Naked She Died

“When you left was anyone with Attorney Blakemore?”

She shook her head.

“No. A Mr. Corelli had an appointment for eleven-thirty, but he never showed.”

“I see; who made the appointment for Corelli?”

“It was made earlier this morning; I’m not sure; I must’ve been on a break or somewhere else when it came in; it’s a mad house around here at times. A woman’s voice, I assume Mr. Corelli’s secretary.”

“And when you got back at one Mr. Blakemore was dead?”

Mary suppressed a sob, holding the handkerchief at the ready by her mouth, and nodded.

“Could you check something for me, Mary? I need to know if an Ann Wilson was ever a client of your boss.”

Mary turned to her desk computer, dabbing the handkerchief at the corner of her eye, and tapped some keys. When a client list appeared she scrolled down.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s been awhile, almost four years.”

“Can you tell me why she was seeing Blakemore?”

Mary shook her head.

“I’m sorry, Inspector, but the case files are confidential.”

“That’s all right. I think I know anyway.”

McKay stood.

“You can go on home now, Mary,” McKay said, thanking her.

He stepped up to the dour-faced officer.

“Have someone notify Mrs. Blakemore, Kelly.”

5

Later that afternoon, hours after he had sent in his official report, McKay got a call telling him that the Chief of Detectives, Captain Waters, wanted to see him.

Waters’ large office was on the third floor. McKay tapped on the frosted pane of the door and entered. Next to Waters’ desk was a middle-aged man, seated in a leather arm chair, dressed in a dark brown Armani, with a tropical tan. McKay recognized the rugged, Hollywood-handsome face of Commissioner Blaine Jarvis.

“Mike, come in,” Waters said grinning. “Grab a seat. You know the Commissioner.”

McKay nodded toward the tanned face with the flashy white teeth and took a seat in a matching leather chair on the opposite side of Waters’ desk.

“I was just telling the Commissioner what a hell-of-a job you did on solving this Blakemore case so quickly.”

“Yes, a splendid job, McKay,” the commissioner said, taking out a gold cigarette case from the side pocket of his coat. “The mayor is very pleased, and not just because he would have had to face Corelli in the upcoming mayoral race. As you know, the Corellis have a hand in every corrupt enterprise in the city: extortion, drugs, gambling, prostitution -- you name it. And with a Corelli in the mayoral office their control would have been total.”

The commissioner tapped an unfiltered cigarette on the side of the case, then smoothly slid it back in his pocket. From another pocket he fished out a gold lighter, lit the cigarette and flashed McKay another broad smile as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Well, it’s nice to be appreciated,” McKay said, rubbing the flat of his hand along the side of his chin. “But I think congratulations are a bit premature.”

Waters, who had been propped on an elbow, straighten up and leaned back in his swivel chair; a guarded look was passed to the commissioner.

He sniffed a couple of times, twitching his nose, then tapped his forefinger on a couple of manila folders lying on his desk.

“Andersen seems to think it’s open and shut, Mike. What’s the problem?”

“Well, for openers there’s a Jane Doe lying in the morgue who was murdered about a month ago, about the same time a hooker by the name of Ann Wilson disappeared. Now this Ann Wilson shows up in a video, stashed in Blakemore’s desk, screwing David Corelli. Seems likely there’s a connection between Doe-Wilson and Blakemore’s murder. Furthermore, Blakemore is dead from a gunshot to the head by someone whom he trusted enough to let them get up close and personal -- that lets Corelli off the hook; but this someone, wanting to make it look like a mob hit, put a round through his chest after he was already dead. Why? To frame Corelli.”

Waters gave McKay a deprecating smile and pushed his rimless glasses up off his nose.

“Mike, Mike, look --”. He broke off, drummed his thumbs impatiently on the desk, then sighed with frustration. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. First, you have no way of knowing that your Jane Doe is this Ann Wilson. Ann Wilson is a hooker. You know how hookers are, Mike. She might be anywhere -- left town. Hell, who knows, who cares? And even if they are the same person it doesn’t mean her death or disappearance has a connection to Blakemore’s murder. If Ann Wilson’s dead it’s probably because some john got carried away and whacked her. Happens all the time. Second, I haven’t got Freddie’s report on Blakemore -- too soon, but I’m sure when I get it there will be a reasonable explanation about the lack of blood on Blakemore’s chest that you mention in your report. You just got it wrong this time, Mike. It happens. Hell, we all make mistakes.”

