Her Last Summer: A Veronica Lee Thriller Page 10

  “Do you have anyone here with you? To support you?”

  Shaking his head, Julian offered a wan smile.

  “Portia was my only family. Without her I…well, I’m on my own.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Veronica said. “My mother is the only family I have, other than Winston…he’s my cat…so I can imagine how lonely I’d feel if something happened to her.”

  As Julian raised his glass to take another drink, Veronica noticed a small heart-shaped birthmark on his right wrist, just under the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt. She’d never seen a birthmark with such a clearly defined shape before.

  It’s the type of mark that would be easy to identify in a morgue.

  The macabre thought flitted unbidden through her mind, and she winced. Perhaps her thwarted visit to the medical examiner’s office had left a bigger impression than she’d realized.

  “Did you get the chance to identify your sister?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound callous.

  “Yes, the police called me in, but they seemed more interested in trying to smear my sister’s name than in doing their job and finding out what really happened.”

  Veronica heard bitterness in his voice, and she couldn’t blame him. Who wouldn’t be bitter? When Julian had woken up this morning, his world had been the same as usual, and then he turned on the television or radio, and suddenly nothing would ever be the same again.

  “I heard that you found out about her death from news reports,” Veronica said, feeling guilty. “I’m sorry about that.”

  Frowning over at her, Julian shrugged.

  “Why should you be sorry? The media is always trying to use someone’s tragedy to increase their ratings. It’s not your fault.”

  Veronica turned to face him with an apologetic grimace.

  “Maybe I should have introduced myself earlier. I’m Veronica Lee, Channel Ten’s local roaming reporter. I’m here covering the story.”

  The color drained from Julian’s face as he absorbed her words. Jumping up from the stool, he shook his head in disgust.

  “I should have known you had an ulterior motive for being so nice to me. Most beautiful women do. But I guess that’s what I get for letting my guard down. Shame on me.”

  Striding toward the exit, Julian bumped into a man in a baggy jacket and hotel name badge that identified him as the hotel manager. The manager straightened his glasses and turned angry eyes on Julian.

  When he saw who had bumped into him, his expression melted in an obsequious smile.

  “Oh, Mr. Hart, I was just coming to tell you your room is ready.”

  Julian froze in place, looking past the hotel manager with blazing eyes. Finn Jordan stood in the lobby, camera in hand. At the sound of Julian’s name, he turned and raised the camera.

  “You there,” the manager called out, pointing at Finn. “Get that camera out of this hotel right now! This is private property.”

  Finn seem unfazed by the hotel manager’s outburst. He continued pointing the camera in Julian’s direction as Veronica stepped forward and blocked his shot.

  “What the hell?”

  Finn glared at Veronica over the camera.

  “Why’d you do that? You ruined a good shot, and now Julian Hart is gone.”

  “He wouldn’t talk to the police because he doesn’t trust them,” Veronica said. “I was hoping he’d talk to me. But I screwed it up, and now we may never find out what he knows about his sister’s death.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nessa swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and threw the paper wrapper into the trashcan under her desk. She wiped a smear of mustard off her hands with a napkin and took a swig from her water bottle. So much for dinner. Now she needed to decide which item on her to-do list to tackle next.

  Flipping through the pages in her notebook, Nessa decided she would call Jane Bishop first. Portia Hart’s agent had been adamant that her client would never have taken drugs, much less kill herself with an intentional overdose, and she’d likely been right.

  From what Iris Nguyen had uncovered in the post-mortem, Portia hadn’t died of an overdose. Of course, it was too soon to tell what role the drugs may have played in her drowning, but Nessa’s intuition was siding with Jane.

  Someone out there is responsible for Portia’s death. But who… and why?

  When Jane’s voicemail picked up after the fifth ring, Nessa realized the woman was probably still on her flight back to New York.

  “Ms. Bishop, this is Chief Ainsley with the Willow Bay Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few more questions. If you can give me a call back I’d appreciate it.”

