MASS MURDER Read online

  He turned and scanned the building behind him. The kitchen doorway stuck out about ten feet from the main building. A metal ladder bolted to the wall extended up to the short, flat roof. Another ladder, perhaps a fire escape, extended from the roof above the door to the window at the end of the upstairs hallway. Although this could provide a means of escape, it was doubtful anyone could climb out the window and down the ladders carrying a dead body.

  He decided to follow the walkway around the northwest corner of the building and entered a winding tunnel of low-hanging trees, old-growth bushes, and a series of buttresses that braced the exterior wall. The outdoor lights were practically useless, making him realize that anyone using the walkway would be invisible above the knees. A hundred yards farther on, he encountered a statue of the Virgin Mary flanked by two plain, cement benches. Here, a second path disappeared up the hill into the dark.

  The sound of a door opening from somewhere behind him prompted him to duck behind the statue. A draped silhouette glided silently up the hillside into a clump of bushes. There was a scratching sound, followed by a glow that pierced the darkness. One of the priests was having a cigarette. Giorgio smiled, thinking even a man of the cloth has his vices. This interested him less than the fact a rear door was missing a security light. Something he would check the next day.

  Giorgio returned to the main lobby where he ran into Swan.

  “I sent the janitor home,” he informed Swan. “He left a thermos behind. Let’s make sure we secure it for him.”

  Swan nodded just as the front door swung open. A woman in her early thirties, wearing shoulder-length, bleached blonde hair and tight green slacks blew in with the wind. A cashmere sweater and leather waistcoat accentuated her trim figure. She approached Giorgio, her eyes focused on him as if he were the biggest lobster at a seafood restaurant.

  “I’m Anya Peters. I need to know what happened here. Where’s Mr. Marsh? Where are Father Damian and Ms. Levinsky?” She only caught her breath at the end of her list of questions.

  Giorgio noticed the heavy makeup used to cover pockmarked skin. He produced his badge.

  “I’m Detective Salvatori. This is officer Swan. You’re the Event Coordinator?”

  “Yes.” She seemed surprised he knew who she was. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Perhaps we could go into Father Damian’s office.”

  Giorgio started for the office, but the woman remained where she was, her jaw locked in stubborn determination. Caught in between the two of them, Swan shifted his weight uncomfortably.

  “I don’t think you understand. I need to know what happened, and then I need to speak with Mr. Marsh”

  Swan drifted in Giorgio’s direction. Inwardly, Giorgio smiled, thinking how easily an angry woman can intimidate a man, even one the size of Swan.

  “I understand, Ms. Peters. However, we’re conducting an investigation here, and you may have information that could be helpful. Now, if you don’t mind.” He allowed his sentence to trail off as he gestured to the office door.

  She looked at him and then at Swan, finally making a decision. As she strode past Giorgio, he noticed the pearl earring that pulled at her ear lobe. She stepped into the middle of Damian’s office, while Giorgio crossed behind her toward the red, upholstered settee that sat against the wall.

  “Why don’t we sit over here? You’ll be more comfortable.”

  “No!” she blurted, stopping Giorgio halfway to a sitting position.

  He faltered, feeling more than a little confused. “Okay. Why don’t we take these chairs then?”

  He pulled a couple of straight-backed chairs away from a round table. She plopped down and crossed her legs, exposing shapely ankles accented with a gold ankle bracelet. Despite the blotchy skin, she was an attractive woman and seemed to know it as she slipped off the leather coat, exposing the firm fit of her sweater. With a short flutter of lashes, she looked at him as if she suddenly had all the time in the world.

  “You were saying, Detective?”

  He opened his notepad by way of distraction. When he looked up, he caught her glancing in the direction of the settee.

  “I understand you handle all booking arrangements and that you were here this evening?”

  “I’m always here for the events, just to make sure things are running smoothly. Some of these events are complicated. I want my customers to be satisfied.”

  She stretched her foot out, bringing attention to her ankles.

  “What time was the banquet scheduled to begin?”

  “Cocktails began at six. We opened the doors for dinner at six forty-five.”

  “And the bar was set up in the lobby?”

  “Yes.” Her answers were short, forcing Giorgio to ponder her defensive attitude.

  “What time was the dinner scheduled to end?”

  “Around eight-thirty. It was only three courses.”

  “And there was to be a program after that?”

  “It was some kind of game. They asked for a microphone and podium at the head table. I give them whatever they want.”

  She smiled in the same way she might swallow good wine and then shifted in the chair so that her back arched, pressing her breasts against the confines of the sweater. Giorgio wondered at the charade.

  “Once the dinner began, your job was over for the evening?”

  She stared at him before answering, her green eyes impassive. “Yes. I only stay to make sure there are no problems. I think I said that.”

  “So you left around seven o’clock?” Giorgio watched her reaction, noticing that she hesitated before answering.

  “Around seven-thirty, I think. I said goodnight to Mr. Marsh. You can ask him.” She stuck her chin out as if making a challenge.

  “You’re not under any kind of suspicion at this point, Ms. Peters. I’m only trying to get the facts. After saying goodnight to Mr. Marsh, you left and went straight home, I presume.”

