Derailed (37 page)

“So you’re at Dunhill with her now?”

“Yeah, but the detectives are hovering, waiting to question her.”

“Okay.”

“She didn’t do it, Ritchie.” Words I could do with right now.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She’s too broken by the news to be guilty.”

“I’m relieved to hear that.”

“But, Ritchie…?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared for her. What if she can’t prove that she didn’t do it?” My sister’s voice is small, uncertain. Not the words I want to hear now.

“What if Scarlett is setting her up, Ritchie? She’s done it before, fooled everyone – why not do it again? This time make it permanent?”

“Mm. But Scarlett was shot too, Arena.”

“Where?”

“In the hand.”

“Oh.” I could hear the disappointment in that oh. “Which…which hand Rich?”

“The left hand.”

“Convenient, don’t you think? Left hand…could be self-inflicted.”

“Arena…” I let out a long sigh, “I…I don’t know what to think right now.”

“Yeah…”

“That pink hoodie of Rival’s – the one we always teased her about – said she looked like giant candy cane in it…?” I fill her in on Mabel’s statement to the police.

“In the dark Mabel could tell it was
pink
?”

“Dunno. That’s what Rival’s attorney would have to ask.”

I end the call shortly thereafter, a freight train running through my head. Why would Mabel lie about hearing Rival? How would Mabel know about Rival’s candy cane hoodie?

Things between Rival and I have been severed, true. I could never go back to Rival after what she said to me. The hurt and the deception is too raw. But I have to help.

Then I am plagued by another question: if Scarlett is involved with Bradley’s murder, why is
she
so rattled? I remember the way her whole body shook, her face turning as white as a sheet, the way she threw up with fear, the way she clutched on to me as if she was terrified. The mark of an innocent victim, or is she the world’s greatest actress? For a while I pace, but when I can’t handle it anymore, I grab a cab to Dunhill.

“Who are you to Mrs. Murdoch?” the nurse at Dunhill asks.

Good question: who am I these days?

“I’m her…her…a family friend.”

“Ah.” The nurse hurries away to see if Rival will see me.

Rival may not want to see me. I get that. But I’ll be sad if she refuses to. The nurse returns and nods at me. Great.

Rival is seated on her bed, a box of Kleenex at hand. Present are Vlad, Arena, Bear, and a second attorney called Justin Millar, whom Vlad has secured. Rival’s eyelids are thick from crying, her eyes are mere slits, her face is red and blotchy and her hair is a mess.  

For a few seconds, I stand at the entrance to the room, unsure what to do next. Should I give her a hug? Would she push me away? Just greet her casually, say,
Hi Rival, how you doing
? But my anguish at seeing her anguish gets the better of me. I walk over and give her a hug.

I know I’ve done the right thing, because she hugs me back really tight and sobs into my chest. 

“I’m here for you, okay?” I whisper, squeezing her to me. “For you and your girls. Always.”

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Aware that I am interrupting Vlad and Justin Millar, I untangle myself from her and move away. As she talks to them, answers their questions, she breaks down and sobs. Clearly she is broken over Bradley’s death, a fact that confuses me. But then I think about Scarlett – she’s even more distraught. I’ve never been this confused in my life. 

“She did it,” Rival says to her attorneys. “Bradley was leaving her, so she killed him. He told me that.”

“He told you that he was leaving her?” Vlad asks.

“He told me that, yes. He said that he loved me. Said he wanted me back, but maybe it was too late, he didn’t know, but he hoped, held on to hope. He said that he and Scarlett slept in separate rooms, and that he didn’t want to be with her. It was the house…”

As I listen to her rambling, I frown. I overheard Scarlett tell the detective that she and Bradley we going on a short holiday the following day. According to Scarlett, that is why the kids were at her mother’s. Obviously, Bradley hadn’t told Rival about the weekend away. Or had he?

As for them not sharing a bed – I saw proof that they did.

My mind drifts to the scene of the crime. I remember seeing Scarlett’s phone charger next to her bed, a box of tissues, a glass of water, an eye mask. On the floor I remembering seeing a tube of lube and massage oil – all signs of them being intimate. I decided to spare Rival the truth. It’s best I gear all my observations and questions at Vlad and Justin Millar.

