“Another cop,” Quentin said. “It’s got to be. Who’ve you pissed off, Aunt Patti?”
22
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
1:30 a.m.
Spencer eased to a stop in front of the Garden District mansion. Tony had already arrived, as had the coroner’s representative. The first officers had cordoned off the scene.
A smattering of residents stood on their porches gawking, probably shaking in their Cole Haans and Manolo Blahniks, Spencer thought, as they acknowledged the horrible truth: money might be able to buy you a flood-free home in a ritzy neighborhood, but longevity was another story. When fate called, there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.
Tonight that call had come in the form of a bullet.
Spencer signed in, then ducked under the police line. Tony caught sight of him and ambled over. “Took you long enough, Slick.”
“Kiss mine, Pasta Man.” He motioned toward the victim. “What’s his story?”
“One bullet to the back of his head as he was climbing out of his car.”
“Poor bastard.”
“Not any poor bastard,” Tony said. “Marcus Gabrielle.”
It took a moment for the name to register. When it did Spencer whistled. “Stacy’s undercover suspect. She’s going to be really pissed.”
“So’s her boss. Goodbye investigation.”
“Think it’s related to his extracurricular activities? Maybe somebody in his chain got wind of the investigation.”
“It’d be my guess. Getting whacked is a consequence of being a bad boy.”
Spencer moved his gaze slowly over the area, then crossed to Gabrielle. Other than the victim sprawled in a bloody mess on the driveway, nothing looked out of order.
He squatted beside the man, who lay on his back beside his vehicle, the center of his face blown away. The driver’s-side door stood open; his car keys were still clenched in his right hand.
“Wallet missing?” he asked.
“Nope.”
Spencer saw the gleam of gold at his wrist. After fitting on gloves, he eased aside the victim’s bloodstained shirt cuff to get a look at it. A Rolex. With diamonds.
“A kick-ass piece of bling.”
Tony indicated his left hand. “Check out the ring. This was no robbery.”
What it looked like was an execution.
“Wife saw him last. Around 9:45.” Tony scratched his head. “She could be the shooter, though she was pretty hysterical. Seemed legit.”
“Somebody’s with her now?”
“A neighbor and a uniform.”
Spencer nodded. “You’re sure he was getting out of the car? Look at the way his body landed. His left hand was on the handle, keys in his right. He opens the door, somebody from the street comes up to him, nails him from behind.”
Tony nodded. “If he’d been climbing out of the car, he would have twisted the other way, fallen on his face.”
Spencer stood, stepped around the body to inspect the inside of the vehicle. “If the wife had been welcoming him home with a bullet, seems she’d have gotten him front on. Brains would be splattered behind him, not in front.”
“Brains have a way of doing that.”
“You know it, Pasta Man.”
“Rules out the wife being the shooter. Unless she was hiding in the bushes waiting for him, which would mean leaving the kids alone inside.”
Spencer pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. “Shall we question the grieving widow?”
“We shall,” Tony intoned. “After you, Slick.”
They found the woman in the front parlor; she was a trim blond sporting a huge diamond. Spencer placed her age somewhere between late twenties and early thirties.
“Mrs. Gabrielle,” he said gently. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
She nodded, looking a hairbreadth from falling apart. “This is our neighbor, Joe Williams.”
The man stood and shook both their hands. Spencer always found it interesting the way people fell back on social niceties, even at a time like this.
“The kids are with my wife,” the man said. “Next door.” He sat back down. “Took them the back way so they wouldn’t-”
See their daddy’s brains splattered all over the driveway. Good choice.
Spencer thanked him, then turned back to the wife. “When did you last see your husband?”
“Sometime after nine but before ten. We had just gotten the children down.”
“Can you be more specific about the time?”
She shredded the damp tissue she clutched in her hands. “It’s a struggle to get them into bed…I know we should start at eight-thirty, but it’s always nine.”
Her tone had become at once defensive and pleading, as if she had to justify her parenting to him.
Tony stepped in. “I know just what you mean. I raised four of ’em. The weirdest thing about our empty nest is how quiet it is at 9:00 p.m.”
“Go on,” Spencer urged gently.
She looked gratefully at Tony. “It was nine-thirty, I think. Maybe even a little after.”
“What happened then?”
“I said good night and told him to be-” Her voice cracked and her lips began to tremble.
“What, Mrs. Gabrielle?”
“I told him to be careful.”
“He was going out.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She lowered her eyes, looking uncomfortable.
One moment passed, then another. Spencer tried again. “Your husband went out a lot at night, didn’t he?”
She nodded, still not meeting his eyes.
“Do you know where he went?” When she didn’t answer, he asked again. “Do you, Mrs. Gabrielle?”
“He was a good husband!” she cried. “A good father and provider! So what if he visited those clubs? It was business! The clients liked them. They wanted-”
She broke down sobbing. The neighbor glared at them, then awkwardly patted her back. Tony handed her the tissue box. She took it, whispering “Thanks.”
“Your husband was a Realtor?” Spencer asked when she had composed herself again.
“Yes.”
“Did he have any other business dealings that you know of?”
She lifted her gaze. “I don’t understand.”
“Did he have another source of income?”
She frowned, glanced at the neighbor, then back at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you have full access to your finances, Mrs. Gabrielle?”
“Of course! I’m his-” Her face flooded with angry color. “Why are you asking about this? My husband’s been killed. You should be asking…trying to find the animal who…who shot my husband!”
“We are,” Tony said softly, “trust me, Mrs. Gabrielle. Do you know anyone who might have wished your husband harm?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Any business dealings gone bad? Fights with clients? Anything like that?”
“No.” Her voice rose. “No.”
Spencer shifted focus. “How did you discover that your husband had been shot?”
“Joe called. Told me the interior lights in Marcus’s car were on. I knew that…couldn’t be…so I-”
Went out to investigate. And found her husband in a pool of blood.
Spencer turned to the neighbor. “What time was that, Mr. Williams? When you noticed the lights?”
“Maybe 12:30, 12:45. Something like that.”
“You usually up so late?”
He frowned slightly. “Not usually. I had horrible heartburn. I ate fried oysters. I love them, but they don’t love me.” He shifted his gaze between the detectives, working, Spencer thought, a bit too hard to appear innocent. “Went to the kitchen to get an antacid…saw the lights and called over.”
“What happened next?”
“I heard Kim screaming and ran out to see what was wrong.”
Spencer closed his notebook and stood. Tony followed him to his feet. “Thank you, Mrs. Gabrielle. We’ll be in touch.”
“Wait!” She stood, swaying slightly on her feet. “What do I do now? I mean…what’s next?”