Natalie's Revenge (3 page)

“I guess.” She took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Will he be waiting for you when you get home?”

“No. But he drove me here. I’ll have to take a cab home.”

Through the window he saw the doorman help the drunk into a cab. “Go powder your nose. By then that jerk will be gone. The doorman will get you a cab.”

“Thank you.” She balled up the tissue and gave him a tremulous smile. “Are you a cop or something?”

“Or something. Take my advice and ditch this guy. You deserve better.”

He watched her leave the lounge and reclaimed his seat at the bar.

“Thank you,” Syd said. “If you hadn’t run him off I’d have had to. I owe you one.”

“No problem. I hate men that beat on women. And I get the feeling that would have been the next step, the kind of language he was using.”

Syd nodded his agreement, leaned closer and whispered, “Is something wrong with Mr. Peterson? Or am I allowed to ask?”

“Sure. You’ll hear about it tomorrow anyway. Mr. Peterson is upstairs in his room. Dead.”

Syd seemed genuinely shocked. “Lord-a-mercy! He came in tonight around nine, a bit later than usual. He had a Jack Daniels on the rocks and left just before ten. Alone.”

“Thanks.” Syd would make a far better witness than the tight-assed twerp on the desk. Frank gave Syd his card. “If you think of anything important, call my cell anytime.”

“I will.” Syd shook his head. “I feel bad for Mr. Peterson’s wife.”

Frank did too. He wasn’t looking forward to telling Mrs. Peterson her husband was dead, but that was his next task.

Any kind of luck, he’d catch a few winks afterwards.

_____

The notification did not go well. Not that Peterson's wife got hysterical. Far from it. When he arrived, the Peterson house was dark. He had to ring the bell four times before Mrs. Peterson opened the door. Wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, she glared at him, clearly angry.

“Why are you ringing my bell at this hour?”

He flashed his ID badge. “I'm sorry, but I have some unpleasant news. Could I come in?”

She grudgingly allowed him into the foyer, but not a step farther.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Peterson, but your husband was found dead in his room at the Hotel Bienvenue tonight.”

He studied her reaction. The spouse is always a prime suspect, but other than a slight widening of her eyes, she remained stone-faced.

“What happened? A heart attack?”

“No. Someone shot him.” That got a reaction, but not the one he was expecting.

She laughed, an ugly guttural sound. “Someone shot Arnold?”

Working homicide he'd done plenty of death notifications, had watched people react in different ways. Some got hysterical. Some just cried quietly. He'd even seen people react with nervous laughter, but Mrs. Peterson’s laugh was different. Cold. Verging on vindictive.

A voice from upstairs called, “Mom? What’s wrong?”

“Go back to bed, Louisa. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Peterson, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

An outraged expression froze her face. “Now? I can’t talk to you now. I’ve got three children upstairs and I need to figure out how to ...” She took a deep breath. “How to tell them their father is dead.”

“Have you been home all evening?”

“Yesss,” she hissed. “Now please leave. If you have questions, come back at nine o'clock. By then I’ll have things under control.” Another a curt laugh. “Well, a semblance of control anyway.”

The not-so-grieving widow practically shoved him out the door.

CHAPTER 2

Thursday, July 24, 2008   8:30 a.m.

Frank slid a mug under the LavAzza Espresso Machine spout and waited for his caffeine hit. His kitchen was tiny. When he ate meals here, which he seldom did, he ate in the living room. Two dirty coffee mugs sat in the sink. On the counter, the inexpensive toaster oven and microwave he’d bought at Wal-Mart stood against the white ceramic tile backsplash. The espresso maker, a concession to his Italian heritage, had cost a small fortune. But the strong full-bodied flavor was worth it. Hell, the aroma alone was worth it.

After mailing the monthly alimony check to his ex-wife, he could barely afford the condo, but paying a mortgage beat pissing rent down the toilet. The two bedrooms were small, but he loved the living room, spacious and airy with high ceilings and a window overlooking the street. With his espresso mug in hand, he stood at the window. Two floors below, unaware he was watching, people were scurrying off to work and whatever tasks awaited them.

He sipped the espresso, relishing the rich taste, recalling the time his mother had jived his father about the fancy Italian-made espresso machine he'd bought for her. “The Italians make beautiful cars and typewriters and appliances, but half the time they don’t work.”

His father said nothing. Salvatore Renzi knew when to keep quiet.

A Maureen O’Hara look-alike, Mary Sullivan had beguiled his father with her intelligence and fiery spirit. For their twentieth wedding anniversary, his father had taken her to Italy for a week, then Ireland. Mary Sullivan Renzi adored her husband, but she loved teasing him, and her hair-trigger temper was a thing to behold when she got going.

Franklin Sullivan Renzi hadn’t inherited his mother's auburn hair and green eyes, but he liked to think he channeled her fiery passion and empathy for the downtrodden. Salvatore Renzi was seventy-five now, still an appellate court judge in Boston. Six years ago, after battling a particularly aggressive form of breast cancer, Mary Sullivan Renzi had died. For the first time in his life, he had seen his father cry.

