Blood Rubies (7 page)

“Yes … I'm Stefan Yartsin, and you are?”

“Police Chief Ellis Hunter.” He walked down the steps to join the pair on the pathway, extending his hand for a shake. “I'm hoping you can help me.”

Stefan patted Ana's shoulder and squeezed her arm. “Of course.”

“We're at the very beginning of an investigation into a sudden death, with no time to lose. Anything you can do to help us understand the timeline would be invaluable. Do you live in Rocky Point?”

“No, no. I'm here to celebrate Ana's new TV show and attend Heather's wedding. I live in Detroit.”

“When did you arrive?”

“Today—about three thirty.”

Detective Brownley was taking notes.

“What did you do when you got here?”

“Ana's car wasn't here, but I rang the bell anyway, just in case. There was no answer. I got her spare key from the fake rock and came inside.”

“Were there any cars here?”

“No.”

“Was anyone inside?”

“No.”

“What did you do next?”

“Ana sent me photos of the house just after she bought it, so I knew where the guest room was located. I brought my suitcase inside.” He shrugged. “I left for the library. I'm a day trader, so I spend a lot of time keeping up with the news. I've been there ever since.”

“What time did you leave for the library?”

“I don't know. I didn't look. I couldn't have been inside more than ten, fifteen minutes, though.”

Evidently, Jason died sometime between three forty-five, when Stefan left for the library, and five thirty, when Ana and I arrived.

“What did you do in that ten or fifteen minutes?” Ellis asked.

Stefan scratched his cheek. “You're really putting my memory to the test here. I did a lot of nothing stuff, you know, the things you do when you reach a destination. I washed off the travel dust, not a shower, only hands and face. I got Ana's Spring Egg snow globe out and unpacked it. I placed it in the center of the coffee table where it would be safe and she'd see it first thing. I hung up some clothes, just a few. A pair of slacks. A couple of shirts. I'm a travel-light sort of guy. That's it.”

“Where's the spare key?” Ellis asked.

“I put it back in the rock when I left.”

Ellis turned to Ana. “Which rock?”

She pointed to a small, irregularly shaped gray resin stone tucked under a bush near the porch steps. From any distance, it was indistinguishable from the real rocks nearby.

Ellis snapped on plastic gloves, picked it up, and used the eraser end of a pencil to slide open the bottom panel. He wiggled his finger in the opening and extracted a gold-toned key. He dropped it into a clear plastic evidence bag he took from his jacket pocket, then slipped the fake rock into another. As he sealed them, a crime scene technician came up the pathway alongside an older police officer I knew named Griff. The technician carried a big square black case, the kind pilots use.

Ellis stood. “Good timing,” he said, dangling the bag with the key, then the one with the rock. “This key was hidden in this fake rock. With rain coming, I need you to take care of the soil pronto in case there are any footprints or debris.”

The technician, a slender young woman who looked more like a farm girl than a scientist, said, “Sure.”

Ellis explained where the rock had been positioned, then rattled off orders to Griff to secure the scene and block the driveway. As he went on about how many officers he wanted on the case and what he wanted them to do, I stopped listening. I turned back toward the water. The ocean surface was darker and wilder now, closer to black than green and covered by roiling ridges of churning white froth.

The technician started taking photographs of dirt. Griff went to his car for a roll of yellow caution tape. Detective Brownley left with Ana and her dad. Ellis turned to me.

“You want to run your hands under water from the faucet? Or I have some moist towelettes in my vehicle.”

“That's better.” I followed him to his oversized black SUV.

He raised the rear hatch and dragged a black camera bag forward. “I want some photos of the blood before you clean up. In case it comes up for some reason.”

I didn't argue. I didn't care. I held my hands up, turning them as he instructed while he snapped away. When he was done, he thanked me and pulled a handful of individually wrapped towelettes from a mesh pocket built into the vehicle's side panel. He ripped one open and handed it to me. I rubbed my hands, but it quickly ran out of juice. He had a plastic trash bag ready, and I tossed it in. He tore open another one. It took six towelettes to get the blood off. Between the harsh alcohol-based cleaner and my strenuous rubbing, my skin ended up chafed and red. It looked as if I had a rash.

