Chapter 4
4
3:36 p.m. Thursday, October 31
G riffin lived on a cul-de-sac on the East Shore, where the houses were ostentatiously big, the yards professionally maintained, and the only people ever seen outside were housekeepers and nannies. His house was an imposing Greek mansion with White House–like columns and concrete urns on the front porch.
Nick parked on the street and scowled up the circular driveway, where Josie and the news anchor were recreating that morning’s shooting.
“Do you want to help them?” Riley asked.
“If by ‘them’ you mean the person who took the shot, yes.”
Nick Santiago was still all bantery charm, even when he was mostly serious about committing murder.
“Hehe. Good one. I like this guy.”
Riley had inherited the Jeep and, with it, her uncle Jimmy’s spirit. He’d passed away fishing on the river after eating one too many double-meat, hold-the-veg hoagies.
“At least Uncle Jimmy thinks you’re funny,” she said.
“I always liked the ghost of that guy. Let’s go knock on some doors and see if anyone saw or heard anything. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find the pretend attempted murderer so we can call it a day and go have birthday sex.”
“Good plan.”
They climbed out of the Jeep and headed for the property to the right of Griffin’s.
“Do you know any of the neighbors?” Nick asked.
“I never met any of them beyond waving when they drove by.”
An imposing stone wall surrounded the yard, and there was an open gate at the foot of the driveway. Unlike Griffin’s golf course–looking lawn, this property was more garden than yard. Huge maples and pines blocked out the late fall sunshine. Beds of ivy, bushes, and boulders ringed the base of tree trunks.
There was a fairy-tale vibe to the place, but Riley wasn’t sure if it was more pretty-country-manor-with-an-awesome-library or witch-who-eats-small-children.
“Maybe we should change out our lawn for an overgrown forest. Less mowing,” Nick said, eyeing a bed of ferns.
Riley waved to the trio of people in green jumpsuits raking stone around the base of a bubbling fountain in the front yard. “Less mowing might not mean less maintenance. This place looks like it might take an army of landscapers to keep up.”
The house was more stone and lots of glass. They followed a path made of slate slabs as it meandered to the portico and front door.
There was no doorbell, only a heavy gold knocker. Nick thumped it against the catch twice. “I feel like we’re about to meet Batman,” he said.
The woman who opened the door was definitely not Batman. She barely cleared five feet tall. Her brown skin was gracefully lined with age. Her salt-and-pepper hair was fashioned into a bulky bun at her crown, showing off chandelier earrings. A classy knit blazer hung regally from her shoulders.
Nick slid into lady-charmer mode and flashed the woman his dimples. “Hi. I’m Nick Santiago. This is my partner, Riley. We’re investigating an incident that happened next door a few hours ago.”
The woman rolled her eyes heavenward. “Now what did that Gentry twit do?”
“He experienced a hilarious chest-waxing incident,” Nick said.
“And then someone shot at him in his driveway,” Riley added, giving Nick a warning glance.
“Allegedly shot at him,” Nick corrected.
The woman tilted her head conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I’m surprised it’s taken this long. I’ve never met someone so vapid and self-obsessed. And that’s saying something considering I used to live in LA. You might as well come inside. I’m Belinda, by the way.”
They followed her across the threshold. The two-story foyer was a dark, cavernous space with huge beams and a chandelier that looked as if it could take out an eight-piece band if it fell. Belinda led them into a library cluttered with books, paintings, and knickknacks. Several shiny awards were tucked onto shelves and side tables.
Riley paused at the framed photo just inside the door. Belinda was on a red carpet posing between two people who looked an awful lot like Harrison Ford and Michael B. Jordan. On second glance, she was almost certain they were the real deals.
Their hostess gestured toward the low leather sofa in front of the marble fireplace. “Please, sit. Would you care for some refreshments?”
Riley was just shaking her head when Nick said, “Well, it is my birthday.”
Amused, Belinda turned toward the doorway and bellowed, “Thomas, we require treats!” She turned her attention back to Nick and Riley. “Now I suppose you’ll want to know if I own any firearms, where I was at the time of the shooting, and whether I have any experience with body waxing. And since you’re not a cop, you’re hoping I’ll still provide you with answers.”
“You’ve either committed a lot of crimes or done your research,” Nick said.
Riley’s nose twitched, and suddenly she was transported into a room where several people were gathered around the table. A younger-looking Belinda stood at the head of the table, holding what appeared to be a wickedly long blade. “I told you! Carotids are a messy business. It’s called arterial spray for a reason.” She made a slicing motion that had Riley flinching and flying back into her body.