A heartbreaking moment, one he’d never forget. A normal reaction to grief, one he hadn’t seen from Peterson’s widow last night. 

_____

His second visit to the Peterson home was starkly different. The Petersons lived in an exclusive enclave near the Metairie Country Club. At three a.m. their street had been dark and quiet. Now, bathed in sunlight, four television vans and a pack of reporters surrounded the house, an imposing English Tudor with an attached three-car garage. Dark-brown wood outlined the cream-painted exterior, and gables jutted out from the steep-slanted roof.

Waving off the reporters, he mounted the semi-circular terraced steps and rang the bell. The door opened immediately.

Corrine Peterson was only forty-five, but her dress was dowdy, not flattering at all. Nor was it widow’s black, though the aquamarine color complimented her short ash-brown hair. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and deep lines grooved the corners of her mouth.

Urgently motioning him inside, the widow led him into the living room and said in a business-like voice, “Would you like some iced tea?”

“Water would be fine,” he said.

Left alone, he studied the room, stunned by the décor. Unlike the English Tudor exterior, the interior was stark modern: Off-white walls and carpeting, floor-to-ceiling glass on the wall facing the golf course. In the center of the room, a smoked-glass coffee table stood between a black-leather couch and a white-leather settee. The room felt cold and impersonal, like the painting mounted on one wall, monochrome geometric shapes on a black background.

The one trace of humanity was the framed color photo on the mantle of a white-brick fireplace: the Petersons and their children, two girls and a boy. No sign of them now, no patter of footsteps, no young voices. He hoped there was a playroom. They sure didn’t fool around in here. The photograph appeared to have been taken by a professional, for a Christmas card perhaps.

He tried to reconcile the man in the photo with the corpse in the hotel, the man with the hideous grimace. In the photo Arnold sported a cocky, used-car-salesman grin. Dark hair flecked with gray slicked back from his fair-skinned brow. No tan. Indoor sports appeared to be Arnold's specialty. His hands rested on the boy in front of him. Corrine stood behind the two girls, a fake smile on her heavily made-up face. The girls were pretty, dark haired like their father, smiling into the camera. The boy looked to be about six. His smile seemed forced, as if it had taken a million shots to get a decent one. A not-so-happy family? 

Stifling a yawn, he took a seat on the couch. Corrine Peterson returned, set a cut-crystal glass of ice water on the table in front of him and arranged herself on the white settee. Was the amber liquid in her glass iced tea or something stronger? Was Corrine a drinker?

“Do you have family around here?” he said, his usual icebreaker when interviewing a bereaved spouse.

“My mother’s flying in from Iowa City today. To help with the children.”

He took out a spiral notepad. “I know this isn't a good time, but I need to ask you some questions.”

She sipped her drink and gazed at him with her bloodshot blue eyes.

He tried to think of a word to describe her, came up with
fleshy
. Twenty years ago she was probably a looker. Now her arms were flabby, her waist was as wide as her hips, and her face was lined and haggard, as though years of misery had worn her down.

“Any reason why someone might want to kill your husband?”

Seemingly shocked by the blunt question, she stared at him.

“Did he have any enemies?”

She barked a curt laugh similar to the one he’d heard last night. “You mean all the other ruthless men he screwed to get where he is?”

Pow! Ask a simple question, get a rip-snorting answer. Corrine was an angry woman. “Can you give me some names?”

“You can get all the names you want from Arnold’s assistant. Ask Fenwick Holt." A cold smile. "Another man on his way up.”

Make that angry and bitter and not afraid to show it. “How long were you and Mr. Peterson married?”

“Fourteen years. We met in Chicago. I was a real estate agent. Corporate, not residential. Arnold was there on a business trip. Back then he worked for Gillette, signing pro athletes for endorsements.” Another icy smile. “A man on his way up.”

The phone rang and she flinched.

“Go ahead and take it if you need to. I can wait.”

“No. The damn thing's been ringing off the hook for hours. The buzzards want to talk to the grieving widow. You saw them outside.”

Indeed he had. As Miller had predicted, the shit was hitting the fan. The Peterson murder had led the news on the local TV stations this morning, and it was only going to get worse.

“They want juicy tidbits from the widow.” Her lips formed a grim line.

Not a good lead-in for his next question, but he had no time to waste. He still had to interview Peterson’s assistant. Miller was at the hotel questioning guests. After lunch they had to watch the hotel security tapes.

“How were you and Mr. Peterson getting along? Any problems?”

Her jaw tightened, deepening the lines at the corners of her mouth. She fixed him with an icy stare. “Problems? I had problems but Arnold didn't. He did whatever he wanted. The powerful man’s privilege. I’m sure you’ll hear all about his
girl
friends. It’s common knowledge.” 

