Chapter Fifteen Holly
Chapter Fifteen
HOLLY
A troop of police are already at the Plaza when Mark and I arrive back. Simone’s body is being carefully winched down with a specialist hand-crane, and all eyes are fixed to the loud and painfully slow process. My initial shock has changed to something deeper. A fiery desire to get justice.
Two cops are standing a little apart from the others, watching the process with their backs to us.
Even from behind, I immediately recognize Detective Ortiz from previous crime scenes. She’s stocky, and brown-skinned, her straightened dark hair edged with rogue wisps of white, and I remember her being smart. No-nonsense.
She’s speaking with a tall, dark-haired police officer who I can’t place.
With the noise of the crane, neither Ortiz nor her companion have noticed us arrive. As we close in, I catch my name being mentioned.
‘Stone is always muscling her way onto our crime scenes,’ the male officer is saying, ‘pointing out things we’ve missed. She’s like a magician for making us look bad.’ His voice sounds strangely familiar, and suddenly his identity falls into place.
Great. It’s Fitzwilliam. I roll my eyes. We met years ago, studying the same law module at NYU, and have disliked one another ever since. He’s an egotistical blow-hard who values the image of his department over justice.
‘The goth?’ Ortiz is saying. ‘Blue hair. Curvy girl. Pretty, if you overlook the fact she dresses like a vampire who shops in Goodwill. Didn’t she help us out on a few cases?’
Ouch. I clear my throat loudly, but neither hear me over the sound of the crane.
‘If you count making us look like idiots, then she’s helped us out on a lot of cases,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘I always thought of her more as one of the boys. Kind of blunt. Lacking social graces. Tattoos everywhere.’
‘Excuse me,’ I say, in what I hope is an authoritative voice.
Fitzwilliam spins around. His eyes rest on me. His cool blue-eyed stare and square jaw give him a haughty look which exactly matches his country club accent.
‘One of the boys, huh?’ I eyeball him. ‘Should I be flattered, or does that category include you?’
Fitzwilliam has the decency to flush. Ortiz looks amused.
‘Miss Stone.’ Fitzwilliam holds out a strong hand. His signet ring digs into the side of my palm.
I wince. ‘Thanks for the formal greeting. Nice to see you’ve brought the frat-boy laundry press to the NYPD.’ I gesture to his pin-neat uniform, and coiffed black hair. He honestly couldn’t look more groomed if he tried.
‘Holly Stone.’ Ortiz puts out a hand. ‘First time I’ve seen Fitzwilliam on the back foot. Didn’t think anything could pierce that WASP confidence.’
Mark looks between the female detective and Fitzwilliam.
In some ways, the two men could be cousins.
Both have the same effortless aura of health that plenty of money brings: confident stance, strong gym-honed bodies, thick dark hair, and piercing clear eyes.
But Fitzwilliam’s skin is pale to Mark’s light-brown, and his features have a square-jawed heaviness to his counterpart’s delicate bone structure.
‘You know each other?’ asks Mark, looking between me and Fitzwilliam.
‘Sadly, yes,’ I tell him. ‘We went to the same college,’ I say. ‘But Fitzwilliam didn’t manage to graduate, so he became a cop to help his future political career.’
Fitzwilliam’s pale jaw tightens. He shakes his head wearily. ‘So says the scholarship girl with a big chip on her shoulder.’
‘Easy to look down on other people when Daddy’s paying your school fees.’
‘For your information …’
‘Now now, children,’ Ortiz has a small smile on her face. ‘Play nicely. Fitzwilliam hasn’t had it as easy as you think, Miss Stone, for all his pressed shirts and shiny shoes.’
Fitzwilliam looks down at his shirt distractedly.
Since I assume Ortiz had her own share of hardships, working her way up as a Latina woman cop to detective, I’m inclined to believe her.
Though I can’t imagine what Fitzwilliam could possibly have encountered in terms of hardship.
Falling off his polo horse and landing on his silver spoon, maybe.
‘We spoke on the phone.’ Mark extends a hand to Fitzwilliam and they exchange a firm downward shake with the easy recognition of two boys from the same club. ‘Three dresses at the scene. It’s the stalker’s calling card, right? You checked the old file.’
‘Those files weren’t in our jurisdiction,’ says Fitzwilliam apologetically.
‘Adrianna’s party was held on an island off the coast of Colombia.
But … you’re right. There are a lot of similarities between the two cases.
The ritualistic circle of flowers and candles.
The … hair cutting.’ His eyes glide away from Mark’s.
‘You think it’s the same guy?’ asks Mark.
‘Not necessarily a man,’ says Fitzwilliam.
‘Adrianna’s kidnapper wore a full-face mask and cloak.
’ He takes a breath, and glances at Ortiz, who bears the steady annoyance of a senior woman used to being overlooked for the nearest white male.
She raises her eyebrows at him, very slightly, and Fitzwilliam’s mouth closes.
‘Could it be a copycat?’ I suggest. ‘Adrianna’s kidnap was widely publicized, right?’
Ortiz shakes her head. ‘Not all the details,’ she says.
‘No regular member of the public would have known about the kidnapper’s obsession with the number three.
Or the ritualistic elements. These cases have a lot more in common than we first thought,’ she continues.
‘And at this stage we have reason to believe you might be correct, Mr Li. Whoever held Adrianna captive three years ago has returned to murder her bridesmaid.’
There’s a loaded silence.
‘I’m told you have a theory, Miss Stone,’ continues Ortiz, ‘about the body temperature?’
My eyes slide between them. I’m not used to working directly with cops. I tuck blue strands of hair behind my ears.
‘Body temperature drops by an average of 1.5 degrees an hour for the first twelve hours after death,’ I say.
No one counters this, so I plunge on. ‘Based on that numeric, I’d expect the deceased to have a rectal reading of approximately 80 degrees.
’ I see Fitzwilliam twitch at the word ‘rectal’ and work hard not to roll my eyes.
‘The forensic report registered the body at 70 degrees. Ten degrees lower than the likely range. Particularly given the warm weather we’ve had. ’
I pause to let them digest this.
‘That would leave two possibilities,’ I continue. ‘The first is that Simone died earlier than first assumed.’
‘Not possible given the number of people who saw Simone alive the night before her death,’ fills in Ortiz.
I nod. ‘I thought the same. Which only leaves the second option. Simone’s body must have been moved from someplace cooler.’