“If Corelli killed Blakemore because Blakemore was blackmailing him, why did he leave the video behind?” McKay asked.

“Damn it, Mike, who knows? He probably ran out of time. May have panicked or thought he heard someone coming.”

“No one panicked or ran out of time,” McKay stated confidently.

“How do you know that, Inspector McKay?” the commissioner asked, his brown eyes alert with interest; he held his cigarette Turkish style inverted between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, palm up.

“Because whoever shot Blakemore in the head made a deliberate show of searching through his desk before shooting him in the chest.”

“How could you know that?” Waters asked, echoing the Commissioner.

“There was blood on the video cassette. The shooter had to have had it outside the drawer which was shut until I opened it. After Blakemore was dead, the shooter raised him up and placed the cassette in the middle drawer of the desk and closed it. The other drawers were rifled to make it look like a search had been made. There was plenty of blood on the desk top where Blakemore’s head fell after the head shot; there’s no blood on the carpet beneath his head in the position we found him. Somebody moved the body.”

Waters leaned back in his chair, making it creak in protest, and clasped his hands behind his bald head.

“Could have been smudges of red ink or ketchup on the video, Mike. Listen -- no matter how interesting your take on it is, it’s all just a little too far fetched for an old fashioned policeman like me to swallow. I don’t like complications. It makes things messy. And in a high profile case like this, messy is he last thing you want. Besides, Mike, when you get to be as old as I am you will have learned that some things have to be pretty much cut and dry. This case is going to be a political hot potato, if you get my drift. The mayor, the media, the public -- everyone will be screaming for us to solve this case as quickly as possible. Now if I went with you it might take forever with no definite results. And why do it? Why branch off into the unknown when we have an obvious suspect with a strong motive? I’m afraid I’m gonna have to side with Inspector Andersen on this one. It’s open and shut, Mike. Case closed.”

McKay dropped his chin and let out a deep sigh.

Waters leaned forward and placed his hands palm down on his desk with a note of finality.

“What I want you to do now is concentrate all your attention on locating David Corelli and bringing him in -- and the sooner the better.”

“Even if he’s not our man?” McKay said, standing.

“We’ll let a jury decide that, Mike. That’s what they’re for.”

6

A little before noon McKay put on a pair of jeans, strapped on his .38 above his ankle, then slipped on some white, scraggily joggers and a black T-shirt and drove to Alcorn Court. He walked to the park and sat down on a green bench on a path near the tennis courts to watch a young couple battling back and forth.

A mauve sky in the west threatened rain. A few, fat drops -- precursors of things to come -- splattered against the concrete path, then abruptly stopped.

In a few minutes he heard the rapid smacking of rubber soles against pavement that slowed as they drew near.

“Mike.”

Alice Mason came to a stop in front of him.

She was wearing red, jogging shorts with slits up the sides and a black sports bra. A black sweat band held her blonde hair back. She glanced at him nervously.

“Is there something new?”

“No, she’s still officially listed as a missing person.”

She studied his face thoughtfully for a moment, then seemed to relax a little.

“I saw the article in the paper yesterday about the Jane Doe you found. I know it’s Ann. She wouldn’t have gone this long without notifying me if she were still alive. Seeing the article suddenly made me realize that. Ann’s gone; I just have to accept it and try to go on.”

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes which she wiped with the backs of her hands.

McKay took his arm off the top of the backrest and gripped the iron arm rest of the bench with his hand.

“Do you know an attorney by the name of Blakemore, Julian Blakemore?”

She glanced toward the couple playing tennis, then directed her gaze to something just over his shoulder.

“Umm, he was mentioned at the club last night. Someone murdered him, didn’t they?” She stopped to reflect, then smiled. “Grammar’s odd isn’t it? I start with a singular pronoun and end with a plural.”

“Did Ann ever mention him to you?”

“Uh, not that I can remember. Why?”

A few drops of rain were audible against the concrete. The tennis couple had stopped playing and were gathering their things up. The man, young and slender, mopped his face with a white towel, then made as if to pop the woman with it. She shrieked, then strutted just out of reach cocking her hips in a playful taunt.

“I found a tape in Blakemore’s desk of Ann and David Corelli, the candidate for mayor, having sex. I recognized her from a mugshot in the database.”

