. Five more pounds and he’d need a new uniform shirt. Another drop of ketchup and whatever else was on the front of his top, and he’d need to go home and change.

“Here you go, Mrs. Carson.” Officer Slattery placed a cup of coffee down in front of Diana.

“Why am I here?”

“I just want you to be comfortable before I—

“Just tell me what’s going on. Where’s Neil?”

“Well, you see Mrs. Carson. I have. . .”

“Just tell me,” she said with more force than she intended.

The officer rested his hands on the table between them and knitted his fingers together. “The condo building’s maid, a Mrs. Garcia, discovered your husband’s body this morning in the kitchen.”

Shocked, Diana didn’t even grab the cup or look at it. “Neil is dead?”

“Yes, Mrs. Carson.”

“Do you know who did this?” she asked.

“I was wondering if you had any information.” He wouldn’t look at her. The officer glanced at the wall behind her, the cup of coffee in front of her, and even his fumbling fingers as he twisted them around his watch.

“You’re nervous,” she said. “Why?”

“I have some more news, and I’m afraid I’m not comfortable with giving it to you.”

“You might as well go ahead.” She hugged herself and tried to prepare her heart for more.

“Mr. Carson was found in the kitchen with a woman that the maid had identified as his secretary.”

Diana slumped back in her chair and rubbed her face with both of her hands. She hadn’t even put on any makeup or changed when she rushed to the police station to see why they’d called her to come.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Carson?” Officer Slattery asked.

“My husband was found dead in the kitchen with his secretary at six in the morning?”

A red tint shaded his face. “Yes.”

“Is there something else?” Diana asked.

“I. . .”

“What? Were they found in a compromising position?” she sighed.

“Umm. . .”

“Listen. My husband cheating on me is not news to my ears. Granted, his death is news. His blatant adultery and disrespect of our marriage is what I like to call Regular Tuesdays. You don’t even want to know what he does on hump days.” An erratic giggle fled her lips as Diana’s fingers shook. She grabbed her cup and attempted to calm herself enough so that she could pick it up. “He has something disgusting for each day of the week. Was it just his secretary?”

The officer’s eyes widened. “Ma’m?”

She gave up on grabbing the coffee. “Sorry.”

“No. I understand.”

Do you?

She was supposed to be heartbroken, devastated that her handsome, wealthy, all-American husband was murdered with none other than his slutty mistress.

She had a few tears to shed. They would just happen to be for all the blood that stained the granite countertops and seeped into the marbling stone floor. For all the mess she was left with because of Neil.

Diana wasn’t a particularly sentimental woman, but neither was she cold and unfeeling. What it came down to, simply, was that she was so done with Neil and his antics. His sleeping around and acting like she didn’t know about it. His righteous, holier-than-thou attitude about everything. His degrading views that Diana should be a trophy wife instead of a whip-smart reporter.

His need to break her down mentally every day with his games.

The Neil she fell in love with—whatever version of love it had been—was not the same man who died with his pants around his ankles.

She had respected him, once. He’d been a formidable man once upon a time, who possessed substance, a man that made her panties wet the minute he flashed his dimpled smile.

That time had long passed.

Yes, Diana Carson was a bit upset that her husband and his secretary whore had been murdered. But, she would get over it rather quickly.

And then, one couldn’t forget about Neil’s texts to her before he died.

But his intention had been cruel. Neil must’ve hoped Diana would walk in on him banging his secretary right there in the kitchen.

What did you think would come out of that? Were you going to stuff that whore with your cock while pointing and laughing at me? Or did you think we were going to be in a threesome? You’re lucky this murderer found you and her together, before I did, Neil. You might’ve gotten worse than an arrow in your chest.

Officer Slattery coughed into his hand. “Would you like some tissue, just in case you need to cry?”

“No.” She gritted her teeth. “I won’t need anything to wipe tears.”

“If you need some time to digest this bad news, I could go and give you a few minutes or so to—”

She waved him away. “Go ahead with your questions.”

The officer stared at her for a few seconds, perhaps studying the rage that glittered along her eyes.

She must’ve been an anomaly to the officer because Diana had not slipped into the little, meek widow that most saw on TV shows and movies. Tragedy and death humbled most people. For Diana, it toughened her. Once she heard that her husband had died with his mistress, investigation mode set in. Dozens of questions whipped through her brain.

Who did this? Why? Am I in danger? Was it something to do with his mistress or was it all about Neil?

“Okay.” Officer Slattery tapped the plastic glass behind him, and signaled for someone else to come in. “Captain Rothschild will be joining me as I ask you a few questions.”

“That’s fine.”

Captain Rothschild walked in, and represented Officer Slattery’s complete opposite—tall, skinny, and an ironed uniform with no food stains on the shirt. Where the officer could’ve acted in an automobile insurance commercial about bad luck accidents, the captain could’ve been rising out of ocean waves and stepping onto a sandy beach as water streamed down his abs.

