Murder with a Twist (5 page)

D
uncan said, “Walter Finch and his partner, Adam, have the girlfriend in her apartment, which is in this building, one floor up. I need to go talk to her and, if you don't mind, I'd like you to come along. You don't need to talk, but I'd like you to observe her and see what type of reactions you have, if any. I'm particularly interested in the cigarette thing, but I haven't been in her apartment myself yet to see if there's any obvious evidence that she's a smoker. If there is, you won't need to sniff her hands.”

He winked at me to let me know he was joking, at least a little bit, although his next words sort of belied that. “If there is no obvious odor in the apartment, or any ashtrays or packs of cigarettes lying around, then I'd be curious to see if you can detect anything on her. How close do you think you need to be to her if that becomes necessary?”

“I don't need to snuggle with her, if that's what you're asking,” I said. “If we are sitting relatively close, like at the same table, I should be able to pick it up.”

A few minutes later, I met Shelly Dominsky, a tall, slender woman who looked to be in her midthirties. She had short, curly brown hair with bangs, thin lips, and blue eyes that at the moment were puffy and rimmed in red from crying. Glasses with a modern rectangular frame sat atop her head, their proximity making me suspect she needed them for vision and wasn't just wearing them as a fashion statement.

Duncan introduced me as a consultant, a title that made Adam shoot me a curious look. Both Walter and Adam were regulars at my bar, frequently stopping in at the end of their shift for a nightcap or two, but as far as I knew, only Walter was in on my little secret. Though, to be honest, what I knew about cop partners led me to believe they shared pretty much everything. So I figured there was one more person who would know my secret if he didn't already, which didn't bode well for my goal of keeping it under wraps.

There was no odor of cigarette smoke in Shelly's apartment, nor was there any visible evidence of smoking, such as an ashtray. Even before Duncan began his questioning of the woman, I knew she wasn't the person who had typed the suicide note. The sound I typically heard whenever I smelled cigarette smoke was absent. I did, however, hear the faint washing machine sound I'd heard in Dan's apartment and knew that it must be a manifestation of some odor on Shelly's body, hair, or clothing.

Shelly's apartment was nearly identical to Thornton's. We sat at a small table similar to the one that had held the suicide note, and I listened as Duncan questioned Shelly about her relationship with Dan Thornton. Shelly told him that they had originally met at work, but had known each other for more than a year before they started dating.

“Dan was the one who helped me get this apartment,” Shelly said. “I was in a bad situation with a roommate I couldn't stand and I wanted to move. Finding something I could afford seemed impossible until Dan told me that a couple living in the apartment above him bought a house and they were moving out at the end of the month. He put in a good word for me with the landlord, and I was able to move in right away. I've been here three months now.”

“How long had you and Dan been dating?” Duncan asked.

“Our six-month anniversary is . . .” She stopped herself and hiccupped a sob. “It would have been next week,” she concluded, tears welling in her eyes. “We were happy . . . or at least I thought we were. I spent some time with him last evening and he seemed fine.”

“What time did you leave?” Duncan asked.

“Around ten. We were in bed and he wanted me to spend the night, but I wasn't feeling so hot all of a sudden. I think the fish I ate for dinner might have been bad because I spent most of the night running to the bathroom. Dan was fine when I left, I swear.” Tears were flowing freely now, and she swiped at them irritably as they tracked down her cheeks. “I tried to call him this morning to let him know I was okay, but he didn't answer. After several tries, I went down and let myself in. We swapped keys a while back.”

“Did Dan ever say anything to you about playing fast with the company money?” Duncan asked.

Shelly shook her head vehemently. “I read that note, but I don't believe it,” she said. “Dan's the most honest and moral person I know. I just can't see him stealing money from people. And as far as I know, he doesn't make bets or gamble.” She swiped at her tears, sighed, and then combed a hand through her hair, pushing the fringe of bangs off her forehead. “It just doesn't make any sense,” she said, shaking her head.

“Did you touch the note at all?” Duncan asked.

Shelly shook her head again. “I read it from a few feet away. I didn't want to get anywhere near it.”

“You two worked together, is that right?”

Shelly nodded. “Yeah, Dan's been with Stratford and Weber for two years now. I was there for several years before he came on board. He joined us straight out of college, but he has a master's degree and I only have a bachelor's. I'm going back, though, just as soon as I get my feet on the ground financially.”

