Suspicion (6 page)

  Eric held back a sigh of relief. He should have known he could count on Megan. "I can’t speak for others, but in my case. Megan is right. I’m a new man, Mrs. Hollbrook."

  Abigail didn’t seem to have heard him. "Why do you want to marry my daughter, Eric? From what I hear, your

  tastes in women lean more toward…the exotic, well endowed type, shall we say?"

  The accuracy of her statement astounded him. How far down had that witch dug anyway? Refusing to let her intimidate him, he summoned every ounce of passion he could muster. "That may have been true at one time, but not anymore. As I said, I’m a new man. And I love Megan. It’s that simple."

  "Are you sure it isn’t her money you love?"

  "Money is of no importance to me."

  The smile on Abigail’s lips was chilling. "In that case, you have no objection to signing a prenuptial agreement, do you?"

  He could have named half a dozen objections, starting with how damn humiliating the request was. Who the hell did that broad think she was? Megan was a grown woman. She didn’t need her mother’s permission to get married. Hell, she didn’t even need her approval. They could elope to Las Vegas tomorrow if they wanted to and there wasn’t a damn thing old Abigail could do about it.

  But as much as he would have loved to tell her that, he kept his mouth shut. Megan might be of age, but she loved her mother and would never intentionally hurt her.

  He met the steely, condescending gaze without flinching. "None whatsoever."

  "Good." Her hands clasped in front of her, Abigail leaned across her massive antique desk. "But don’t think for one moment that giving up my daughter’s fortune gives you the right to do to her what you did to your ex-wife. If you hurt her or embarrass this family in any way, I’ll make you regret it until the day you die. Do I make myself clear?"

  Eric swallowed. "Perfectly." Sensing he should say something a little more substantial, he added, "I’ll spend

  the rest of my life making your daughter happy, Mrs. Hollbrook. You have my word on that."

  The following six months were a whirlwind of activities-wedding preparations, parties, magazine interviews and, of course, the signing of the prenuptial agreement, which was an event in itself.

  "It’s just a formality, darling," Megan had whispered in Eric’s ear as Abigail and her attorney looked on. "A small concession to make Mother happy. She doesn’t know it, but on our first wedding anniversary, I plan to tear those damned papers up. That will be my present to you."

  One year. That’s all that had stood between him and great wealth. At the end of that year, he would have been free to do anything he wanted-even divorce Megan-and half her fortune would have been his. Of course, he would never divorce her. He wasn’t stupid. Why should he settle for half of Megan’s trust fund when he stood to inherit the old woman’s fortune?

  "Hey, buddy." Someone nudged his arm. "We’re closing."

  Eric turned his head and peered at the bartender through eyes that were blurry from the alcohol. "What?"

  "We’re closing," the man repeated. "And your tab comes to six bucks. So pay up and get lost."

  As the words slowly sank in, Eric reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of bills. Then, dragging his chair back, he stood up, selected a ten-dollar bill and dropped it on the table. "Here you go. Keep the change."

  The words almost made him laugh. Who the hell was he to be so generous? Six days from now, he would be destitute. Unless he found someone willing to part with a quarter of a million dollars.

  Swaying slightly, he walked out of the tavern. A cold,

  bitter wind blew across the parking lot but failed to sober him up. What he needed was a good night’s sleep. Hopefully, by tomorrow, everything would be clearer.

  But as he started toward the motel, he stopped. A No Vacancy sign with the y missing, blinked at him from the top of a pole.

  He cursed under his breath. Now what? Drive home? In the condition he was in, he’d be stopped for DWI before he even reached the highway. That left him with only one option-to sleep in the car.

  After a few seconds of indecision, he unlocked the Corvette and collapsed on the front seat. His last thought as he pressed the back of his head against the leather seat was that life was a real bitch.

  Stepping out of his Toyota at four-fifteen on this cold, misty morning, Danny Bronson whistled happily as he walked toward The Hamptons, a turn-of-the-century building west of the Dupont Circle that had been converted into twelve luxury condominiums.