“Are you okay to drive? To follow me to the police station?”

“Yes.” I started walking to my car, then turned back. “Thanks for letting me clean up.”

“Sure,” he said, his expression somber.

I glanced in the rearview mirror as we pulled out of the driveway. Griff was placing orange cones along the sidewalk.

Once we were on the interstate, I slipped in my earpiece and called Ty. I got his voice mail. I couldn't think of how to explain all that had occurred, so I only said that I had bad news, that Jason had died, that I'd been with Ana when she found his corpse, and that I was en route to the police station to give a statement. And that I loved him.

 

CHAPTER SIX

Ellis asked me to wait in the lobby, promising not to be too long. I used the time to sit with my eyes closed, thinking, trying to shake off the deep sadness that had taken hold of me. My phone vibrated, startling me, and I dug it out of my tote bag. It was Wes Smith, the local reporter for the
Seacoast Star.
I knew he'd call. He always called. I knew I'd talk to him, too, since he always had information I had no other way of getting, but I didn't want to talk to him now. If there was one thing I could count on, it was that Wes would call back. I hit the
IGNORE
button and tossed the device back into my bag, leaned back against the unforgiving wood, and closed my eyes again.

After a while, ten minutes maybe, I stood up and stretched. Cathy, the civilian admin who'd been there since before Ty had the chief's job, sat at her computer, typing. Two uniformed officers, one named Daryl, the other one new to me, were reading over her shoulder.

“He's a finance guy?” Daryl asked rhetorically. “I thought they all were in New York.”

“Nah,” the other officer replied. “There's mega-money in Boston.”

“Guys,” Cathy said. “Give me a break, will ya? I don't need you two yapping in my ear.”

They stepped away. I walked to the community bulletin board and was scanning a “Call for Volunteers” notice seeking help cleaning up the village green when the front door opened and a stream of people entered. Detective Brownley led the way. Officer F. Meade, a tall ice blonde I'd known for years, was last in line. I'd never heard her first name. In between were Heather, Chuck and Sara, a middle-aged couple, an older single woman, Ana, Peter, and Ana and Peter's dad, Stefan. No one paid any attention to me. Ana looked poised but worried. Heather looked sick. Her eyes were rimmed in red. Her nose was even redder and mottled.

Detective Brownley invited everyone to have a seat except Ana and Heather. She led Ana down a long hallway to the right. Officer Meade escorted Heather down a similarly long hallway that branched off to the left. Having been in the station before, I knew that interview rooms opened off both hallways.

Peter approached the front counter and waited for Cathy to look up from her typewriter. “Where are they taking them?”

“I wouldn't know, sir.”

“Who would?” he said, his voice low and tight, as if he were exerting control.

“Someone will be out soon, sir.”

“Let me talk to the police chief,” he demanded.

Cathy's eyes widened. “He's not available.”

Peter slapped the counter, startling us all. I jumped and scooted forward, braced to flee. The others looked every which way, then moved closer to one another. I was tempted to join them. If Peter, foiled in his efforts to find Heather and Ana, spun around, ready to lash out, I, the only person sitting alone, would be an easy target. He half-turned toward me, considering his next move.

Stefan, his expression wary, walked to the counter. Daryl and the other officer approached from the other side. Showdown at high noon.

Stefan placed his arm around Peter's shoulders. “What's the problem, Pete?”

“I want to know where Heather is. And Ana. I have a right to know. And this”—he broke off, staring down at Cathy as if she were dirt—“this
woman
won't tell me.” He spoke the word “woman” the way I say “spider.”

Cathy stepped back.

“I'll take it from here,” Daryl told her.

She slipped away without another word, leaving the reception room, perhaps to alert Ellis to send in the cavalry.