“How has Dan done at Stratford and Weber?”

“Really well,” Shelly said. “In fact, he passed over several people when he got a promotion six months ago. It opened up a position in his group and I took it. That's when he and I got close. But we keep things strictly professional at work because we're not supposed to date people from our own investment group.”

“Did Dan's promotion create some bad feelings?”

Shelly shrugged and blew her nose. “There was some grumbling from some of the others, but it was hard to argue with Dan's success. He works . . .
worked
hard and earned that promotion.”

Duncan spent a little more time with her, verifying the calls she said she made this morning by checking her cell phone, and getting the names and numbers of the people she and Dan worked and socialized with. Shelly responded in a sad, bereaved monotone interspersed with sniffles. I felt sorry for her, and what's more, I believed her. Her words, her tone of voice, her expressions . . . they all felt—and tasted—right to me.

When we left her apartment, I told Duncan this and explained that I meant it in the most literal sense. At the risk of branding myself as some sort of freakish human lie detector, most of the time I can tell when someone is lying. I don't know if it's a quality in their voice that I pick up on, or if it's some subtle body language or facial tic, but most of the time I can tell. Unfortunately, most of the time isn't all of the time, and I've been fooled before. I think the cause on those occasions was the extraordinary ability of the other person to lie without guilt, remorse, or compunction. I'm not a shrink—though bartenders seem to come close at times—but I do know that there are certain types of personality disorders that make some people professionals when it comes to deception.

The crime scene techs were onsite in Thornton's apartment, and all the dishes had been bagged and tagged. The body had been removed, and the technicians—a group of three women and one man, all of them dressed in gray jumpsuits, gloves, and paper bonnets and booties—were standing in the foyer along with Karl Jensen awaiting Duncan's return and instructions.

“I'm sorry to keep you all waiting,” Duncan said to the techs. “But I want to take a look around the rest of the apartment with my consultant before you guys go anywhere else in here.”

“If there's something in particular you're looking for, all you have to do is tell us,” one of the women techs said, looking annoyed.

“I don't think that will work in this situation,” Duncan said cryptically, winking at me. “Have you guys had lunch yet?”

There was a mumbled chorus of nos from the evidence techs, and a “Hell, no!” from Karl Jensen. Duncan took out his cell phone, punched in a number, and ordered two pizzas to be delivered to the apartment. He paid for them by giving his credit card number and when he was done, he said to the group, “You can eat out in the hallway. Hopefully by the time you're done, we will be, too.”

He then turned and grabbed some booties and gloves from the technicians' supply, and handed me a pair of each. “I want to walk you through the entire place once before we leave,” he said as I put the booties on. “Try not to bump into or touch anything. We can go as slow or as fast as you like. Just walk around and absorb. Do that thing that you do. Okay?”

I shrugged and nodded. The techs all exchanged looks that told me what they thought of the idea, but no one said anything. I suspected they didn't want to bite the hand that was literally feeding them.

The techs headed out to the hallway, and over the next forty minutes, Duncan and I walked around the small apartment. He handed me a notebook and a pencil at the start, and I jotted down some notes as we went along. I experienced several episodes of strong reactions to things, some of which I understood, and some of which I didn't.

When we were done, he said, “When we get back to the bar, I want to sort through any experiences you've had here and try to figure out what they might mean while they're still fresh in your mind. We can search Cora's database to see if we can figure out any of the ones you don't understand.”

We headed back out into the hallway. It smelled wonderful, a rich aroma of tomatoes and Italian spices that made my stomach rumble and triggered a sound like the hum of a well-tuned engine. The food had done much to ameliorate the frustration of the evidence techs and the on-duty officer. They all looked sated, happy, and like they would be content to sit in the hallway for another hour or so.

Jimmy arrived—I hadn't realized he was gone until he came back—and took Duncan off into a far corner where they shared a whispered conversation. I could tell from the looks I was getting that it somehow involved me. After five minutes or so of this heated but whispered give-and-take, Jimmy left looking frustrated. Duncan came back over to me and said, “Jimmy is going to round up some of the people Dan Thornton worked and socialized with and bring them down to the station for questioning. Would you be willing to come along and observe?”

“Just observe?” I asked, suspicious that he wanted more.

“Busted,” Duncan said with a guilty grin. “I want to see what kind of sensations you get from them.”