“My God,” Alice murmured. “I remember her telling me once that David Corelli was one of her clients, but why would Blakemore have a tape of her with Corelli?” Then her face suddenly lost its puzzled look. “Blackmail?”

“That’s the commonly held view,” McKay answered with a dry tone.

“But you don’t buy it?”

Before McKay could answer a heavy gush of wind blew down on them. The nearby maples swayed like dancers as air swooshed through their mat of leaves. Rain began to pelt them.

“Come on, inspector,” she cried gaily, as McKay rose to his feet hunching his shoulders. “We can dry off at my place.”

They didn’t hurry. It was a downpour. They were instantly soaked.

.

An arm appeared inside the half opened bathroom door dangling a red towel.

“You can wear this, Mike, until the dryer’s done.”

McKay took the towel, and the hand waved bye-bye.

“Come out when you’re ready, and I’ll fix us some coffee.”

But when McKay stepped out of the bathroom into her lavender bedroom Alice was standing by the double bed. The covers had been drawn back. Like McKay, all she had on was a towel. Her breasts swelled against the top threatening to spill out.

“Or tea . . . or me?” she teased. Then she dropped the towel.

Afterwards, she lay against him nibbling at his earlobe, darting her tongue down to tease the corner of his mouth. The palm of her hand warmed his half-erect cock.

She brought the hand up and stroked the hard abs and chest muscles.

“You must work out a lot.”

“Ah, I stagger into a gym occasionally,” he answered.

“Humph, you don’t get a body like this occasionally.”

McKay touched her belly, then moved his hand farther down to a tight wetness. She gasped softly and snuggled closer to him.

“It’s nice having sex with a woman who shaves her nooky.”

She drew her face back from his, and grinned coquettishly.

“Did you like it?”

“That doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She smiled contentedly and stroked her fingers though his hair.

“Mike,” she said in a more serious tone, “why don’t you ‘buy’ the blackmail motive?”

“Because it’s all wrong; and I don’t like the slant headquarters is trying to put on it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the way they want to see it is that Blakemore hired a hooker to tape herself having sex with Corelli. Which is true, but they want to believe there was no connection between Ann’s death and Blakemore. They don’t want to make things complicated. They want to frame Corelli for Blakemore’s murder, pure and simple. It’s politics -- not justice.”

“You think Blakemore killed Ann to keep her quiet about his having her make the tape?”

Mike nodded.

“But you don’t believe he was killed by Corelli?”

He nodded again.

She remained silent for a long moment then sighed.

“It’s all rather confusing to me, Mike. But maybe there isn’t any connection between Ann’s death and Blakemore, and couldn’t Corelli have done it, Mike? It makes sense.”

McKay gave her a summary of the argument he gave the chief and the commissioner, but in the end he realized, like them, that she was reluctant to accept his perspective, although she never said so outright.

The rain had stopped when McKay left, but gray skies still threatened.

As he got out of his car in front of his lake side condo two large suits with burr cuts confronted him.

“Mr. Corelli wants to see you,” the one with dark hair and a bent nose said. He patted McKay down quickly and professionally taking the .38 and sliding it in his coat pocket.

The other, a blond with close set eyes, opened the back door of a black sedan and nodded for McKay to get in. When he was seated, the blond got in next to him. Bent nose behind the wheel.

They drove up into the hills where the mansions were.

McKay could see winding lanes trailing off behind iron gates losing themselves among park-like lawns dotted with massive magnolias and elms. These were the estates of the rich and powerful who knew how to play life’s little game. These were the people the gods smiled upon. The blest. Just a dab of special gray matter -- such a small thing -- separated them from the masses, yet made them superior and, through no effort of their own, capable of enjoying the luxuries of a life that the common man could only dream about.

They entered through a gate, bordered by large pillars of stone with round bronze balls on top, and after weaving down a circular path arrived at a gray, stone-like fortress with huge oak doors, cut glass windows, and turrets.

Bent nose parked the sedan in front of a long series of car garages; McKay counted them automatically. There were sixteen.

The blond motioned for him to get out.

The air was misty and water dripped from the eaves near the huge entrance doors onto some lacquered-leafed hollies neatly mulched with cypress chips and bordered with white quartz.