  He had good reason to be happy. In less than two hours, the promotion to line supervisor he had been promised a year ago would finally be his.

  The extra money sure would come in handy, especially now with the baby on the way. And he would finally be able to give up his paper route. Not that he minded the extra work. Hell, he was grateful to Mr. Hernandez for giving him the job three years ago, but getting up at three thirty every morning so he could deliver his papers and be at the factory by six was getting to be a drag-especially during these cold winter months.

  Still whistling, he threw folded copies of the Washington Post on each doorstep before proceeding to the next level. When he reached the fourth floor, he walked all the

  way to the end of the hall, where apartment 8B-his last delivery in this complex-was located.

  Holding the paper like a Frisbee, he was about to toss it on the bright yellow welcome mat, then stopped, frowning.

  The door to the apartment was ajar, which was unusual. Even in a nice neighborhood like this, people were cautious about leaving their doors unlocked, much less open.

  Feeling slightly uneasy, he looked around, then back at the door. Maybe he should call the police. If this was a robbery, the guy might still be inside. He might even have a gun. On the other hand, if the woman who lived here was sick or hurt, prompt action on his part could save her life. She was a nice lady. And she was always generous to him at Christmastime.

  After a short hesitation, he approached the apartment and peered through the door opening. He couldn’t see a thing. It was pitch-black inside. And silent as a tomb, which convinced him that if a robbery had taken place, the robber was long gone.

  He gave two short knocks. "Ms. Lamont? You okay?" When there was no reply, he pushed the door wider. "Ms. Lamont?" he repeated, embarrassed that his voice was shaking. "You in there?"

  Although he didn’t spook easily, the stillness reminded him of the house-to-house search he and three army buddies had conducted in Kuwait during the early stages of the Gulf War. His heart had been lodged in his throat at the thought of some fanatic Iraqi soldier jumping him from behind. But this was different. This time, he was alone, with no backup unit in the vicinity and no walkie-talkie to send out a distress call.

  He swallowed hard and walked in, cursing softly as he

  bumped into a table. At last, he located a switch and turned on the lights.

  The living room, which he had seen only at Christmastime when Ms. Lamont gave him his present, was as he remembered it-elegantly furnished and orderly.

  Calling out her name again, this time much louder, Danny walked around a chair and hurried down the hall. He stopped in front of an open door, searched for a light switch and flipped it.

  "God Almighty."

  In the middle of the room, an enormous brass bed held center stage. And on that bed, lying on her back with her arms spread out wide, was Ms. Lamont.

  Reacting on sheer reflex, Danny dropped his canvas bag on the thick white carpet and ran toward her. "Ms. Lamont-" The name caught in his throat as he came to a halt.

  Although there was no blood on her, he had seen enough dead people during his seven months in the Gulf to know that this one was as dead as they came. Her eyes, frozen in an expression that had turned glassy, bulged out of their sockets, and there were deep red marks at the base of her neck.

  "Jesus." His heart hammering, he looked around for a phone, saw one on the nightstand and picked it up. With trembling fingers, he dialed 911.

  His hands in his pockets, Mitch Calhoon made a slow circuit of the room, taking in every detail-the slick black-and-white furniture, the white carpeting, already filthy from police traffic, the partially open closet crammed with expensive clothes. Finally, and with great reluctance, he let his gaze rest on the dead woman on the bed.

  No matter how much he tried to distance himself from the victims, death always affected him profoundly. Especially when it involved a young woman in the prime of life, or a teenager who had thought himself invincible. When it was a child, it was even tougher.

  All the dispatcher had said when he called was that the victim was female and had apparently died of strangulation.

  A two- man team from the Crime Scene Unit had arrived moments before and was going about its business, quietly and methodically recording the scene and collecting evidence. Outside the apartment door, a uniformed policeman kept the gawkers, mostly neighbors, at bay.

  His eyes on the woman, Mitch crossed the room and came to stand by the big brass bed. Although death had changed her dramatically, the photograph on the night stand showed a beautiful woman with long, shiny black

  hair, brown eyes and the kind of cheekbones that would make a high-fashion model green with envy.

