Murder For Love

Dying Time by William J. Caunitz

Detective John Parker walked into the Seventeenth Squad's second-floor squad room, went directly over to the command log, and signed himself present for duty at 0800 hours. The heading on the top of the page read: Sunday, April 23, 1995.

Joe Carney, a burly guy with a shiny bald head, was finishing up a night duty, typing furiously. He was clearly a man in a hurry.

"Anything doin'?" Parker asked.

"Naw. The usual Saturday-night bullshit. " Carney pulled the report out of the typewriter and said, "I'm out of here for three days."

"Have a good swing, " Parker said, and walked around the room emptying overflowing wastebaskets into a large cardboard barrel. Going back to his desk, he raised the window up as far as it would go. A spring breeze blew across the squad room. Outside, police cars were double parked on East Fifty-first Street and along Third Avenue. He watched churchgoers, dressed in their spring fineries, strolling west on Fifty-first to catch the nine o'clock Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral, four blocks away. He sighed at the thought of having to work on such a beautiful day and, savoring the scent of spring, went back to his desk.

Sunday day duties were usually quiet in the Seventeenth, a good time for a detective to play catch-up on his paperwork. Parker rolled a case follow-up report into the typewriter.

John Calvin Parker had broad shoulders and deep blue eyes. At forty-seven his hair was still black and wavy, without a trace of gray. The faded razor scar that edged along his right eyelid gave his weather-beaten face a dashing air. He had just finished closing out an old robbery case with "No results" when the telephone rang. He snapped it up. "Seventeenth Squad, Detective Parker. "

"Hey, Parker, we just caught a double homicide at Forty-two Sutton Place South, " the crusty desk sergeant reported.

Parker cursed and slammed down the phone.

The crime scene was in the north penthouse apartment of a luxury co-op that stood at the edge of the East River. Two liveried doormen worked the entrance while the concierge, who stood behind a waist-high mahogany desk in the center of the elegant lobby, tended to the needs of the tenants and their guests.

As Parker stepped off the elevator into the vaulted marble foyer of the north penthouse, he was greeted by Sergeant Luther Johnston, the Seventeenth's patrol supervisor. "It's a bad one, Parker. "

"They usually are. " Parker looked at the three cops trying to console the well-dressed woman slumped on one of the foyer's gold brocaded armchairs. Her face was buried in her palms; she was crying. "Who's the lady?"

"Mrs. Elizabeth Gardner. This is her daughter's apartment. "

Parker looked at the yellow ribbon of crime-scene tape stretched across the archway leading into the living room. "What's the story, Sarge?" Parker asked. The patrol supervisor read from his notes. "Mary Ann Gardner, age twenty-nine, lived alone, her mother arrives around nine-thirty this morning to have brunch later with her, lets herself in with her own key, discovers her daughter and another woman dead in the living room, she starts screaming, a neighbor hears her and phones down to the concierge. " "And the other woman?"

"Mrs. Adele Harrison, age forty-six, lives in apartment six-teen-AS in the south wing of this building. Married to J. Franklin Harrison. "

"As in Harrison Pharmaceuticals and Harrison Aviation?" " 'At's the one. "

"Has the husband been notified?"

"Not yet. According to the concierge, he left Saturday on a business trip and hasn't returned yet. "

Parker went over and stood next to the yellow tape, his practiced eyes roaming the crime scene. The large room had a glass wall that overlooked the river and a wide terrace with lots of plants. The thick pile of the carpet was beige, and the sofas and easy chairs were covered in white moire silk. On the walls hung five Muehl paintings from his Greek Island period. Two women lay dead on the floor, their bodies about twenty feet apart. The body nearest the terrace was wearing a white silk bathrobe over a white nightgown. Her bare feet were facing the other body. Adele Harrison lay on her back about three feet in front of the steps that led down from the foyer. The corpse was dressed in an orange-and-white Chanel suit. A. 32 S &W revolver lay beside the right foot, next to an open lizard pocketbook.

Parker became aware of Elizabeth Gardner's moans and the soothing words of the cops trying to comfort her.

Sergeant Johnston whispered to Parker, "Looks like the Harrison dame comes in, shoots Gardner, then does herself."

Parker looked into the sergeant's young face, smiled, and, bending under the tape, walked into the living room.