  Looking through the pages of notes and reminders, Nessa decided it was time to call the team together for an update and strategy session. Iris had estimated Portia’s time of death to be between midnight and two a.m. That meant she’d been dead for more than eighteen hours; the window of opportunity to solve the mystery of what had happened in Room 1408 was starting to close.

  She picked up her cell and tapped on Vanzinger’s number.

  “I was just gonna call you, Chief. We’re gathering in the briefing room now for an update. That is, if you’re available.”

  Caught off guard, Nessa stared at the phone, then laughed.

  “I guess great minds really do think alike, Vanzinger. I was just calling you to suggest the same darn thing. I’ll be right there.”

  Vanzinger sat at a long table across from Detective Jankowski, Riley Odell, and Alma Garcia. He jumped up when Nessa came through the briefing room door and pulled out the chair next to him.

  “Have a seat, Chief. We were waiting for you to get started.”

  Nessa cast a sharp glance in his direction, suspecting sarcasm, but his face was the picture of innocence. Perhaps he didn’t think she was trying to micromanage after all. Allowing her shoulders to relax, Nessa took out her notebook and turned to the last page of notes.

  “Well I’m here,” she murmured. “You get started, Detective.”

  Giving an easy nod, Vanzinger stood and crossed to the white board at the front of the room. He taped a headshot of a glamorous blonde woman to the top, then used a black dry erase marker to write Portia Hart’s name.

  “Okay, let’s document what we know so far,” Vanzinger suggested. “Then we can move to what we need to find out.”

  “Well, we know Portia drowned, and that her time of death was somewhere between twelve and two a.m.” Nessa offered. “And we know that she had two broken fingernails and bruises on her shoulders that indicate a possible struggle.”

  Alma raised her hand, but Nessa wasn’t finished.

  “I also spoke to Portia Hart’s literary agent, a woman from New York named Jane Bishop. She claims that Portia never took drugs, and that she would never take her own life. She also was adamant that Portia had a secret boyfriend that may be involved with her death.”

  “When did you talk to her agent?” Vanzinger looked surprised. “And what else did she say about this guy?”

  Feeling guilty that she hadn’t yet shared the important detail with the lead detective on the case, Nessa pretended to check her notes as she answered.

  “Jane Bishop arrived at the ME’s office out of the blue when Iris and I were preparing to start the autopsy. She was pretty torn up and wanted to see Portia.”

  Nessa looked up with a grimace.

  “Unfortunately, the sight of Portia’s dead body made Jane sick to her stomach. She ended up leaving for the airport before I could get any useful information, other than she thought Portia had met some guy in the Bahamas this summer. She said the guy was bad news.”

  “Did you get a name?” Vanzinger asked. “Or a description?”

  Nessa shook her head.

  “She said she didn’t know his name, but that she did see him one time. I have a call into her now to try to get a description.”

  Writing Jane Bishop’s name on the board, Vanzinger turned back to the group.

  “Okay
, what else?”

  “We know that Portia Hart was worth a lot of money,” Riley offered, “and that her only surviving family member is her younger brother, Julian Hart.”

  Riley’s comment prompted Nessa to turn back a few pages in her notebook to find her notes on Barker’s earlier call.

  “An insurance investigator named Maxwell Clay from Sterlington Insurance contacted Pete Barker. He asked him to investigate Portia Hart’s cause of death. Barker thinks this guy wants to prove she committed suicide.”

  “Why would he want to do that?” Vanzinger asked.

  “So that his company doesn’t have to pay the claim,” Riley suggested in a dry voice. “Suicide invalidates most policies.”

  Nessa’s mouth tightened into a disapproving line.

  “Hoping that someone was miserable enough to kill themselves, so your company saves money? That seems pretty cold-hearted,” Nessa said with a huff. “It’s as bad as being an ambulance chaser.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like Mr. Clay will get his wish in this case.” Jankowski spoke with grim satisfaction. “Even though someone tried to make it look like a suicide, or maybe an accident.”