Belinda gestured at an acrylic frame on the coffee table. Inside it was a stack of bound papers titled, The Man behind the Badge : “Pilot.” Story by Belinda Farnsworth.
“It comes with the territory for the showrunner of a police procedural in the nineties,” she said.
“Seriously? I loved that show,” Nick said.
“So did I,” Belinda said and leaned back in her chair.
Riley relaxed. Just because the woman had shown a bunch of TV writers how to slit a throat didn’t mean she was capable of murder in real life.
A man in jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt appeared in the door carrying a wood tray with mugs, a carafe, and a platter of cookies. “This is my chef, Thomas. He stands between me and too many hot wing deliveries.”
“Thanks for the goodies, Thomas,” Nick said, diving for the cookies. “So where were you today between twelve thirty and one fifteen p.m.?”
“I was looking disheveled on a conference call here in my study after returning from a trip this morning.”
“Coming back from vacation?” he asked, taking another cookie.
“I was addressing a hotel ballroom full of aspiring authors in Philadelphia yesterday and spent the night. The car service delivered me here promptly at noon. Thomas served me a delightful lunch of salmon, wild rice, and mixed greens, which I inhaled with no manners before joining a one p.m. video conference with some producers on the West Coast. That call lasted an hour, and Thomas brought me coffee in the middle of it, so he can confirm my whereabouts.”
Nick looked pointedly at Riley and nodded toward Belinda.
Riley sat up straighter. He was letting her take a crack at a witness. “Um. How well do you know Griffin Gentry and Bella Goodshine?”
“Well enough to know they’re the kind of neighbors you don’t want to have a dispute with over garden statuary and that you’re the ex-wife he left for the weather girl.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, you didn’t live here when I did, so I didn’t know…if you knew…” Riley was definitely going to review her interview techniques textbook when they got home.
“What kind of statuary?” Nick asked, smoothly retaking control.
“My next-door neighbor commissioned a twelve-foot-tall statue of himself, which I highly doubt is to scale seeing as it’s nude,” Belinda reported. “The, shall we say, ‘generous’ genitalia was pointed at my house, and when I went next door to request they at least point it in a different direction, Griffin explained it was his gift to the world and then tried to hand me a signed headshot.”
“Did you think maybe he deserved to get his chest waxed and then possibly be shot at for that?” Nick prompted.
Belinda scoffed. “And give up all this? Of course not. I may write about murder, but I certainly don’t try to commit it. If I did, I wouldn’t be so sloppy. I simply annoyed his lawyer with my lawyer until they came to an agreement, which took much longer than it should have. But I was motivated to teach the man-child a lesson.”
“How long ago was this?” Riley asked.
“It started about a year ago, and it took six months of back-and-forth with his attorney. Griffin ended up not moving the statue since it was important to him to see it when he wakes up every morning. So he had a contractor build a pergola over it. At least now I’m no longer traumatized when I venture into my own backyard.”
“You played double-dimple charming boy toy in there,” Riley said as they headed back down the driveway. The landscapers were gone, but there was a Summer Daze Pools van parked next to a cleaning service car by the garage.
“Gotta read your suspect and adjust your approach accordingly,” Nick explained.
“Do you think she did it?” It was hard for Riley to imagine the seventy-six-year-old scaling her own stone wall to take a shot at a moving vehicle. But it was Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and it was Griffin Gentry, so anything was possible.
“She stays on the list since she was here—opportunity. She lives in close proximity to Griffin and had a legal dispute with him—motive. She also has the cash to hire someone to do her dirty work—means. But her cookies were good, so I’m inclined to put her lower on the list. Thoughts?” Nick prompted, scanning the yard.
“I got a quick peek at her showing a room full of people how to slit a throat. But I’m pretty sure it was just for a TV show.”
“Interesting.” Nick took her hand. “You know what else interests me?”
“My boobs.”
He gave her a lecherous grin. “Always. Also, traffic flow.”
“It’s a cul-de-sac. There isn’t really much traffic,” Riley pointed out.
He shook his head. “I mean the people. Between the gardeners, the chef, and the pool people, that’s a lot of coming and going through that gate. This place probably requires constant maintenance.”
“Which means she leaves the gate open,” she speculated.
“Exactly.”
They left the wild garden of Belinda’s yard behind them and stepped onto the street. “What kind of a person leaves a threatening note, plays a chest hair prank on someone, and then tries to shoot them?” Riley wondered.
“A weirdo. The world is full of them.”
Josie and Griffin were nowhere to be seen, so Riley and Nick headed for the wood and stone mansion across the cul-de-sac. No one answered the door at that house or the next two, which brought them to the brick Georgian revival on the other side of Griffin’s place. It was situated much closer to the property line. An eight-foot-tall privacy fence divided the yards. There was still fresh dirt around the fence posts.