Death's rancid stench already polluted the air. It's amazing how some of us get used to that stink, he thought, crossing the room to Mary Ann Gardner's body. She lay on her back with her arms spread out at her sides; the left eye was open, the right one closed. A jagged bullet hole gaped from the center of her forehead; blood pooled around the head, caking her long blond hair in crimson mud. The body was stiff from rigor mortis. All the blood had settled to the bottom of the body, causing lividity's blue discoloration to show through her bathrobe.

Adele Harrison's skirt was hitched up above her knees, and her left leg was bent awkwardly under the right one. Both eyes were closed and her mouth was open. Heavy powder tattooing surrounded the bullet hole in her right temple. Parker got down on all fours and, lowering his face close to the revolver, peered into the cylinder. Two rounds had been spent. He got to his feet just as Sergeant Johnston called to him, "Crime Scene just arrived."

Parker looked around and saw two detectives lugging black valises coming into the foyer. "Gimme a few more minutes alone, " he called to the familiar faces.

"No problem, John," the older one said.

Parker looked at Mary Ann Gardner's mother. She was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. She caught his curious stare and made an attempt to tidy her hair. He walked away into the master bedroom. The king-size bed was messed up with disheveled sheets hanging over the sides. The top left side of the fitted sheet had come undone from the mattress. Two of the four pillows were on the floor. The center of the fitted sheet was stained, and a single strand of black curled-up hair lay in the stain. He moved his nose close to it and smelled the unmistakable musk of sex. He looked around the tastefully furnished room for Mary Ann Gardner's pocketbook. He didn't see it. He hadn't noticed it in the foyer or the living room either. He stepped into the bathroom; it wasn't there. Coming back into the bedroom he focused his eyes on the messed-up bed. He went over and knelt, running his hand under the sheets. Not feeling anything, he lifted them up and looked under the bed, spotting the pocketbook standing up against the wall on the bed's right side. He pulled it out and, sitting on the floor with his back up against the bed, opened it. He took out her cosmetics pouch. The thick wallet was stuffed with credit cards, three hundred ten dollars, driver's license, and her car registration. There were several photographs of Mary Ann with girlfriends. A photograph of her and her parents. He slid the photographs into his pocket and took out her appointment/telephone book. He flipped the pages to yesterday, Saturday, April 22. The one p. m. entry read: "Jean for lunch at JD's." The next entry caught his attention: "3 P. M. lover boy." He flipped pages, scanning entries. There were a lot of lover-boy entries.

Parker told the crime-scene detectives that he wanted exact measurements and a crime-scene sketch in addition to photographs and fingerprints. "There's some love juice and a black pubic hair on the bed. I'd like you to run DNA on both of them. " He suddenly walked away from the crime-scene detectives and lifted Mary Ann Gardner's nightgown. Her pubic hair was blond. Walking back to them, he said, "I'd also like you to vacuum the pillow and the bed."

The detectives opened their valises and went to work.

"Hello, Jack." Dr. John Goldman had been with the Manhattan ME 's office for over ten years. He was a short guy with thin lips and a cheerful smile.

"What brings you out, Doc? You usually tell us to tag 'em and bag 'em."

"We have standing orders to respond to all high-profile homicides. And Sutton Place South is about as high profile as they go in this town."

Parker agreed and watched him kneel to examine Adele Harrison's body. After he finished there he walked over and examined the other corpse. After five minutes he came back over to Parker and said, "I can't be sure until I get them on the table, but my guess is sometime between ten and midnight." A strange expression came over the ME as he looked down at the body with the bullet hole in the temple and said dryly, "Looks like someone hit you a ground ball."

"Grounders aren't always grounders, Doc. You know that. "

"Why is every detective I know a philosopher?" "Because we deal with the shits of the world. " The guest bedroom had a brass trundle bed against one wall and a bookcase on the other. A desk stood by the window that overlooked the river. On it were a computer, a laser printer, and a fax machine. Parker's attention was drawn to the blinking e-mail cursor on the computer's screen. A template sat on top of the keyboard above the function keys, denoting the various functions each key performed. F-10 was the e-mail key; he pressed it. "You have one personal message" came onto the screen. He touched the key again. The message came up. "I love you and can't wait to be with you again. I'll be home Sunday evening around six. I'll come right up to you. Frank."

Walking out into the foyer, Parker motioned the uniformed cops away from the victim's mother. He dragged a chair over, sat down in front of her, and said, softly, "I'm John Parker, Mrs. Gardner. I've been assigned to investigate this tragedy. "

She looked at him, disbelief clouding her face. "Why would anyone want to hurt my Mary Ann? She never harmed anyone in her life. Why? Why?"

"Did your daughter live alone?"