  Riley crossed her arms over her crisp cotton blouse and frowned.

  “So, who's the beneficiary of Portia’s life insurance policy?”

  “Barker said it’s her younger brother, Julian Hart. Although why he’d need more money I can’t imagine. The guy’s a billionaire.”

  “He’s also the person who was prescribed the pills Portia had in her room the night she died,” Alma added, putting her hand down.

  All eyes turned to the crime scene technician.

  “Early tests on the residue in the prescription bottle indicate it contained Oxycodone, more commonly known as oxytocin,” she said, checking her notes. “The tracking number matches a prescription called into a Florida-based pharmacy for a patient named Julian Hart.”

  Using the marker to draw another column on the whiteboard, Vanzinger added Julian Hart’s name, then wrote Insurance Beneficiary and Prescription at Scene underneath.

  “I think we’d better have another chat with Mr. Hart.” Vanzinger drew a line under Julian’s name. “We need to ask him how his pills got in Portia’s room.”

  “And I’d also like to ask him about the life insurance policy,” Riley said, opening her laptop. “What was the name of the insurance guy?”

  “Maxwell Clay,” Nessa answered, “with the Sterlington Group.”

  Vanzinger added Maxwell Clay’s name to the whiteboard while Riley typed on her keyboard. After several minutes of frantic tapping, she looked up with a puzzled frown.

  “Maxwell Clay isn’t on the state’s list of registered private investigators and he isn’t listed on the Sterlington Group website as an employee,” Riley murmured. “But there is a Maxwell Clay listed as an independent insurance broker in Hart Cove.”

  “Hart Cove?” Jankowski pushed a stray lock of blonde hair off his forehead. “Where’s that?”

  Riley shrugged, still tapping on her keyboard,.

  “Hart Cove is a little town on the east coast, just north of Palm Beach. Looks like Remington Hart’s grandfather founded the town.”

  “I guess if you’re that rich owning a whole town is no big deal.” Jankowski sounded as if he disapproved. “And you probably feel like you can do whatever you want.”

  Ignoring Jankowski’s bitter comment, Nessa turned to face Riley.

  “So, if Maxwell Clay’s not an insurance investigator, and his company isn’t the one on the hook to pay out the claim, then why did he ask Barker to look into Portia Hart’s cause of death?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Riley responded.

  “Right,” Nessa agreed, “and Barker told me Clay would be at his office tomorrow morning. I think we better send a welcoming party. In the meantime, I’ll wait for Jane Bishop’s call.”

  Vanzinger nodded, reviewing the whiteboard.

  “How about I call Julian Hart and arrange another interview for tomorrow afternoon?” Riley sounded almost enthusiastic. “That’ll give us a chance to get a statement from Maxwell Clay.”

  Vanzinger jotted a few notes on the board.

  “I guess that leaves me and Jank to review the security footage from the hotel,” he said, shooting Jankowski a grin. “Sound like fun, bro?”

  Jankowski grunted, but didn’t respond, so Nessa stood and crossed the room. She pulled open the door, then looked back over her shoulder.

  “I’m gonna go home and tuck my boys into bed. Call me if you have any updates that can’t wait for tomorrow.”

  As she walked out to her Dodge, Nessa felt as if she was leaving something undone. Could she have missed some vital clue? Doubt again settled in her chest.

  Maybe I should stay and look through the security footage with Vanzinger and Jankowski. Or do a background check on Maxwell Clay.

  But she knew she needed to let her team do their job, and so her legs kept moving. She was soon driving into the setting sun toward home.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Riley stared at the closed door, wondering why she hadn’t walked with Nessa to her car. There was nothing she could do at the police station that she couldn’t do in her own office, or in her own apartment. But it was Saturday night, and the thought of going back to City Hall’s empty corridors or eating a lonely dinner in her quiet apartment depressed her.