“I want to help, but I need to get back to the bar,” I said, glancing at my watch.

“Billy, Debra, and that new cook, Jon, you hired can handle it. Plus I happen to know that you gave keys to Billy, Debra, and your day bartender, Pete, even though I advised you not to. They not only manage fine when things are open, they come in early to do prep work. Nice try, but face it, you've set things up so that the bar functions just fine without you. You aren't going to wiggle out of this that easily.”

He had me there. With a reluctant smile, I said, “Fine.”

“I am willing to compromise, however. Since I have to wait for Jimmy to track down the people we need to talk to, we have a little time to kill. Are you hungry?”

“Sure. I haven't eaten anything since the coffee and muffin I grabbed just before we left this morning.”

“Why don't we head back to your bar for lunch and fix a couple of those outstanding BLTs of yours.”

I do make a mean BLT with sourdough bread, Nueske's bacon, heirloom tomatoes, and herbed mayonnaise with a pinch of basil and garlic in it. They are the most popular item on my bar menu.

As we drove back to the bar, Duncan took several calls, leaving us little time to talk about anything else. Jimmy was one of those callers, and he let Duncan know that he had arranged for three of Dan Thornton's coworkers to come down to the station an hour from now. Apparently his job was made easy because all three of them were having lunch at a competing bar in town, and they agreed to come down to the station as a group.

When we got to the bar, I did a quick check-in with my staff and then headed toward the kitchen to make the sandwiches. But Duncan steered me down the back hallway instead, grabbed my arm, and pulled me up against his chest, making my body explode with both real and synesthetic reactions.

“I need to make our sandwiches,” I said, breathless. I have a talent for uttering inane things at the most inopportune moments.

“I think we need an appetizer first,” he said, his voice hoarse and bittersweet. Then he took me by the hand and led me upstairs to my apartment.

W
hen we arrived at the police station just under an hour later, still as hungry as we were before—for food, anyway—Duncan led me through a maze of doors and hallways until we ended up in a small room with windows on three sides, each one looking into another room. These rooms, which Duncan informed me were used for interrogations, were simple and small, each one fitted with a table, a couple of chairs, and blank walls.

“You can observe directly from in here,” Duncan told me, indicating a chair I could sit on that was as high as one of my bar stools. “Each room is equipped with a video camera and everything that takes place is recorded. You're welcome to look at the recordings if you like, but you've told me it's easier for you when things are live, so to speak.” He made little finger air quotes when he said the word
live
.

“It is,” I agreed. “I don't get the same sensations when I'm looking at a picture of something that I get when I'm looking at the real thing. I'm not sure how a video recording will affect me, but I do find that some of my reactions are either missing or minimized when I'm watching TV or a movie. So I'm assuming it would be the same here.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” Duncan said, gesturing toward the chair. He then handed me a tablet and a pencil. “Here's something to write with so you can record your reactions. I'd also like to fix you with a small microphone that will be connected to an earpiece I'll be wearing. That way you can provide me with direct feedback while I'm talking to these people.”

I nodded and climbed onto the chair, which Duncan had turned so that it was facing the room straight ahead, opposite the door we had come in. Then he handed me a headset with an attached mouthpiece.

“I'm not sure if you should just hold onto this and use it as a microphone only, or wear the headpiece with the earphones,” Duncan said. “There are two ways for you to listen in on my interrogations. You can either use the switch on the wall here,” he said, pointing to a speaker box with a knob below it that could be turned to point to a number one, two, or three. Duncan turned the knob so that it was pointing to the two. “Or you can listen through the headphones. We typically use the headphones when there's more than one interrogation going on because having more than one speaker on in here gets confusing. At the moment, there are no plans to use the other rooms, so I doubt that will be an issue for you, but I'm not sure which method will work best for you with regard to your synesthesia.”

“I'm not sure, either,” I said. “In fact, just being behind this window may interfere. So many of my reactions are dependent upon my immediacy to the person or object in question—to things like air currents, and subtle temperature changes, and small molecules of smell. If I'm not in the room with the person you're talking to, I'm not sure how much I'll be able to pick up.”

“I'd rather not have you in the room with these people if we can avoid it,” Duncan said. “It might be too much of a distraction and I don't want to jeopardize the interviews in any way by having a third party in there who's not part of the legal system. I know this is hard enough for you as it is and I want to minimize your exposure as much as I can. However, if it turns out that being in the room is the only way you can do what you need to do, I'll figure something out.”