"Yes. She wasn't married."

"How well did she know Mrs. Harrison?"

She shook her head and said, "Mary Ann never once mentioned her name to me. I don't think she knew her."

"What about her boyfriends?"

"My daughter never talked to me about that part of her life."

"Was your Mary Ann expecting you today?"

"Yes. We spoke yesterday and arranged to have brunch to-gether today. I have my own key, and she left word with the concierge not to announce me. She was afraid that she might be in the shower when I arrived and didn't want me to have to wait in the lobby."

"Tell me what happened when you arrived here this mom-ing. "

Her face set as she tried to recall everything. "I got off the elevator and walked down the corridor to the door. I took out my key and let myself inside. As soon as I stepped into the foyer I knew something was wrong. That awful smell and the silence. Mary Ann's apartment was always noisy: music, the television, her on the phone. I called her name and there was no answer. I went to walk into the living room and saw them, dead on the floor. I lost control and started to scream. The next thing I knew the apartment was full of policemen."

"Do you remember touching anything in the living room, or rushing in to hold your daughter?"

"I don't remember. I don't think I left the foyer."

Parker heard the photographer snapping pictures of the crime scene. "Mrs. Gardner, can you think of any reason why anyone would want to hurt your daughter?"

"No."

"Have you told your husband what happened?"

"David passed on four years ago."

"Did your daughter work?"

"Not really. She had several trust funds from her grandparents and her father. She dreamed of becoming a screenwriter. She must have written a dozen screenplays, but none of them was ever produced. She was very excited about her latest one. It was about 'relationships. ' "

"When you spoke to Mary Ann yesterday, how did she sound?"

"Very upbeat. She'd found a producer who was interested in her screenplay."

"Did she tell you the producer's name?"

"No, she never mentioned it."

"Weren't you curious?"

"Of course I was. But if Mary Ann had wanted me to know, she would have told me."

"Who is Jean?"

"Jean Bailey was Mary Ann's closest friend." Elizabeth Gardner's tears had caused her makeup to run; mascara smudged her eyes. She was a beautiful woman with long legs, high cheekbones, and full lips. She had deep brown eyes that looked almost black. Parker continued the interview for another fifteen minutes and then asked one of the uniformed cops to drive the bereaved woman home.

The doormen had locked the front entrance in order to keep out the haughty media crowd that had descended on the Sutton Place co-op.

The doormen turned their backs on the horde, ignoring them.

Walking over to the concierge, Parker looked out at the black-tipped microphones pressed up against the glass doors and asked the man behind the desk, "How long has the wolf pack been outside?"

"They arrived shortly after you did."

Parker extended his hand. "I'm John Parker."

"Frank Baffin," said the concierge, shaking hands.

"How long you been working the desk?" Parker asked.

"Twenty-one years come December." He was a short, wiry man with wisps of gray hair sprouting around his otherwise bald head. Small, round green eyes peered out from under his overhanging brow.

"Guess you could tell some stories, huh?"

"Hey, when I retire I'm thinkin' of writing a book about the shenanigans of the people who live on Sutton Place."

Looking down at the visitors' log, Parker asked, "Are all visitors entered in that book?"

"Yes, 'cept when a tenant accompanies them into the building."

"Are all unaccompanied visitors announced?"

"Yes, 'cept when a tenant leaves word not to. But they only do that for close family members."

"Was Mrs. Harrison listed as a visitor to Mary Ann Gardner's apartment yesterday?"

"No. I looked. I phoned the guys who were on duty last night and evening, and they both said that they never even saw Mrs. Harrison yesterday."

"Was there any way for her to get there without passing through the lobby?"

Baffin explained that the lobby separated the north and south wings of the building, but that in the basement a corridor connected both elevator banks.

Parker said: "So anybody who is in the basement can walk to the north or south elevator bank and ride up to any apartment they choose without being seen or announced."

"Yeah. But only tenants have free access to the basement."

"What about deliveries?"

"They all come in through the service entrance and are accompanied by porters up to the apartment."

"When is the service entrance open?"

"From eight in the morning until six o'clock in the evening, and up to five on Saturday. Closed on Sunday."

"What about the garage?"

"It's on the Fifty-fourth Street side of the building, and it's only for the tenants. There's a slot that they stick a plastic key into that opens the door, or they can use an automatic door opener. They park the car and walk through a door in the back that leads into the basement."

Parker pointed to the visitors' log. "How long are these kept?"

"Two years, then they're thrown out."