  “I’m going back to the hotel.” Jankowski stood and slid his laptop into his backpack. “I want to talk to the security guard and the rest of the staff working last night.”

  Vanzinger nodded his agreement.

  “Yeah, better get them to make a statement while it’s still fresh.”

  Waving a distracted hand at Jankowski’s retreating back, Riley stared down at her computer and began clicking through the search results on Julian Hart. Most links led to stories about the death of his billionaire father ten years earlier. A few mentioned his artwork or referred to his famous sister.

  “Remington Hart left both of his children a huge fortune,” she said, trying to think through the possibilities. “Would Julian kill his own sister over an insurance claim when he’s already loaded?”

  She looked up and caught Vanzinger’s blue eyes, then looked back down at her screen with a flustered scowl.

  “Maybe I should get a subpoena to review Portia Hart's bank accounts and see what’s going on.”

  “You still using that old follow the money trick?” Vanzinger scoffed. “I thought you’d be after some DNA. Isn’t that what a jury wants now days?”

  Riley’s cheeks burned, and she berated herself for letting his words get to her. She was surprise at how much his sarcastic remark stung. Why did she even care what he thought anyway? A hard edge crept into her reply.

  “Of course, but they also want a motive, and that usually leads back to only a few things…and money is always a good bet.”

  “Well, you can chase the motive if that’s what you want, but I think you’ll need more than that to prove to a jury that Portia didn’t take her own life…or accidentally take one too many pills, for that matter. We need some physical evidence.”

  “We need to follow the money,” Riley insisted.

  Vanzinger’s eyes lit up. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and tapped out a number.

  “You just gave me a great idea.”

  He held the phone to his ear.

  “Hey Alma, I know you just left, and I’m sorry to be a pest, but I’ve got a question for you.” Vanzinger winked at Riley. “Let me put you on speaker phone.”

  “You’re not a pest,” Alma replied. “Call me anytime you like.”

  Riley darted a sideways glance at Vanzinger and rolled her eyes, irritated by the flush of color that had risen in his cheeks at Alma’s suggestive tone.

  “Okay, so we wanted to ask you a question.”

  “We?” Alma sounded wary.

  Riley sighed and sat forward.

  “
Hi Alma, it’s Riley. I’m still here going through the case with Vanzinger. Apparently he thinks he has a brilliant idea, but I’m still not sure what it is.”

  Alma laughed, but Riley thought the crime scene technician’s cheerfulness sounded forced. She wondered why Alma seemed different with her lately. It was almost as if Alma was mad at her.

  Does Alma think there’s something going on between me and Vanzinger? And is she as interested in him as she seems to be?

  “Well, go ahead, Vanzinger,” Alma said. “What’s the question?”

  “You dusted for fingerprints at the scene, right? You dusted her purse, her wallet, the hotel room safe?” Vanzinger asked. “Anywhere and everywhere she may have had some money?”

  “Well, my team is pretty thorough, but I’ll have to check to see what prints we collected.” Alma sounded as confused as Riley felt. “Are you thinking this was a robbery gone wrong?”

  Vanzinger caught Riley’s eyes on him again as she listened to Alma’s response. This time she didn’t look away, and he offered her the teasing smile that always used to make her melt.

  “Just following the money, Alma. You know what they say…”

  “Well, I’ll check and let you know what I find out. As far as I know Portia Hart’s personal effects haven’t been turned over to her family, so we could always go through them again if you think it could help.”

  “That’d be highly appreciated, Alma.” Vanzinger gave Riley a thumbs up. “I’ll wait to hear back.”

  Disconnecting the call, he dropped his phone into his pocket and turned to leave. Riley couldn’t stop herself from calling after him.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “I’m going to watch the security footage the hotel turned over. See if I can spot anything fishy.”

  He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head.

  “I’ll let you watch them with me if you bring the popcorn.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Vanzinger’s office was small, but neatly organized. Riley sat stiffly on the chair next to him as he stuck the memory stick into his computer’s USB drive and waited for the device to be recognized.