  Again, she hesitated, pulling her purse into her lap. “Yes.”

  “And you remained there until Father Damian called you a little while ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did he call you?”

  “About eleven o’clock. He was quite upset.”

  “Did anyone else contact you during the evening? Anyone from the monastery?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  As the green eyes searched his face, he could’ve sworn the turned-up nose twitched as if casting a spell.

  “Just wondering,” he replied. “Do you use the same catering company for every function?”

  “Yes. Food for Thought. They’re very good.”

  “And you’re familiar with the staff?”

  “Many of them, yes.”

  “Did you see anyone with them tonight that you didn’t recognize?”

  She pondered the question, seeming to grasp the diversion with relish. “I’m not sure. Let me see. I hadn’t seen one of the bartenders before.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Medium height. Muscular. He had dark eyes and an earring.”

  “Earring?”

  “Yes. I think in his left ear.”

  She raised her hand to her own ear by way of clarification, but a brief expression of panic crossed her face as she noticed one of her own earrings was missing. Her eyes darted in the direction of the settee again. Giorgio pretended not to notice.

  “Had you met the deceased?”

  “Actually, no one has told me yet who was killed.”

  Her lower lip extended in a petulant expression as if she’d been left off the invitation list for a sorority party.

  “It was a woman named Mallery Olsen. She was a literary agent.” He watched her closely and was more than a little curious to see her sigh, as if relieved.

  “I really only know Mr. Marsh and Ms. Levinsky.”

  “You didn’t happen to see anyone come to the dinner late?”

  “I was back in my office getting ready to leave.”
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br />   “And where is your office, Ms. Peters?”

  “Just around the corner from here.” She gestured and then drew her fingers across the soft fibers of the sweater just above her bosom.

  “Where do you park your car?”

  The question caught her off guard and the fingers froze somewhere around her cleavage.

  “In the west lot.”

  “Did you see anyone outside when you left?”

  She hesitated again.

  “Just what are you implying?” The game was over, and Ms. Peters didn’t like losing. Giorgio rose.

  “I just need to know if anyone can verify what time you left.”

  She got up, the alluring green eyes now ablaze.

  “I’m not sure what you’re up to, Detective, but I don’t like it.”

  “I hope you’re not going out of town soon. We may need to talk with you again.”

  She brushed past him and left the room, leaving a vapor trail of animosity behind. The moment the door closed, Giorgio turned to the settee and ran his hand around the seat cushion. When his fingers hit something sharp, he withdrew a large, pearl stud earring.

  Chapter Nine

  By two-thirty that morning, Giorgio had to blink several times to read the hands on his watch. It was normal to be tired on the last night of a production. After all, six long weeks of rehearsals and three weeks of performances were exhausting. Add to that the long workdays, a wife and two kids, and now a murder investigation, and he was running on empty.

  Swan was in the lobby talking with McCready, who was putting information into his Blackberry. McCready would begin a background check on everyone first thing in the morning. Swan acknowledged Giorgio as he approached.

  “I just got a call from Samson. He’s over at Tomlinson’s apartment. She’s not there. The neighbors said her father died, and she flew home to Atlanta. Apparently that’s why Mallery Olsen stood in for her. We’re working on a phone number in Atlanta.”

  Giorgio rubbed his eyes making them tear up. “Where’s Rocky?”

  “He’s interviewing one of the monks. We’re trying to get as many done tonight as possible. By the way, there’s a helluva storm brewing.”

  “Okay,” Giorgio replied, wiping away the moisture, “we’ll get out of here soon.” He checked his notes. “See if you can find Fathers Frances, Julio, and Daniel. They’re the newest recruits. I want to talk with them tonight, but not together.”

  “I think I just met Father Daniel. He was in the chapel, praying. I’ll send him out and then find the others.”

  Giorgio stopped Swan as he turned to leave. “Where do I get more coffee?”

  “I’ll get it,” McCready offered. He replaced the stylus on the Blackberry and turned towards the kitchen.

  Swan retreated down the corridor towards the chapel. Giorgio decided he needed more air and stepped outside. A burly wind now whipped the graceful neck of a Bird of Paradise along the walkway, making it look like a hen pecking for crumbs. He wandered down the brick path, past a clump of billowing Pampas grass, to the drive. The valley lights, which had burned so brightly only hours before, had been replaced by pregnant clouds threatening to deliver their load at any moment. Even the palm trees that lined the drive had become a row of dancing men swaying in rhythm to the wind.

  Giorgio stuffed his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath, hoping the cool air would revive him. He stopped on the far side of the marble fountain. All three fluted tiers of the basin’s edges were lit by underwater spotlights. A single water jet erupted from the top tier like a flower opening to the sun. The floor of the lower basin was inlaid with colorful tile depicting richly plumed birds perched in the midst of a garden of bold flowers. The clear water splashed and gurgled above them, reminding Giorgio of a time when he was twelve and his father had taken his sons to the zoo. While his dad stood in line for hotdogs, the boys ran to a nearby fountain with the intention of getting each other wet. Floating in the leaf-strewn water was a dead Blue Jay; its eyes glazed milky white. Rocky tried to grab it, but Giorgio just stood there, trapped in the gaze of its dead eyes. It wasn’t until his father appeared with the food that he reluctantly turned away.