“Round back,” bent nose said, leading the way along a stone path. The blond followed close behind McKay.

The air was rich with a lush, earth smell -- a clean, fresh, after-rain smell that was invigorating. Trees dripped silently into the smooth mown lawn that stretched out from the border of the house in a leisurely fashion.

McKay could hear what sounded like wood being chopped as they crossed a patio of flagstone and went down some steps. They followed a curving path to where an arched bridge crossed a small stream by a stand of willows. Just on the other side next to a loose pile of wood was a gray-headed man of medium height quartering blocks with a double-headed ax.

He was wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans and thick-soled, brown boots. And despite his age -- which McKay estimated to be in the late sixties -- looked to be in excellent physical shape. He continued deftly quartering the block of wood he was working on, then buried the ax blade in the chopping block with a powerful thunk and cast a faint smile, or grimace, at McKay -- it was hard to tell which.

“OK, Lenny, go on up to the house and tell Emma to set out a couple of beers on the patio,” he said to bent nose.

When they were gone, the old man turned to McKay:, his eyes keen as a hawk’s.

“I’m Nicholas Corelli, if you didn’t already know. I’ve heard a lot about you, McKay. You’ve got a good record. You’re one of those rare birds: an honest cop. Probably the smartest cop on the force, but you’ll never go beyond sergeant. Wanna know why?”

McKay didn’t answer.

“Because you’re not a team player. You don’t play ball the way the big boys want you to.”

“I’ve heard a person can get dirty playing ball the way they do.”

Corelli smiled his grimace-smile. “The world’s a dirty place.”

“I never grew up,” McKay answered flatly. “But if you wanted a crooked cop I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

Corelli motioned with his hand, and they started back up the path. Gray clouds moved across the sky. Wet magnolia leaves flickered in a soft breeze sprinkling the two men.

“Yes. You’re right, of course. I need a man who -- or is it whom? -- I know is trustworthy. The world is full of liars and thieves, and, in their place, they serve a useful function, but when you want something done right you need an honest man. Your Commissioner Jarvis, the mayor and that son of a bitch, Chief Waters, are playing politics. They don’t want my son to become the new mayor; so they’re setting him up for a murder he didn’t commit.”

“How do you know he didn’t?”

“Because I know my son,”Corelli stated bluntly.

“Does he have an alibi?”

Corelli gave him a licentious smile.

“One can be provided. But that’s not the point. An arrest in this affair will end his chance to become mayor.”

As they stepped up onto the patio a pretty, black woman in a tan frock was setting icy mugs next to two green, beaded bottles on a brass wrought table.

Corelli waved McKay toward a padded chair on one side.

“Your son hasn’t been arrested yet; and if he can provide an alibi --”

“You may be right,” Corelli cut in, “but I can’t chance that.” He tilted his mug and poured a bubbling, dark stained brew into it. “I understand you’ve been taken off the case?”

“Your source is good; the case has been closed; the only loose end is to bring your son in.”

“Yes, and they wouldn’t have closed the case if it wasn’t in their minds to indict my son -- a swift hearing -- then bing! You know as well as I that grand juries are merely rubber stamps for the prosecution. Even if he’s proven innocent later on, they know the damage will have been done. It’s politics, McKay, not justice.”

“As you said, it’s a dirty game.”

“What would you say if I told you I have information that might lead you to the real murderer. What would you say to that?”

“I’m not in the market for a patsy.”

“Please,” Corelli said, raising both his hands in mock appeasement. “I wouldn’t insult your integrity or intelligence with such an offer. Any lead I come up with will be legit. I only ask that you put your effort into finding the real murderer before my son is arrested.”

“Why me?” Mckay asked, turning his mug up for a drink.

“Going by your past record I’d say because you’re the only one intelligent enough to find the real murderer, if possible, and you’re the only one honest enough to care that justice is done.”

McKay stood, taking one last drink, then set his mug on the table.

“OK. But just for the record I was going to continue on the case anyway.”

Corelli leaned back in his chair and smiled, his eyes cold as a cobra’s.

.

Out front a cab was waiting for him.

“Mike, since when you been hobnobbing with the Corellis?”

“Joey. Nick Corelli invited me over to tell me what a wonderful person I was.”

Joey chuckled and shook his curly-haired head.

“Home, Mike?”

“Yep. That’s where the heart is, isn’t it?”