Chapter Twenty-Six

RITCHIE

Scarlett, Milton Smyth and I sit around a table at her home and face two detectives. The yellow tape has been taken off the house and the room that Bradley died in has been cleaned. I’m here because Scarlett called me earlier on and asked me to come over.  “Thank you for your cooperation,” the detective says in a voice filled with awe. “I appreciate it, Mrs. Murdoch.”

Scarlett nods. “I didn’t kill my husband, Detective Stern,” she says in a soft voice, both hands on her lap. “I know how it works – the spouse is the first in the line of suspects. So, do what you have to do quickly, so that you can rule me out. Then please, go get my husband’s killer.”

After exchanging glances, Stern says, “Would you…would you
consent
to a lie detector test? Just routine, Mrs. Murdoch, and once again, I’m sorry to have to ask –”

“Absolutely!” Scarlett’s answer is so swift, my confusion compounds.

“Hang on a second,” Milton says, his palm held out. “That’s good and well, but as your attorney, I
must
advise against it.”

Scarlett frowns at her father. “I have nothing to hide, Daddy.”

“I know that, Scarlett, and I have no doubt whatsoever that you will pass it. But as your attorney…” His eyebrows elevate.

She nods slowly, then gives an apologetic look to the detectives.

“Anyway,” Milton says, glaring at the detectives. “There are
other
suspects who should be taking lie detector tests. Not my daughter who…” he points to the bandage on Scarlett’s hand, an icy look in his eyes, “has been a
victim
in this shooting. Who clearly was the intended target.”

Again, Stern squirms, then looks at Scarlett. “Do
you
believe you were the intended target in this shooting, Mrs. Murdoch?” His voice is respectful, courteous.

“Please call me Scarlett, Detective,” she says in a voice that could suggest she’s just rolled out of bed.

“Okay, Scarlett.” The detective fiddles with his tie and gives her a shy smile. 

“I do believe those bullets that killed my husband were intended for me, yes. I
feel
that
Bradley was killed in the line of fire.” With a thoughtful look on her face, she slips her uninjured hand into her top and hitches up a bra strap.

The detectives’ eyes follow her every movement. 

Appearing oblivious to the effect she has on these men, she continues: “She was a bad shot, whoever she was.”

Not once has Scarlett accused Rival of shooting Bradley. That in itself is baffling.

“Do you know of anyone who’d want you or your husband dead?”

She shakes her head, her hair swishing around her face. “I have no enemies, Detective, and neither has Bradley. None that I know of anyway. My husband, he was a warm and charismatic man with a dazzling future ahead of him. To have his life so brutally snuffed…it is nothing short of a travesty. It’s also terribly…sad.” Her bottom lip trembles and tears slide down her cheeks. “To have his b…blood … his brains all over me, on my face, my hair, my lips – it made me go mad for a while.”

Detective Gould quickly grabs a box of tissues lying nearby and offers it to her. I swear, he’d wipe her eyes if he could.

“Thank you,” Scarlett murmurs, as she accepts a tissue and dabs at her cheeks.

“I could never get over my husband’s death. Never.” She wraps her arms around her trembling body and sits with her head bowed for a few minutes. 

With pained expressions on their faces, the detectives allow her the moment she needs.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see this…this
figure
in my doorway, pointing the gun at us. And those eyes…in the dark they were like shining and white…oh God!  I’ll never forget…” She shakes her head and falls silent.

“And then what happened?”

“She fired wildly and hit me in the hand. My outstretched hand. I screamed and ducked down on the side of the bed, trying to escape. She moved toward me and I thought, I
am going to die tonight with my husband
.
But then a light came on across the road, and I think, I can’t be sure, but I do believe it may have scared her off. But I have no doubt that she would have finished me off had it not been for that light. Horrible. Just horrible. I’m afraid to close my eyes these days. She’s not only robbed me of my darling husband, she’s robbed me of my peace of mind.” 

“Do you…I mean, like do you think you could identify the killer by viewing some photographs or from a line-up, Mrs. Murdoch? When you are ready, that is. There is no pressure on you whatsoever.”

Scarlett shakes her head, and with her eyes averted says, “I wish I could say
yes
, but I really couldn’t tell. All I remember is flaxen hair…long…and a striped top.” She looks up at the detective and shrugs. “It was dark.”