  As a CSU photographer crouched to take another picture of the dead woman, Joe McCormack, the uniformed officer who had first arrived at the scene, approached, notebook in hand.

  "Who found the body, Joe?" Mitch asked.

  McCormack, a tall, heavyset man with twenty years on the force, nodded toward a corner of the room where a young man in jeans and a blue parka sat, watching the activity around him with a half-dazed expression. "Paperboy. Says his name is Danny Bronson. He’s been delivering the Post to this address for the last three years." He glanced at his notes. "He found the body at approximately 4:05. Says the door was ajar. That’s what alerted him something was wrong. He didn’t notice it had been forced open until after he called us."

  "You got anything on him?"

  "Not yet. I have a call in." McCormack reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "I knew you’d want to talk to the other tenants, so I took their names and apartment numbers." He handed Mitch the slip of paper. "They’re all accounted for, except the woman in apartment 8A. The super says she’s a flight attendant, so she’s probably on a trip."

  "Thanks." Mitch scanned the list before putting it in his pocket. "What about the victim?"

  "D.C. driver’s license identifies her as Gina Lamont. Age thirty-four. The super says she’s a model, but according to our records, the lady’s a hooker. She was arrested three times this year alone. Twice for solicitation and once for drug possession. Cocaine." he added in answer to Mitch’s quick, questioning glance. "Looks like

  she was a serious user, too. Johnson’s already found a stash."

  "Did you find an address book?"

  McCormack pointed to a small black book on the end table. "Not too many names in it, though."

  "Thanks, Joe. I’ll take a look at it later. Let me know if anything else comes up."

  Mitch pulled out his own notebook from his breast pocket and walked over to Danny Branson. He was just a kid, no more than twenty-four or twenty-five with blond hair, blue eyes and pale, freckled cheeks.

  "Hi," Mitch said in a low, unthreatening voice. "I’m Detective Calhoon."

  The man, who had watched him approach, stood up. His eyes registered a mixture of bewilderment and fear. He nodded and threw a nervous glance toward the bed where the medical examiner was conducting a preliminary examination.

  Mitch motioned toward the hallway. "Let’s go in the living room." Once there he turned back to Danny. "I understand you found the body?"

  "Yes, sir." In a voice that shook, Bronson told Mitch how he had discovered the body.

  "Did you know the woman?"

  "Yes. But not well. I mean, I only saw her once a year-around Christmas."

  "Why is that?"

  "She always asked me to stop by so she could give me my Christmas present."

  "What kind of present?"

  Danny blushed. "Fifty dollars. In cash."

  Mitch held back a smile as he wrote down the information in his neat handwriting. "That’s all right, son. I’m

  not the IRS." When he stopped writing, he looked up. "Did you ever see anyone here? Man? Woman?"

  Danny shook his head. "No, sir. She was always alone."

  Mitch nodded. "How come you deliver the paper so early?"

  "I have another job. I’m a full-time production employee at Chesapeake Frozen Foods. In order to punch in at six, I have to start my paper route at four."

  "When do you finish?"

  "Five- thirty."

  "Did you touch anything besides the telephone?"

  "The light switch." Danny pointed behind Mitch. "That one. And the one in the bedroom. Oh, and I touched the door when I pushed it open."

  "Did you see anyone coming out of the building when you entered it?"

  Danny shook his head.

  "Did you hear any noise from the floor below? Or the one above?"

  "No. It’s pretty quiet at this time of the morning."

  Mitch closed his notebook. "All right, Mr. Bronson. One of the officers is going to escort you downtown-"

  The man’s eyes grew fearful. "What for? I told you all I know." His face turned white. "Jesus, you can’t think I killed her." He shook his head. "I didn’t. I swear-"

  "Take it easy, Danny," Mitch said, hoping the use of the kid’s first name would calm him down. "I don’t think you killed her. But you discovered the body, which means we need a signed statement from you. After you’ve given it, you’ll be free to go."