I bet Rothschild takes bribes. He’s too tanned and happy. Meanwhile Slattery looks like he stays up all night, eating at his desk and combing over evidence of unsolved cases. According to Ovid Island, Rothschild is the smart one. Slattery is the dumb one.

Diana focused on Slattery and placed her hands on the table. Her fingers still shivered, but she paid them no mind. To her, she exuded a beacon of strength. Inside, things broke apart and other emotions solidified.

“Go right ahead, Officer,” she said. “Besides, I have a few questions of my own.”

Both men exchanged nervous glances and then proceeded with their interview. It took all of ten minutes to figure out that Diana not only had an alibi in the form of her condo lobby camera, but that Neil’s murder was familiar to the other wealthy and dead men found with holes in their chest. Of course, given that Diana knew she did not murder Neil and his mistress, she was insanely curious as to who did.

Could it have been the same person that killed Jackson Mirabelli?

Diana needed to know the answers.

This guy that I’ve already been searching for, has now come to me. Why did you kill Neil? Did he have some connection to Jackson, Thomas, or any of the others?

“Did your husband know the other victims well?” Slattery asked, while Rothschild checked his phone. He’d been staring into that tiny device most of the interrogation.

I bet Rothschild is going over Facebook updates or probably taking a selfie.

“Mrs. Carson?” Slattery said.

“Yes.”

“Did your husband know any of the other victims?”

“No,” she said. “I mean as much as anyone on the island knows each other. It’s pretty hard not to remember the name of faces that you see day to day, but did Neil actually spend time with any of these men? No. Not even a golf or game day. Neil spent time with women. All of his employees were females. All of his friends were women he’d known for years. The only thing a person with a penis could do for Neil was either lift something heavy, or point him in the direction of a vagina."

Right at the mention of vagina, she shut her mouth.

Perhaps, I’m not okay. Maybe, I’m just a little bit angry at that bastard.

“Sorry,” she blurted out.

“I understand.” Officer Slattery glanced over at Rothschild who continued to tap things into his phone. “Okay, so you said you had questions for us.”

“Are you certain that Neil died the same way the other men did?” she asked.

“That’s not something I can tell you,” Slattery said.

“My husband and I have not only contributed mass sums of money to this department, we’ve also managed to unite with a lot of powerful friends on the island.” Diana didn’t like to strong-arm cops, but sometimes moments like these called for it. “I don’t expect you to tell me intricate details of all the murders, but I do want to know if Neil is being considered as one of the victims of this serial killer on the island.”

“Hey,” Captain Rothschild held his hand up, but didn’t look away from the phone. “No one is saying this is a serial killer.”

“He’s murdered three men that are similar—rich and white. Clearly, there’s someone upset about something and on a mission. This screams serial killer.”

Rothschild targeted her with a piercing gaze. “This is not a serial killer.” He rose from his seat and headed to the door. “In fact, our questions are over. Slattery, please finish this and make sure Mrs. Carson is taken care of.”

The fat officer nodded.

Diana waited for Captain Rothschild to leave, and then attacked Slattery with a look that scared most. “Come on. Tell me something.”

“I. . .can’t.”

“You look like you work hard.” She gestured to his wrinkled shirt. “You spent the night at the station right?”

He nodded.

“All that hard work, and no one cares.” She shook her head. “Nothing gets done. No one goes to jail, and if they do, they’re out within fifteen minutes thanks to their huge law team. You’re tired of it. Aren’t you? The bullshit. The evil that breeds from money. The crime that gets ignored.”

Slattery formed his lips into a straight line.

“I’m a news reporter.”

“I know who you are,” he said.

“I always have a wealth of information. It’s sad to say, but I could get clues and facts from places on this island that you could never even venture into. I have developed a lot of contacts with many people. I could help you with not only this investigation, but future ones. Additionally, I could get your supervisors off your back at times, just by waving around my money.” She smiled at him and offered her hand. “Hello, Officer Slattery. Would you like to be my friend?”

He stared at the hand and didn’t shake it. “I’ve found that friends on this island tend to change into enemies at the most inopportune times.”

“Then let’s call this a friendly probationary period.”

He glanced around as if someone was hiding in the room, and then shook her hand. “What do you want to know?”

“How similar was my husband’s death to the other victims?” she asked.

“Just like the others," Slattery muttered. "Hole was the same size, too. Definitely, some sort of hunting arrow. The murderer probably uses a high-tech bow. Something a hunter would use to take down big game."

Slattery, glanced at Diana briefly. "We're going to have to keep this quiet. Don't want to alarm the public. We need to find this guy. And fast."

She shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair, writhing with the desire to be loose. “Could you get me some copies of the case files for the other murders and any similar ones in the past year?”

Slattery rubbed a worried groove into his chin. “I don’t think that’s a good idea or that it will do any good.”