And that must hurt, Frank thought. “Were any of them married?”

Shock flitted across her face. Corrine was no dummy. She knew where he was headed. “Well, well. I hadn’t thought of that. You think some angry
husband
shot Arnold?”

“That’s one possibility.” One of many. “Did you know any of his ...  girlfriends?”

“Detective Renzi, I stopped trying to figure out which girl Arnold was screwing a long time ago. What good would it do? He’d just find another one.”

Terrific. His suspect list was expanding exponentially. “Did you discuss this with him?”

“Once, years ago, after our son was born.”

“How old is your son? And your girls?”

“Tim is seven. Julia’s ten and Louisa is thirteen.”

“This must be difficult for them. How are they doing?”

Her eyes welled with tears and her face imploded. “They’re devastated,” she whispered.

She might not love Arnold, but she clearly loved her kids.

“Where are they now?”

“At a friend’s house. I’m picking them up for lunch.”

“We didn’t find your husband’s wallet. Do you know if he carried any credit cards?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I assume so.”

“You need to cancel them. Do you have the account numbers?”

Her mouth quirked. “Arnold deposited money into my bank account every month. I took care of my bills and he took care of his. I’ll have to go through his file cabinet to find his credit card statements.”

“Do it soon. Someone may try to use the credit cards.” He drank some ice water and segued into his next question. “How often did your husband stay at the Hotel Bienvenue?”

“He’d go there Sunday night and come home on Saturday to spend time with the children.” Her eyes welled with tears. “If one of them was in a school play or a concert, he'd come home for that. We’d go together.” She clenched her jaw, squeezed out a grudging, “Arnold was a good father at least.”

He tried to imagine it. Peterson stayed in a hotel all week to avoid his wife. Even when he and Evelyn weren’t getting along, they'd slept in the same room every night, in twin beds.

“Did you and Mr. Peterson have any arguments recently?”

“No. I lived my life and Arnold lived his.”

Maybe. But Arnold’s philandering must have caused her considerable embarrassment. He could picture her having a few pops and getting into a screaming match with Arnold, maybe more than one. Maybe the fights got so bad she decided to kill him. She might love her kids, but any love between her and Arnold had died years ago. He had only her word that she’d been home last night. Had she tucked the kids in bed, driven to the Bienvenue and popped him? Possible, though it would have been hard to cover her tracks.

“Do you own a gun, Mrs. Peterson?”

Her mouth sagged open and she stared at him. “A gun? What would I do with a gun?” A brittle laugh. “Oh, I get it. You think I shot Arnold. Well, I didn’t. I don’t own a gun.” 

Maybe not, but she wasn’t off the hook yet. If she got rid of Arnold, she wouldn’t have to put up with the ugly rumors, or other people’s pity.

“Why didn’t you leave him?”

Her lips twisted. “Last time I checked there isn’t a big market for middle-aged women with three children. Men my age want trophy wives. I have a beautiful home and my country club friends and status in the community. If I divorced him, I’d lose all of that. I might have money, but money isn’t everything.”

True, he thought, and some husbands fought like tigers to stop their wives from getting their money. So their wives killed them.

_____

“Thank you for coming, Detective Renzi. Have a seat.” Fenwick Holt gestured at the visitor chair in front of a massive mahogany desk with an inlaid leather top.

Irritated, Frank said nothing. Holt was acting like he’d invited him up to discuss a business matter, not a murder, shuffling papers around to show how busy he was. The self-important little twerp was maybe thirty-five and clearly not grieving. Why should he? Now that Peterson was dead, he was in charge.

Before he could zap Holt with a question, the phone rang. Holt swiveled his high-backed chair, grabbed the phone and said in an officious voice, “Babylon East Marketing, Fenwick Holt.” And after a pause, “We’ll distribute a statement to all media outlets in an hour. Thank you for calling.”

He stabbed a button on the executive phone. “Hold my calls, Marjory. Tell the reporters we’ll give them a statement in plenty of time for the early news.” He ran a hand over his dirty-blond military-style buzz cut. “Sorry for the interruption, Detective. It’s been crazy around here as you can imagine.”

He could imagine it all right, but The Babylon was still open for business. Downstairs he’d zigzagged past crowded gaming tables, roulette wheels and slot machines with dazzling electronic displays that emitted annoying sounds. On his way to the elevator he dodged gamblers clutching drinks and several uniformed guards. When he got off on the second floor, he’d passed the Babylon Security Center. An armed guard stood outside the door. Inside, Frank knew, eagle-eyed watchers scrutinized banks of video monitors to make sure nobody ripped off the casino.

“I understand your CEO is on vacation. Does he know about Peterson?”

“Yes. I texted his Blackberry. Mr. Weston and his wife are vacationing on the French Riviera.”

“And his reaction was?”

“Well, he was shocked, of course.”

“Can you elaborate?”
You self-important prick
.

“Detective Renzi, this may come as a surprise to you, but Arnold was on his way out.”