"Mind if I look through it?"

"Go ahead."

The first entry was on December 10 of last year. The day and date headed each page. The left-hand column listed the time, followed by the visitor's name and the tenant and apartment number. The last column listed the time the guest left the building. As he scanned the pages he saw that Mary Ann Gardner had many male guests, all at night. None of them stayed overnight. "Do you know any of these men?"

"Naw. They'd come over to me, give me their names, and I'd call up to her and she'd say 'Send 'em on up.' "

Parker picked up the log and walked over to the grouping of blue sofas. After taking out Mary Ann's appointment book, Parker turned to the first "lover boy" entry on Sunday, January 15, 1995, at 7:00 p.m. He opened the visitors' log to that time and date and saw no corresponding entry, nor was there one for any of the other fifteen "lover boy" entries in her appointment book. The page that held yesterday's entries had a slip of paper stapled to the top. He took it off. It contained a list of names. "What's this?" he asked, holding it up.

"The Goldmans in apartment twelve-CS had a party last night. That's the list of their guests. They left it here at the desk. That way we check them off as they arrive and don't have to bother the Goldmans with announcing each of their guests."

Parker folded up the slip of paper and slid it into his pocket. He returned the visitors' log and asked Baffin, "Did Miss Gardner bring a lot of men home with her?"

"I don't know what you'd call a lot, but she certainly never got lonely. She was always bringing guys home with her. Most of them I'd never see again."

Jean Bailey, an attractive brunette in her early thirties, was nervous. Sitting on the terrace of her East Seventy-ninth Street apartment, toying with a spoon, she looked across the glass table and said to Parker, "I couldn't believe it when I heard it on the radio."

"I understand you were one of her closest friends."

"Yes, we were very close."

"Tell me about her. What was she like?"

"She had a great sense of humor, loved to be with people, and wanted more than anything else to be a screenwriter."

"How long had she known Adele Harrison?"

"I don't think Mary Ann knew her. She never mentioned her name to me."

"What about her boyfriends?"

Jean's eyes fell to the empty coffee cup; she began gnawing at the edge of her lower lip. "I don't know about any of that." Her words lacked conviction.

"It's important that I find out all there is to know about Mary Ann's life. Please."

She grabbed a package of cigarettes up off the table and lit one. Blowing out the smoke, she relented. "Mary Ann didn't have one boyfriend, she had lots of them. She never wanted any of them to take her out for dinner or anything like that. All she wanted was for them to come to her apartment and take her to bed." She took another pull of her cigarette. "Did you know any of her lovers?"

"No."

"Where did she meet these guys?"

"In the neighborhood. At the New School where she took courses. She liked to go to Johnny Diamond's; she'd meet them there." She flicked the cigarette ash and asked softly, "Why did she kill Mary Ann?"

"We're not sure yet. Was Mary Ann into married men?" "I don't know. She was very secretive about her love life." "How long had she known Adele Harrison?" "I already told you, as far as I know, Mary Ann didn't know her."

"You had lunch together yesterday, right?" "No. Mary Ann canceled. She said she was expecting company. Which meant one of her lovers was coming over. We dished on the phone for a while and made plans to do lunch on Monday."

"Did she tell you who she was seeing?"

"No, she didn't. As I already told you, Mary Ann wasn't big on giving out the names of the men she was sleeping with."

"I always thought that women confided that stuff to their close girlfriends."

Jean smiled as she crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. "Women are not all the same, Detective." "What did you two talk about?"

"She was excited about her latest screenplay. She told me that a producer was interested in making it into a movie."

"Did she tell you his name?"

"No."

"Mary Ann must have been happy over that."

"She was thrilled. I've never seen her so excited."

"I'm surprised she didn't tell you the name of the producer. I would think that she'd do that."

"I know, that was strange. Not like her. I had the feeling…"

"What?"

"From the way she was gushing on and on about this producer, I had the feeling that he was the one she was seeing yesterday."

The man opened the door and stole into Mary Ann Gardner's apartment. When he saw Parker sitting in the foyer with his shield case dangling from his right hand, he froze. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"Detective John Parker, Seventeenth Squad." He studied the handsome, well-dressed man for a few seconds before he said, "Mr. Harrison, your wife and Mary Ann are both dead." Harrison 's legs sagged. He looked with stunned silence at Parker, digesting the words he had just heard.

"What did you say?"

Parker told him again. "How?" Harrison said.

"It appears that your wife shot Miss Gardner and then took her own life. The revolver she used was registered to you."