“What about the shouting? Neighbors say they heard shouting.”

“Yes, I
did
hear shouting.”

“Would you say it was the ex-wife, Rival Murdoch?”

That is an unfair question. This dick is putting words into her mouth. Fuck this shit!

It’s a while before Scarlett answers. “Detective, I’d hate to speculate and send an innocent woman to prison for murder.” Scarlett’s voice is pained, almost sorry.

Milton is quick to intervene. “But at the same time…” He gives his daughter a knowing look.

She nods. “But at the same time, I have to be honest, so yes, it did
sound
like Rival. God knows she’s done it so many times, made so many similar threats that…I simply cannot rule her out.”

The detectives exchange excited looks.  

“Again, I reiterate – I do not know for sure that it was Rival. Was she capable of doing something like that? Considering her assault on me while in Dunhill, her second assault on me with a knife, her kidnapping of the children, her vandalism to our property, her constant threats, her constant reference to Betty Broderick… I’d have to say…yes. But I do believe that a person is
innocent
until proven –”

“Betty Broderick?” Detective Gould asks.

Scarlett nods. “She’s an ex-wife who couldn’t let go. Stole into her ex-husband’s home on night and shot both him and his new wife. Killed them.”

“Ah.”

“I must admit, Detective, I didn’t know who Betty was until I googled it, curious to know what Rival was ranting on about.”

“Was Mr. Murdoch afraid of his ex-wife?”

“He was. Yes. That’s why he spent a lot of time with her and the kids. He was afraid she’d harm him, harm me, the kids…he was even afraid she’d harm
herself
.”

“And you had no problem with him spending time with his ex-wife?”

“God no! I encouraged it, tried my best to make her feel at home here. Gave her free reign of my home. Tried my utmost to make her feel loved and wanted. All this so she would cease with her destructive and psychotic behavior. I even dropped both assault charges against her in order to keep the peace.”

The detectives exchange awkward glances before one of them asks, “Did Mr. Murdoch take any recreational drugs? The coroner found traces of cocaine in his system.”

Without batting an eyelid, Scarlett says, “He was a politician, an attorney, a successful businessman who rubbed shoulders with society’s elite, some of them movie stars. A lot of these successful businessmen dabble in recreational drugs mainly out of boredom. Maybe one of them offered it to him.” Another nonchalant shrug from her.

I look at the time and frown.

“What is it, Ritchie?” Scarlett asks.

“Morgue and funeral home,” I remind her, tapping my wrist watch.

Simultaneously, both detectives shoot me dirty looks. I shrug.

Scarlett nods, and in a pained voice says, “Detectives, I have the unpleasant task of having to formally identify my husband’s body.” A tear slides down her cheek. “So if you’ll excuse me…”

“Sure!” they chorus before both detectives jump to their feet, shake hands with Scarlett, pump the hand of the omnipotent Milton Smyth, and totally ignore me.

“Lots of reporters outside,” Milton says, peeping out the window.

“I wish they wouldn’t,” Scarlett murmurs. “I look a mess with all the crying I’ve been doing.”

“Maybe we should get some help,” Milton says.

“You look fine, Scarlett,” I say. “And don’t worry about the reporters, I’ll handle them, okay?” I put out my elbow. “Stay close and keep your head down.”

“Thanks, Ritchie,” she says in a grateful voice.

“The biggest hurdle will be getting to my vehicle without them hustling you. It’s parked on the street.”

“Why don’t we take my Porsche?” she says. “It’s in my driveway.”

“Sure,” I say.  We walk out of the house in tandem – me first, Scarlett, then Milton.

Milton was right about the reporters – at least fifty of them pounce on us, sticking cameras in Scarlett’s face, hurting us and each other in the process.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” I say and shove a couple of them.

One of them shoves me back and we get into a little scuffle.

“Ritchie, don’t!” Milton says in a scared voice.

“I’ll knock your teeth out, you fat fuck,” I snarl at the reporter who shoved me. “Don’t try me.”

“You’re really chummy with your late friend’s widow, aren’t you?” the fucker asks with a smirk.

“Shut the fuck up!” I say, disgusted with that question. “It’s none of your goddamn –”