“Detectives,” he called out. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Sorry we’re late,” Kylie said. “Zach and I were out of the city, and—”
“No, no, no. I wasn’t chastising you about the time,” he said, pocketing the e-cig. “It’s just that I’ve made some interesting findings, and I’ve been rather anxious to get the two of you in the loop.”
“Chuck,” I said, “we are so far out of the loop that we don’t even know who the victims are.”
“Even better,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go upstairs and take a look.”
We took the elevator to the third floor, where Kylie and I had met with the Bassett brothers just a few nights ago. Leo’s showpiece apartment now looked like a triage center where technicians wearing latex gloves and disposable shoe covers probed, dusted, and photographed every inch. The air smelled of wine and death.
We followed Chuck into the kitchen. There were two bodies stretched out on the slate-gray tile. The first was short, fat, and viciously mutilated. It was Leo Bassett.
“Twenty-two stab wounds,” Dryden said. “Most of them defensive.”
I surveyed the room. There was broken glass everywhere: wine bottles, ceramic bowls, a crystal decanter — all of which must have been knocked off the counter as Leo tried to fight off his assailant.
“He put up a good fight,” I said.
“Not good enough. Here’s the winner,” Dryden said, pointing at the second body.
The man was about half Leo’s age. The left side of his face was resting in a puddle of wine, and the front of his shirt had a similar red stain, only this one was emanating from the hole in the center of his chest.
“Do you recognize him?” Dryden asked.
I shook my head. “Should we?”
He produced an iPad and brought up a photo. It was the fuzzy surveillance screenshot we had captured from Elliott Moritz’s security video the night Raymond Davis was murdered.
“It could be the same guy,” I said.
“I ran it through facial recognition software. It is. His name is Jeremy Nevins. The weapon came from here.”
There was a large wooden knife block sitting on the counter. Seven of the eight slots still had knives in them. One slot was empty.
Chuck held up an evidence bag. A bloody knife that matched the seven in the block was inside. “It wound up on the other side of the room when Nevins was shot, but his prints are all over it.”
“Nevins killed Leo,” Kylie said. “You could make our jobs a lot easier if you also happen to know who killed Nevins.”
Dryden beamed. He was smitten with Kylie, but he had limited social skills, so he relied on his forensic expertise to win her approval. He held up a second evidence bag. This one contained a .357 Magnum.
“It belongs to Max Bassett. He turned it over to the first officer on the scene. Said he was upstairs, heard the scuffle between Leo and Nevins, and raced down to see what was going on.”
“He raced down with a loaded .357?” Kylie said.
Dryden shrugged. “I didn’t ask. I’m not a detective.”
“For a guy who’s not a detective, you just helped us close out the Raymond Davis murder,” she said. “No wonder you were so anxious to connect with us. Thank you, Chuck.”
“My pleasure.”
“Where can we find Max Bassett?” she asked.
“He’s waiting for you in the den. Two officers are with him. But there’s one more thing I need to share with you before you go.”
“Share away,” she said. “You’re on a roll.”
He held up a third evidence bag. Inside was a diamond and emerald necklace. He handed it to Kylie.
“Oh, Chuck,” she said, playing to his male ego. “Thank you. It’s just what I always wanted.”
Chapter 55
“Where the hell did you find that?” I said.
“It was wrapped up in a chamois cloth in Mr. Nevins’s backpack,” Chuck said. “I’ve already verified the laser inscriptions. It’s the necklace you’ve been looking for, but you don’t seem particularly happy that I’ve recovered it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that three people have already died for that bag of green rocks and pressurized carbon. Elena Travers, Raymond Davis, and Leo Bassett. Every cop instinct in my body tells me that Teddy Ryder had the necklace — he was just too dumb to know how to unload it. But if you found it on Nevins, then Teddy’s body is probably rotting in a dumpster somewhere.”
“Along with his con artist mother,” Kylie said.
One of the uniformed cops approached us. “Hate to interrupt you, Detectives, but Mr. Bassett says he needs a drink.”
“Tell him to take a number,” Kylie snapped. “Right about now, we all do.”
The cop took a step back. “Sorry, ma’am, but he told me to tell you that his brother was murdered, he just killed a guy, and he’d like to get shit-faced, but he doesn’t want to start until he’s been interviewed by the detectives.”
“How considerate,” Kylie said. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”
The cop escorted us to what Dryden had referred to as Leo Bassett’s den. There was nothing den-like about it. To me it looked more like the parlor of an eighteenth-century brothel, but then Leo and I didn’t share the same design sensibilities. Brother Max, wearing camo cargo shorts and an Everlast T-shirt, looked equally out of sync with the decor.
He was standing next to a spindle-legged desk, a bottle of water in one hand. “Detectives,” he said, frowning like a customer who had to wait too long for a salesclerk.
“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Bassett,” I said. “Please tell us what happened.”
“It was about nine o’clock. I was in my studio on the fourth floor, working on a new piece, when I heard Leo’s doorbell ring. Then I heard the elevator go up and stop on three. I didn’t think much about it. Leo gets quite a few late-night visitors. After that I got lost in my work, so I’m not sure how much time went by before I heard the yelling.”
“Who was yelling?”
“Leo. I told you when you were here the other night that my brother is a total diva. He’s been throwing hissy fits and teary-eyed tantrums for sixty years. I’m immune to it.”
“Could you make out what he was saying?” I said.
“Not at first, but then it got louder, and I heard the other guy scream ‘a million dollars,’ and my ears perked up. Leo has had more than his share of noisy breakups with boyfriends, which is none of my business, but this was about money — a lot of money — and if Leo is spending it, that is my business.
“I was deciding if I should go downstairs and find out what was happening when I heard glass break. Then Leo yelled, ‘Max, help! He’s got a knife!’ After that, it was chaos. More glass shattering, and Leo screaming these horrible, ghastly shrieks and calling my name.
“I grabbed a gun and ran down one flight of stairs, but by the time I got to the kitchen, Leo was on the floor, the blood pouring out of him. Then this maniac came at me with the knife. I didn’t hesitate. I’m an expert marksman, Detective. One shot, and it was over. I ran to my brother, but the knife must have severed one of his arteries. He was dead before I could even dial 911.”
“Do you know the man who stabbed him?”
“I’ve met him a few times. His name is Jeremy Nevins.”
“We showed you his picture yesterday,” I said. “How come you didn’t recognize him then?”
He stiffened. “Maybe because all you showed me was an out-of-focus black-and-white that looked like it was shot by a convenience-store camera sometime before the turn of the century. Of course I didn’t recognize him from that picture. Hell, Leo had a schoolboy crush on the man, and he didn’t even recognize him.”