The long fall, p.1
The Long Fall, page 1
Books by Bruce Hammack
* * *
The Smiley and McBlythe Mystery Series
Exercise Is Murder
The Long Fall
The Ice House Murder
Jingle Bells, Rifle Shells
Pistols and Poinsettias
Five Card Murder
* * *
The Star of Justice Series
Long Road to Justice
A Murder Redeemed
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
The Ice House Murder
Books by Bruce Hammack
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Police tape wound an irregular path through foliage and over sidewalks, enclosing an area thirty-five yards in diameter, give or take a blood splatter or two. Private Detective Steve Smiley, white cane in hand, came to a stop. Heather McBlythe craned her neck and gazed at row after row of hotel room balconies. Each one overlooked an atrium the size of a city pocket-park. Water skipped down a terraced hill into a pool and meandered past plants and trees, only to be pumped back to the hill’s crest.
Steve removed his hand from Heather’s shoulder and adjusted wrap-around sunglasses covering his sightless eyes. His white cane gave a sweeping search of the area around him. “What do you see?” he asked.
“The body’s been removed. Here comes Leo.”
Houston homicide Detective Leo Vega covered a yawn as he ambled to where they stood. An unbuttoned navy sports coat shielded most of his wrinkled white shirt. Heather glanced across the marked off area. Two uniformed officers stretched and shifted from foot to foot on the far side of police tape.
“Thanks for coming,” said Leo. He ran his hand through gray-streaked black hair and then rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure if we have a jumper or if he had help.”
“What floor?” asked Steve.
Heather shifted her gaze to her partner. He didn’t look too bad today. As usual he’d dressed down for the day wearing nondescript dark pants and a cream-color pullover sweater. His hair needed a good trim. She’d offered to take him to the barber shop, but he insisted he would call Uber. Why did he always put that off? Not having a wife definitely had its disadvantages for him.
Leo extended an index finger toward a spot where the west wall met the roof. “Twelve floors up. All the way at the top. It’s the Presidential Suite.”
A man’s voice, high and effeminate, interrupted them. “Excuse me. How long until we can get that awful yellow tape down?”
Heather swiveled to see a hotel employee whose bearing matched his voice. Prior to his approach he stood a respectable distance from the gore. He wore a black suit, tasseled loafers, and a name tag that read, Samuel LaMonte, Asst. Manager. She assumed superiors had sent him to hurry the process of removing traces of the ‘unfortunate incident’. Who could blame them? Posh hotels with conference centers don’t use police tape in their advertising brochures.
“The forensic team is finished,” said Leo. “Cleaners that specialize in bio-hazards should arrive any time. As soon as they’re finished I’ll instruct the officers to take down the tape. Until that time, I’m sure we can count on your full cooperation.”
The assistant manager forced a thin smile and muttered, “Of course.”
“Show me the exact spot,” said Heather.
Leo led her on a circuitous route to avoid the grizzly remnants of a life. They stepped with special care the closer they approached.
“By the looks of things he hit face-first,” said Heather.
Leo mumbled. She took it to be an affirmative response as they made their way back to Steve.
A voice sounding like it had been worked over with a wood rasp disturbed the somber scene. “I say we’re wasting time. The guy jumped, plain and simple.”
Leo heaved a sigh. “Steve, Heather, this is my new partner, Randy Tubbs. Randy, meet my good friend and mentor, Steve Smiley; and this is Heather McBlythe.”
Ruddy faced and, based on his girth, a frequent patron of all-you-can-eat restaurants, Detective Tubbs failed to extend his thick right hand or even offer a strained smile.
Heather had seen her share of overripe cops when she carried a badge and gun in Boston. The ones that came to mind hung onto their careers until reaching retirement Nirvana and then fell into one of Florida’s senior communities. Once there they became another name on the list of “whatever-happened-to’s?” She wondered if Tubbs would be next on that list.
Detective Tubbs held up open palms. “What’s the problem, Leo? It’s open and shut. His wife was in the bedroom and had on earphones. He took a swan dive. A blind ex-cop isn’t going to change my mind. Let’s call it like it is, go home for a while, and write it up later today.”
Steve remained mute and void of outward emotion. He stood with the tip of his white cane between his feet, with his hands resting on the handle.
Heather shifted to where she could see the trio of men. Leo looked at his new partner and shook his head. “Look, listen and learn, Tubbs.” He shifted his gaze to Steve and said, “Victor Yancy. That’s our victim. What do you see?”
“Red as a fire truck.”
Tubbs rolled his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Heather’s patience with Detective Tubbs had reached its limit. Tenting her hands on her hips, she said, “It means that Mr. Smiley has associative chromesthesia. Certain words evoke images of colors to him. In this case, being near a crime scene and hearing the name of the victim caused him to experience an impression of the color red. His brain registers red when the death is a murder. Had it been a suicide, he wouldn’t have seen red.” She paused to take a half step toward Tubbs. “It also means Mr. Smiley has forgotten more about homicide investigations than you’ll ever know.”