“Who are you going to be talking to?”

“Jimmy had a chat with Dan Thornton's boss. The firm operates under a peer group structure so that each of the investment counselors, like Dan, is part of a group. All of their investment decisions are discussed and decided upon by that group, and each group has at least one junior partner, plus a senior partner who oversees things. The individuals in the group are still allowed to make some independent decisions as to what they do with their money, and apparently that's where Dan Thornton excelled. This peer group structure seems to have worked well for the company, and their returns on investment are a tad bit higher than the industry average. Anyway, we figured it made sense to talk with the members of Dan's group first. We have all three of the people Shelly mentioned sitting out front waiting. That's all I'm going to tell you about them for now. I'll let you draw your own conclusions from what you hear. You okay with that?”

“That will be fine.”

“If you have anything you want to tell me while I'm in there, speak into the headset, okay?”

I nodded, and Duncan left the room. I settled back on the chair to wait, and a minute or so later, Duncan entered the interrogation room with a man who looked to be in his late twenties. He was short, maybe five-six, with blond, nappy hair cut close to his head, a broad face with very pale blue eyes that looked huge behind thick-lensed glasses, and milky white skin. He had a pudgy build and a soft look about him that made me think exercise was relatively low on his priority list. I knew the names of the group of people Dan worked with from our talk with Shelly, and I tried to guess which one of them this might be. Based on his coloring and his Slavic looks, I guessed right.

Duncan directed him to the chair farthest from the door and then took the one across from him, offering me a profile view of the two of them.

“Everything we say in this room is being recorded with both video and audio,” Duncan began. Then he stated his own name, the date and time, and that this interview was with Theodore Petrovski as part of an investigation into the death—I noticed he didn't mention what type of death—of Dan Thornton. When he was done with these preliminaries, he looked at Theodore and said, “For the record, can you please state your full name.”

“Theodore Petrovski.” It was obvious he was nervous. His left leg was bouncing up and down at a rapid pace, he had both hands shoved down between his legs, and his voice had a hesitant, high-pitched tone to it. “People call me Theo.”

“Where do you work, Theo?”

“At Stratford and Weber.”

“That's an investment firm, correct?”

Theo nodded and then Duncan reminded him of the recording. “I need you to verbalize your answers if you would, please.”

“Oh . . . sorry. Yes, Stratford and Weber is an investment firm.”

“You worked there with Dan Thornton?”

Theo nodded again and then caught himself. “Yes.” There were a few seconds of silence and then he added, “I can't believe Dan is dead. I was just talking to him yesterday. We went out to a bar and had a beer together.”

I wondered how Theo had heard the news, and exactly what news it had been. I suspected Dan's girlfriend had called or texted someone in the group, and that started the grapevine working. Hot news like that typically spreads very quickly, and in this day and age, with instant messaging, Facebook, Twitter, and the like, news travels lightning fast.

“Where was this bar?” Duncan asked.

Theo provided the name of a local downtown bar, one of my competitors. I wondered if it was the same one he and the others had patronized earlier today.

“What time were you there?”

“We went straight from work. I think that was around six. We had a couple of beers and then left. I got home around eight-thirty.”

“Did you and Dan work closely together?”

“I guess so,” Theo said with a shrug. “My cubicle was right behind his. We're part of the same peer group, and we hang out together a lot.”

“How long have you worked at Stratford and Weber?”

“A little over three years.”

“And did you work with Dan Thornton the entire time he worked there?”

“I did. Dan was added to our peer group right out of school. I was responsible for most of his training and orientation. We hit it off pretty well from the start, both at work and outside of it.”

“How many people are in your peer group?”

“Six. Each peer group has one senior partner, a junior partner, and four associates. Dan was promoted to junior partner six months ago. That's when Shelly joined our group.”

Duncan raised his eyebrows, as if this was news to him. “How did you and the others feel about that? I mean, didn't you have seniority over Dan?”

Theo shrugged. “Yeah, but Dan earned it. He's a hard worker. He came from a poor family and had to work two jobs to put himself through school. The guy was pretty driven.”

“What about the others in your group? How did they feel about Dan's promotion?”

Theo shrugged again. “As far as I know, there were no hard feelings, but I guess you'd have to ask them.”

“Does everyone in your group get along?”