  Giorgio’s eyes were fixated now on the small, beaked face of a ceramic bird at the bottom of the fountain. It wasn’t until a clanging noise engaged his brain that he withdrew his attention and turned back toward the building. Fatigue worked on his body like a drug forcing him to gaze at the massive structure through half blurry eyes. The wind rattled a large, knotted oak tree that stood against the front of the building, manipulating its strong branches into a kind of mechanical stage apparatus. Along the pale stucco exterior of the front façade, bushy shadow puppets danced a Mambo energized by the wind, while three statues bobbed in and out of a row of palmettos along the colonnade as if playing hide and seek at a carnival sideshow.

  Giorgio turned his head to look up at the bell tower. Perhaps the clanging was coming from one of the bells. Three arched windows stretched across the front of the tower, staring silently at the valley below. Only the shadow of a dangling rope was visible to one side, swinging from a second floor window to the left of the tower. It appeared to be weighted by a large sack. Scaffolding was erected against the west side of the tower, and Giorgio remembered reading that the bell tower was under repair after being damaged in a recent earthquake.

  He stepped around to the other side of the fountain hoping to see how things looked earlier that evening, but the clanging noise was giving him a headache. With a groan, he glanced over to the large metal statue of a monk standing just under the corner of the bell tower. A crucifix hanging from a chain around the priest’s waist was being slapped against the cast iron robe by the wind. The monk was a formidable figure in the dark with a raised sword pointed to the heavens. The priestly robes had been cast as if blowing in an unearthly wind, while the real wind seemed about to bring the commanding figure to life. Giorgio shuddered, partially from the cold, and partially from the feeling the priest was about to step off the huge platform into reality.

  He turned his attention back to the rope, wondering why it was there and what had been tied to it. But the rope was gone. There was no rope and no sack to weight it, making him doubt he’d ever seen it. After all, the entire building seemed to be wrestling with the approaching storm. When a fountain spray blanketed the back of his head, he cursed and decided it was time to go inside.

  Leaving the ghostly statue, the rope, and the belfry behind, he returned inside, shutting the fairytale door behind him with a dull thud. The inside warmth was a welcoming change. Outside, the wind dragged bushes across the exterior of the building with the same spine-tingling sensation fingers create crossing a blackboard. Behind the wind, the echo of the crucifix continued to punish the iron priest. When he turned away from the door and saw the boy at the top of the stairs, he stopped so short his feet could have been planted in cement.

  The boy was nine or ten years old, with round eyes rimmed in shadow. He stared at Giorgio like a barn owl in the dark and was dressed in a long-sleeved, white shirt and dark knickers, with thick suspenders pulling at his narrow shoulders. A pale, vaporous mist illuminated him in a halo of light.

  No one had mentioned anything about children on the premises and Giorgio stared back, dumbfounded. It was several moments before he noticed the boy was clutching something in his left hand. Before Giorgio could make out what it was, the heavy wooden door behind him blew open again, bringing with it a cold draft of air. He turned and shoved the door closed making sure it latched this time. When he swung back around the boy was gone.

  Giorgio leapt into action. He took the stairs two at a time, skidding to a stop at the landing. The hallway on both sides was empty. There was no sign of the boy anywhere. He dared not start knocking on doors for fear of disturbing guests, but when a cold pair of fingers brushed against his cheek, he flinched backwards down the stairs, his eyes focused on where he’d seen the boy. When he reached the foyer he paused, a
lmost willing the boy to return. But nothing moved at the top of the stairs.

  He waited until a soft noise made him spin around, his hand automatically reaching for his weapon. The chandeliers had been extinguished, leaving only the wall sconces to provide light in the large, vacuous room. When something by the far window moved, he pulled the gun halfway from its holster. The shadow shifted again, and he realized it was a woman sitting on a window seat staring out the window. He moved in cautiously to stand above her, his hand still resting on his weapon. She leaned on her inside hand, while she stared into the brewing storm outside, either ignoring him or oblivious to his presence.

  “Excuse me.” Giorgio spoke softly thinking she might be asleep. “Are you all right?”

  She looked up, her eyes lost in deep shadow. She seemed to study him for a moment before turning back to the window. The branches of the oak tree raked the window while leaves fluttered grotesquely in the shallow light outside.

  “You’re with the police.” She made it a statement rather than a question.

  “I’m Detective Salvatori. Has someone taken your statement yet?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been here all night?”

  “Yes. I’ve just been sitting here.” Her reply was lazy, as if she’d been drugged or perhaps dazed by the tragedy.

  “Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?”

  “I don’t want anything.” A long pause stretched between them until she sighed. “We were supposed to have a mystery tonight. Did you know that?”

  “No.” He relaxed a bit and sat on the arm of a nearby chair. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “I wrote it,” she said distantly. “A game, called Dead to Rights.” She chuckled, but it caught in her throat. “It was a play on words, you see.”