“What a load,” said Tubbs. “You’re telling me a blind man comes to a crime scene and I’m supposed to believe his sight magically comes back?”
Heather swallowed what she wanted to say and looked straight into Tubbs’ bloodshot eyes. “That’s not what I said.”
Leo broke in before Tubbs could reply. “It’s true, Randy. Steve did this when we worked together. He would see red at crime scenes, even when he had his sight. We solved several murders that looked like suicides or accidents. We also had a case where a guy and his wife staged his murder. It turned out to be an insurance scam and the body we couldn’t find turned up alive and well, living in Portland.”
Tubbs gave an emphatic shake of his head and a huff of disgust. “You’re nuts. You can believe this guy can see red or blue or little green men if you want to. I’ll stick to facts. There were no signs of a struggle. The guy moved two plants from the railing so he could jump.” His gaze intensified as he threw a thumb in Steve’s direction. “Next you’re going to tell me this guy reads fortunes and can tell my future by the stars.”
“No, but he can tell you more than you want to hear this morning.” Leo set his jaw. “How ’bout it, Steve; what can you tell me about my new partner?”
“Is this necessary?”
“Afraid so, old buddy.”
Heather stifled a chuckle. Here it comes.
“All right, if you say so.” Steve paused for a moment, then extended his hand. “Mr. Tubbs.”
“What is this?”
“Give me your hand and I’ll show you.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Randy, just do what he says,” said Leo sharply.
Tubbs held out a limp hand. Steve gripped it, pulled the skeptic into him and didn’t let go. His nostrils flared as he inhaled. At least ten long seconds passed before he spoke. “Detective Tubbs, you had sausage, eggs, fried potatoes, toast with strawberry jam, and black coffee for breakfast. My guess is you talked the assistant manager into comping you the meal.”
Tubbs tried to pull away, but Steve held on tight.
“How did you know that?”
“I remember you were doing the same three years ago when you finally made it into homicide.” Steve’s nostrils flared again. “You drink whiskey, lots of it. You polished off half a bottle last night before you got the call. You didn’t bathe before you went to work yesterday and haven’t had time today. Drinkers like you cut it off and go to bed around midnight. That leads me to believe Mr. Yancy’s death occurred between eleven thirty p.m. and midnight.”
Tubbs jerked his hand from Steve’s grasp. “Let me go. You were crazy when you were a cop, and you’re still nuts.”
Steve didn’t back down. “You were in the car sleeping when Ms. McBlythe and I arrived. You had a pull or two from your flask before you came back in. You’re five-feet-eight-inches tall and you’re at least seventy-five pounds overweight. How did I know that? Even your hand is fat. You wheezed from the modest exercise of walking from the car to here. The thought of going to the twelfth floor again doesn’t appeal to you because you either suffer from acrophobia or you aren’t interested in doing your job. I’m thi
“Go home, Tubbs,” said Leo. “I’ll cover for you this time. Come to work drunk again, or take another drink on the job, and I’ll go straight to Lieutenant Blankenship.”
Cloudy eyes set in a round, florid face glared at Leo. “So, that’s the way it’s going to be? Some partner they stuck me with. You’re nothing but a choir boy looking to take a scalp.” He hocked a wad of phlegm and shot it on a nearby clump of monkey grass. “If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way it will be. I’ll go home. Not because I need to sleep, but because I’ve seen all there is to see. You write your report. I’ll write mine. We’ll see which one of us goes to the department’s shrink.”
Squeaky crepe-soled shoes carried Detective Randy Tubbs and his bruised ego away from the scene of the murder. Heather wondered if Leo would want her and Steve to stay longer. After all, his request had been that they travel from their offices in The Woodlands to Houston so Steve could use his unusual ability to shed light on this case.
Steve’s next words matched her thoughts. “Is that all you need from us?”
“Heck, no.” Leo exhaled while looking to the twelfth floor. “Something about this didn’t smell right from the start. The victim, his wife, and four former classmates came a day early to attend a twentieth high school reunion. The department is screaming for everyone to get overtime off the books. I have two uniform cops and Tubbs. That’s it. I came to work early yesterday morning, and my head had no more hit the pillow when I got the call last night. If I don’t get some sleep I’ll be as worthless as that excuse for a partner they saddled me with.”
“Is the victim’s wife still here?” asked Steve.
“Yeah. Tabby Yancy. Upstairs in Room 12157. We interviewed her briefly. The others in the group are two floors below. Their rooms are clumped together overlooking the atrium. We decided to let them sleep.” Leo reached in the pocket of his sports coat and handed Heather a piece of paper. “Here’s a list of their names and room numbers. No one has talked to them yet. I’ll send the two uniforms to get preliminary statements, and I’ll follow up later.”