Daryl moved closer to the counter. “Sir, if you'll just take a seat I'll get someone to come out and talk to you.”

“Come on, Pete,” Stefan said, patting his shoulder. “Let's sit down.”

Peter shook off his dad's touch and grasped the edge of the counter as if he expected to be dragged away.

Stefan stood his ground. “Don't get excited for no reason.”

“I'm not going anywhere, Dad.”

Ellis appeared from his office. He scanned the group. “Thank you all for coming in. I appreciate your cooperation, especially during this difficult time.”

Peter spun around. “Are you in charge here?”

“Yes. I'm Police Chief Ellis Hunter. And you are?”

“Peter Yartsin, a friend of Heather's and Ana's brother. I want to see Heather
now.
”

“I understand. I'll find out where she is.”

Peter took a step toward Ellis, an aggressive move, fueled perhaps by Ellis's seemingly imperturbable calm.

“When I say now,” Peter said, “I mean
now.
This minute.”

“Of course.” He nodded at Stefan, turned to the others, and nodded at them all. “I appreciate your patience. We'll be as quick as we can.” He looked at me. “Josie, if you'd follow me.”

I walked across the room, uncomfortably aware that everyone was looking at me, thinking that Ellis was clever to disarm Peter by agreeing with him. I doubted if Ellis had any intention of allowing him anywhere near Heather or Ana until they'd both given official statements.

Ellis didn't speak until we were seated at the old wooden table in Room One with the door closed. I was familiar with the space, having been interviewed in it more than once. It was small and windowless, with two video cameras mounted on abutting walls and a one-way mirror taking up most of one side. As usual, I sat with my back to the human-sized cage positioned in the corner. Ty once told me it was for unruly guests, a chilling thought. I heard the steady patter of rain.

Ellis reached for the wall-mounted phone, telling me, “I'll be right with you.” He pressed three buttons, waited a moment, then said, “Is everything under control out there?… Good … Okay, then … Keep a close eye on him, will you?… Thanks, Daryl.” He replaced the receiver and sat at the head of the table. “I'll turn on the cameras in a minute and make it official, but first, let's talk informally. Off the record. Okay?”

“Sure,” I said, wondering where he was heading.

“I need help here, Josie.”

“Of course. Anything I can do.”

“The technicians tell me they've recovered hundreds of pieces of metal, wood, and enamel from the crime scene, even some stones that appear to be jewels.”

“Oh, God, Ellis, the thought of a Fabergé egg being destroyed makes me ill. Literally ill.”

“I can only imagine. When they're done with their work, will you take a look for me?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, then.” He reached for the remote. “Let's make it official.”

*   *   *

Ellis stated the logistical information for the record, then leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. “Tell me about Jason.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Anything.”

I stared at him, confused. “I don't know what I can tell you. I met him yesterday for the first time. I've spent a total of about fifteen minutes with him, during which he mostly ignored the rest of us.”

“How come?”

“Work, I guess. He was on his phone, reading things, texting. I don't know exactly.”

“How did Heather feel about that?”

“I don't know.”

Ellis unlaced his hands and sat forward. “What was your impression of him?”

“He was apparently successful, a famous investment guru, selling a dream to plenty of eager dreamers with money to spare.”

“I infer you didn't admire his business model.”

“He was a caveat emptor sort of guy. Not my style.”

“Slick?”

“Maybe. He came off as serious, not sleazy, but so do a lot of con men. I doubt he set out to con people, it's not that. He just misdirected them, legally. He bragged about skirting the law—can you imagine? His customers admired and envied his success and assumed that if they followed his advice, they would achieve the dream, too. He didn't care about them at all. He was all about number one. He built in deniability, and he was proud of it.”

“What about Heather? Did she believe the dream, too?”

“I don't know. It's possible she's not very smart, that it didn't even occur to her to question his judgment. Or she's gullible. Or she's wildly in love and can see no wrong in him.” I shrugged. “There's a chance that she's as sneaky-bad as he was. I met her for an even shorter time than him.”