Harrison staggered against the wall. Parker rushed over to him and helped him onto a chair.

"I don't believe this," Harrison said.

"I'm afraid it's true."

"I kept that damn gun in a shoe box on top of the closet in our bedroom. I hadn't touched it in years. I decided on Friday to sell it to one of the gun dealers around police headquarters, and took it down. I left it on my dresser. I was going to get rid of it on Monday."

"When did your wife find out about the affair?"

Shaking his head with disbelief, he said, "I didn't think she knew."

"How long had you been having a thing with Miss Gardner?"

"We met in January at Johnny Diamond's. The affair began immediately, the first night."

"How did you manage crossing over to her side of the building without being seen by the doormen or the concierge?"

"I'd take the elevator to the basement and cross over to the north-side elevators."

"No one ever saw you riding up and down?"

"No. Half the tenants in this building have other homes."

"When did you last see Mary Ann?"

"Saturday. I left my apartment at one. I had an appointment in Philadelphia last night. I left Mary Ann's apartment at three."

"How did you get to Philadelphia?"

"Amtrak."

"What hotel did you stay at?"

"The Winston."

"Didn't any of the doormen or the concierge tell you what had happened when you came home?"

"They didn't see me. I entered through the garage and came right here."

"Were you going to produce Mary Ann's screenplay?"

"I'm not in the movie business. I showed her story to a producer friend of mine and he was interested." His eyes narrowed. "How did you know I was seeing Mary Ann?"

"I read her e-mail."

"I told her to use a password but she didn't think she needed it because she lived alone."

"Can I assume that you have a password for your e-mail?"

"Of course I do."

"Did your wife know it?"

No. Adele and I respected each other's privacy." His eyes focused on the bloodstains on the living room rug. "Who found them?"

"Mary Ann's mother."

"Her stepmother," he blurted. "They couldn't stand each other."

"I got the impression that they were close to each other."

"Just the opposite. Mary Ann's father left her his entire estate. He'd been married to Elizabeth for only three years, and she signed a prenuptial that left her three hundred thousand in the event of his death. That's not a lot of money for a woman with her lifestyle."

"Mr. Harrison, I need to go with you to your apartment."

"Why?"

"Do you have an answering machine on your phone?"

"Yes."

"I need to listen to it."

"My wife hated guns. I don't think she ever held one in her hand. Detective, Adele was a religious woman. She would never kill another human being, and she certainly would never kill herself."

"I know."

"May I come in?" Parker asked forty minutes later, his hard eyes fixed on Elizabeth Gardner's face. She stepped aside. He walked into her fourteenth-floor Park Avenue apartment, his eyes sweeping the large living room. He turned to face her. A nervous twitch invaded her right eyelid. He said: "Women never commit suicide by blowing out their brains, they just don't."

Her mouth fell open.

"Adele Harrison recorded your conversation on her answering machine. It's all there, you telling her about the affair, suggesting that you come to her apartment to discuss it. You weren't sure what you were going to do, were you? All you knew for sure was that Mary Ann was happy over her screenplay and you hated her all the more for it and wanted to cause her pain. You told the concierge you were going to the Goldmans' party. You went to the Harrison apartment instead. At some point Adele Harrison excused herself. That was when you saw her husband's gun on his dresser. It all came together then, didn't it? You quickly snuck into the bedroom, took the gun, and stuck it into your pocketbook. Then the two of you went to Mary Ann's apartment. During their confrontation you stood beside Adele. At some point you took out the revolver, shot her in the temple and then killed Mary Ann. You then wiped the gun clean of your fingerprints, pressed it into Adele's hand in order to get her prints on the gun, dropped it on the floor next to her body, and then went to the Goldmans' party."

"You can't prove any of that."

"I'm getting a warrant to take your clothes to the lab. Our forensics people are going to find particles of gunpowder that match the powder tattooing on Adele Harrison's temple. That and the tape will convict you."

The color drained from her face.

"Why, Elizabeth?"

"Money. I stood to inherit if Mary Ann died."

"How did you find out about the affair?"

"I dropped by Mary Ann's unexpectedly. The concierge was busy and didn't see me, so I just went on up. I walked in and found them in bed." She started to shake. "What's going to happen to me?"

"You'll probably spend the rest of your life in prison."

She got up slowly and darted out onto the terrace. He ran after her. She threw herself over the railing. He leapt to grab her, but she was gone. Watching her silent plunge to the street, he thought of the two murdered women and realized that everyone has their own dying time.