They hiked up the dozen skinny steps to the home’s front porch, which was completely barren. No potted plants or rocking chairs or welcome mat.
Nick stabbed the doorbell. It was one of the video ones that lit up when they approached.
“What?” snapped a gruff voice.
“I’m Nick Santiago. I’m a private investigator looking into an incident next door.”
There was a pause, then the voice asked, “Is he dead?”
Nick and Riley exchanged a look. “Not yet,” Nick said.
“Hold on. I’ll be right down.”
It took two long minutes, but the front door finally swung open to reveal a disheveled white guy in silk pajamas and a red velvet bathrobe. His blond hair was graying at the temples and stood up in tufts. He had a hard mouth, a soft jaw, and a decent paunch straining the buttons of his pajama top.
“Well? What happened? Was he at least maimed? Horribly disfigured?” he asked, sounding out of breath.
“Sir, can we come inside?” Nick asked.
The man immediately blocked the door with a suede slipper. “No.”
“Is there any reason you can think of that someone would want to maim or disfigure Griffin Gentry?”
“I can give you fifty reasons in one breath, starting with that ridiculous fucking farce of a news show filming here five days a week and making enough racket from four a.m. on to drive any normal citizen insane.”
Now that he mentioned it, Riley noticed the man’s blue eyes were bloodshot. The bags under them looked like they wouldn’t fit in a plane’s overhead compartment.
“So you’re losing sleep because of Gentry,” Nick summarized.
“Losing sleep? Losing sleep ? I’m being driven out of my goddamn mind! It doesn’t matter how many sleeping pills I take, I still wake up the second all the car doors start slamming. Slamming! In the middle of the night. Do you know how many doors slam every fucking morning? Seventeen! Then there’s the lights. Good God, the lights, man! They aim them through the windows directly into my bedroom! It looks like a thousand suns. How is a man supposed to sleep through that?”
“Have you tried an eye mask?” Nick asked glibly.
“Eye mask? An eye mask?” He stabbed a thick finger into Nick’s shoulder. “My life is ruined, and you think an eye mask will help?”
Riley couldn’t get a lock on any of his thoughts. It was like standing in the middle of a chaotic windstorm trying to catch a leaf. All she was picking up on was a confusing swirl of rage, exhaustion, and a creepy wired energy.
“Where were you today between noon and one o’clock, sir?” Nick asked coolly.
The man’s face was turning beet red. “I’ll tell you where I was! I was breaking into my ex-wife’s house so I could steal my son’s ADHD medicine so I don’t sleep all fucking day, because Griffin Gentry is a monster. They called me a monster, but I’m a koala bear next to that son of a bitch.”
“I think it’s just koala ,” Nick said.
Riley cleared her throat delicately in case Nick didn’t know he was very close to pushing the guy over the edge.
“What?” the man shrieked.
“Yeah, they’re not called koala bears . Just koalas .”
The homeowner shoved his hands into his hair and gripped. “Do I look like I give a damn?”
Riley took a step back just to make sure she was out of the danger zone.
“Actually, you look like you went on a cocaine bender then stuck a fork in an electrical outlet,” Nick said.
“First of all, three bumps of coke is not a bender. Second, you can tell me what happened to that selfish prick next door—and it better be good. Or you can get the hell off my property before I call the cops.”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation,” Nick said cheerfully. “But you have yourself a nice day, sir. Maybe try getting a little shut-eye?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
The man slammed the door so hard that instead of latching, it bounced back and smacked him in the forehead. “You can fuck yourself too,” he shouted at the door; then leaving it open, he stormed off inside.
Riley cocked her head. From the back, he looked a little like Griffin. They had the same rich-guy haircut and color, the same shoulder width. But he had a few inches in height on the news anchor.
“Did you notice that?” Nick said, leading them off the porch and back toward the road.
“That he looks like Griffin from the back?”
“No, that the front room was completely empty. No furniture, no pictures. There was a bunch of men’s shoes lined up at the foot of the stairs. Looks like he lives alone.”
“Gee, I can’t imagine why,” Riley quipped. “We didn’t even get his name. What do we do now?”
“Brian will track him down through property records and start a deep dive into Mr. Grumpy Pants.”
“How did you know he wouldn’t punch you for annoying him?”
He slung an arm around her shoulders. “It was a risk I was willing to take.”
“So you just provoked our potential bad guy into a murderous rage?”
Nick looked remarkably unperturbed. “If I did, this case will be closed before the end of the day.”
“Or Griffin will be dead,” she pointed out.
“I won’t let him get murdered until he pays up.”
“That’s comforting.”