Steve turned to Heather. “Unless I’m mistaken, a hot-headed, overweight detective will come back this evening in a bad mood. He’ll be itching to slap handcuffs on somebody as soon as we prove this wasn’t a suicide. Don’t you think we should try to eliminate some suspects?”
“An excellent suggestion,” said Heather with a conspiratorial nod.
Leo issued a quick wink to Heather. “If you find out anything interesting, I’d like to know. I’m going home for a shower and a nap.”
A team from a professional cleaning company arrived and set to work after donning blue coveralls, facemasks, latex gloves and shoe covers. Heather leaned into Steve. “It won’t take long before all traces of Victor Yancy are removed from the atrium. Let’s get started.”
Chapter Two
Heather led Steve to where the assistant manager stood overseeing the cleanup. “Mr. Lamonte, Mr. Smiley and I will need adjoining rooms for the next two nights on the tenth floor. They must be as close as possible to the rooms on this list.” She showed him the names and room numbers Leo had handed her. She then produced a platinum credit card and placed her business card on top of it. A pair of hundred dollar bills joined the stack. “We require a white board in one of our rooms. We’ll also need erasable markers, blank paper, note cards and tape. Please see to it.”
After examining the card and pocketing the cash, Mr. Lamonte asked, “Is it my understanding you’ll be assisting the police in their investigation?”
Heather sharpened her gaze. She chose to wear heels and a tailored dark suit overlaying a silk blouse. “It’s our intention to investigate discreetly, and I emphasize the word discreetly. My promise to you is this: anyone who was not in the hotel at the time of Mr. Yancy’s demise will in no way be inconvenienced.” She added a footnote. “The police can be rather heavy handed at times. We don’t operate that way.”
A bow of his head telegraphed he understood what she’d said and implied.
Steve added, “Mr. LaMonte, Ms. McBlythe will need your card and a number she can reach you any time, day or night. You will be generously compensated for your assistance.”
A deeper bow accompanied his words. “Of course. It will be my pleasure to serve you.”
“Excellent,” said Steve. “Would you check to see if room service served Mrs. Yancy breakfast this morning? If not, order a selection of breakfast dishes and a card that reads, ‘Will be by to offer condolences this morning.’”
“How would you like the card signed?”
“No signature.”
Heather turned to Steve. “Latch on to my arm. I’m going to take you to a bistro we passed on the way in. I’ll get our computers from the car, pick up our room keys, and we’ll have an hour to research the people on the list Leo handed me.”
A woman with red-rimmed eyes opened the door of the Presidential Suite. Heather extended a hand and gave their names. Tabby Yancy, the widow, wore black leggings, white socks and an oversized sweatshirt that had seen much better days. It took Heather one look to conclude Tabby could wear a nun’s habit made of burlap and still have a pack of men trailing her.
“We’re friends and associates of Detective Leo Vega. May we come in?” asked Heather.
The woman took a step back and nodded. She appeared to be about thirty at first glance. Heather looked again and estimated her to be a couple years younger. Recent tears and lack of sleep revealed tiny lines in otherwise porcelain-smooth skin. Her hair, somewhere between blond and white, cascaded over her shoulders, thick and wavy. Even without makeup she possessed the looks and manner of a movie star. In fact, that’s what the five-year-old bio found on the internet labeled Tabby to be. It went on to say her star hadn’t shone exceptionally bright. The movies she’d appeared in had been thin on plots and downright anorexic when it came to dialogue. The bio also said she’d been swept from Hollywood and taken off the market by a Silicon Valley tech hero. The arrival of twin boys ended her career in the public’s eye, except for a few commercials. Even dressed like a gym rat, the curvaceous woman leading the way into the living room dazzled.
“Did you say you’re with the police?” asked Mrs. Yancy.
Steve answered as Heather directed him to a chair facing a tan leather couch. “Detective Vega used to be my partner. He called us in as consultants. We’re both licensed private detectives.”
The Presidential Suite lived up to its name. It boasted three bedrooms, full kitchen, and a dining table for eight. In addition, the suite opened into an expansive living room, complete with gas fireplace. The balcony, which could be accessed from both the living room and master bedroom, quadrupled the balconies of all other rooms in depth and width.
Steve stopped as he passed the kitchen. “Mrs. Yancy, I couldn’t help but smell coffee. Would you like Heather to pour us each a cup?”
“That’s a good idea. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep last night.”
Heather pretended to be surprised as she noticed three carts loaded with plates crowned by metal lids. “Have you eaten breakfast, Mrs. Yancy?”
“I couldn’t bear to look at the food. I didn’t even order it.”
“It would be best if you ate something,” said Steve.
“I don’t think I can look at food today.” replied Mrs. Yancy.
Steve placed his cane on the floor. “I know food doesn’t sound good to you Mrs. Yancy, but whenever a person goes through a traumatic event they have large amounts of adrenaline dumped into their system. Their bodies tell them not to eat and then when you come down from the adrenaline rush, your blood sugar is out of balance. By eating something, you’re telling your body the crisis is over.”