“Well, our senior partner, George, is a lot older than the rest of us. He's a bit of a fuddy-duddy and he can be abrupt at times, but I don't think anyone in our group hates him or anything like that.”

“What is George's last name?”

“Weber,” Theo said. “He's one of the founding partners.”

“Have you ever been in Dan's apartment?”

“Sure,” Theo said with yet another shrug. I was beginning to think it was a nervous tic. “We all hang out together a lot outside of work. We put in long hours most days and that doesn't leave much time or energy for a social life. Dan and I are both gamers. We get together a lot to play, sometimes at his place and sometimes at mine. Why? Does it matter?”

“It does,” Duncan said, “because then we have a reasonable explanation for finding your fingerprints inside his apartment.”

“Oh . . . right. Yeah, I've been there a lot.” He was clearly nervous, but I wasn't sure if it was the situation in general or guilt that was causing it.

“Tell me what you do at Stratford and Weber.”

As Theo began a lengthy, detailed explanation of his usual workday, the mundane nature of the topic allowed him to relax some. I wondered if Duncan had asked about work for just this reason. Theo's voice as I heard it through the wall speaker tasted like sweetened cream, but Duncan's next question made the taste change. “How long have you known that Dan Thornton was stealing his clients' money?”

Theo leaned back against his seat as if to distance himself from the question. “I . . . he . . . Dan . . .” Theo paused, sucked in a deep breath, and blew it out slowly before trying again. “I didn't know Dan was doing anything illegal,” he said finally. “He always seemed like a straight-up guy to me. I can't believe he would do something like that.”

Theo's taste had turned bad, like soured milk. “He's very unsettled right now,” I said into the microphone Duncan had given me. “I can't tell if it's because he's lying, or if he's just extremely nervous.”

Duncan gave a very slight nod of his head to let me know he'd heard me. But before he could ask another question, Theo moved himself up the suspect ladder with his next comment.

“Am I allowed to smoke in here?”

I saw Duncan's mouth twitch, a funny little half smile. “Sorry, no,” he told Theo. “No one is allowed to smoke in any public buildings anymore. But we're almost done. I'm sure you can hold out a little longer.”

Theo flashed him a smile that was half relief, half nervous energy. “That's okay. I don't have any cigarettes on me anyway. I don't smoke all the time. If I want one, like when we're out drinking or something, I usually bum one off of Will or Cindy. I'm one of those annoying people who only smokes OPs.”

“OPs?” Duncan echoed.

“Other people's,” I said into the microphone, having heard the term in the bar many times before.

A second later Theo said the same thing. His voice still tasted sour, his leg was still bouncing, and one hand, which was no longer between his knees, was busy picking at one of his fingernails.

“Ask him to lie to you,” I said into the microphone.

Duncan didn't take his eyes off Theo, but he cocked his head to one side with a curious expression.

“I need him to say something that's a known lie so I can see how it affects the taste I have with his voice,” I explained further.

Still keeping his eyes focused on Theo, who was growing more agitated with each passing second of silence, Duncan gave a slight nod of his head to indicate he understood. “Have you ever stolen anything?” he asked Theo.

“No,” Theo answered quickly . . . too quickly.

The taste of his voice became not just sour, but rancid.

“I mean, not at my job,” Theo added. “I stole stuff when I was a kid; all kids do. But I've never stolen anything at work.”

With this last sentence, the rancid taste disappeared, morphing back into a sweeter taste with just a hint of sourness.

“I think he's telling you the truth,” I said into the microphone. “He hasn't stolen from his job, but I can't tell for sure if he knew anything about the missing money. That topic definitely rattled him, but it may have been nerves rather than lying that triggered it.”

“All right, Mr. Petrovski,” Duncan said, “I think I have what I need for now. If I have any other questions I'll give you a call. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“You mean I can go?” Theo said, looking hopeful but suspicious.

“Yes, you can go,” Duncan told him. “But don't leave town without telling me.”

Theo got up from the table and headed for the door. “Yes, sir—I mean, no, sir—I mean, I understand. Thank you.” With that he scurried out the door like the devil himself was on his tail.

Duncan looked over at the window and even though I knew his side of it was mirrored, I swore he could see me. He smiled, winked, and said, “Are you ready for the next one?”

“I am,” I said into the microphone. “Bring it on. This part is kind of fun.”