No One Left to Tell

  “They did a rape kit,” Grayson said. “No sign of sexual assault.”

  “At least there was that,” she said, then continued reading. “Crystal attended community college, where she majored in business, but was also auditing a political science class at Georgetown University, where she met her date for that night, Rex McCloud, a senior at Georgetown.”

  “Ah, Rex McCloud,” Grayson murmured. “Grandson of retired state senator James McCloud. As soon as the word ‘senator’ popped up, the powers-that-be ducked for cover. It was like walking through a damn minefield, every day.”

  “The transcript doesn’t say much about Rex,” she observed carefully.

  “The cops cleared him early, so we were asked to tread lightly for the family’s sake.”

  “Special treatment?” she asked.

  “Yes and no. There are a few powers-that-be that count on the McClouds for political support and naturally they wanted to shield them from any ‘unpleasantness.’ If Rex had been a person of interest, I would have grilled him. But he wasn’t.”

  “Then,” she said.

  “Then,” he agreed. He consulted his own notes. “Crystal told Rex that her name was Amber and that she was a full-time Georgetown student, too. He realized she’d been lying to him after she was killed, that she had just wanted entrée to his party. Apparently Rex’s parties were legendary among his crowd.”

  “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll?”

  “Mostly sex and drugs,” Grayson replied dryly. “Any rock and roll was just for show. Rex insisted that if the partygoers were doing drugs, he didn’t see it.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “No, but I wasn’t prosecuting him on drug charges. I was prosecuting Ramon Muñoz for murder. Rex was drinking that night, said he’d lost track of Crystal. He assumed she’d left because he’d been fooling around with some of the other guests.”

  “Where were the adults during all this partying?” Paige asked with a frown.

  “Technically Rex was an adult. He was twenty-one at the time. Rex’s mother was out of town on business. His stepfather said he’d taken a sleeping pill. His grandparents said they ‘retired early.’ Didn’t hear a thing.”

  She looked skeptical. “How could they not know that sex, drugs, and rock and roll was happening in their own backyard?”

  “It’s a big estate. The pool’s a fair distance from the house, so it’s possible they didn’t hear. It’s more likely that they chose not to know. Rex was wild and his mother seemed absentee. Stepdad seemed like a nonentity in the family. The grandparents may have felt unable—or unwilling—to control him.”

  She frowned, considering. “I read up on the McClouds.”

  The way she said it gave him pause. “Why?”

  She looked him in the eye. “Because Rex was barely mentioned in the transcript even though he was Crystal’s date for the night, and because I find it difficult to believe that somebody on the estate didn’t know what was going on at that party.”

  “Rex had an alibi,” he said mildly.

  She shrugged. “Alibis can be bought if you’re rich enough. The McClouds are.”

  He leaned back in his chair, studying her. He’d verified Rex’s alibi himself, because he’d thought the same thing. But he was interested in the conclusions she’d obviously drawn and how she’d arrived at them. “So you read up. What did you find?”

  The look she gave him said she knew he was indulging her. “The McClouds have a buttload of money, originally made in coal. They still own mines in western Maryland and are stockholders in several public utilities, here and in Europe. They give a lot of money to charity and started the McCloud Foundation in the early eighties. They do fund-raising, matching donors to causes, that kind of thing. The senator retired from his senate seat after thirty years in 2000, planning to play golf every day, but a mild stroke a year later left one hand too weak to hold the club.”

  Grayson blinked. “How do you know the part about golf?”

  “James McCloud gave a commencement speech the year after the stroke and mentioned it as a means of preparing the graduates for life’s little disappointments.” She checked her notes. “He has two daughters, Claire by his first wife, who is deceased, and Reba by his current wife, Dianna. His daughters run the businesses and nonprofits now. Claire makes the money and Reba gives it away.”

  “Claire is Rex’s mother,” Grayson said. “I met her briefly when we were interviewing Rex about the party and his whereabouts. She was… intense. A real control freak. Rex was terrified of her. So was her husband—what was his name?”

  “Louis Delacorte. Claire’s grown the business every year since the nineties. Unfortunately Louis doesn’t have her Midas touch. He used to be a bigwig in the McClouds’ European business division, but was dismissed when their profits took a dive. He was given a position in the nonprofit foundation, reporting to Reba.”

  “They put him where he couldn’t hurt anything,” Grayson said.

  “Essentially. A few colleagues were anonymously quoted as saying that Louis was caught having an affair with a young blonde in Europe and that’s why he was reassigned. They also said that he drinks and he’s surly. He has a record for misdemeanor assault. Bar brawl here in Baltimore.”

  “True,” he said, impressed with her thoroughness. “He has a history of violence.”

  “So had Ramon not been accused, both Rex and Louis might have been suspects.”

  “Perhaps Louis. He did have an alibi, but it was the word of one of the servants. Rex’s alibi was strong. I verified it myself. Assuming Ramon’s innocence, Crystal’s killer could have been a party guest.”

  She’d frowned at his insistence of Rex’s alibi, but didn’t push it further. “No guest list for the party was entered as evidence according to the transcript.”

  “There wasn’t a guest list per se. It was one of those parties that if you knew about it, you were invited. Rex gave the police enough names to establish his alibi.”

  “Who were the names? Other partyers doing drugs?”

  “Some, yes. Ultimately, though, it was the security video that confirmed his alibi and cleared him. He never left the pool. Not once during the entire evening.”

  “I thought he was fooling around with some of the other guests,” she said, and when Grayson lifted his brows, she made a face. “Oh, yuck. In front of everybody? On camera?”

  “Verification of which was not one of the highlights of my career. At any rate, the cops didn’t dig that deeply into the other party attendees. Everything pointed to Ramon.”

  “The defense never said that no other leads were followed. This was a wild party where anything could and did happen. They should have tried for reasonable doubt.”

  “They did, via Ramon’s alibi. They tried to break Sandoval and Delgado, but they stuck with their story. We had DNA from Ramon’s hair found on the body, the weapon with his prints and her blood found in his closet. It was a slam dunk. Or so we thought.”

  “Elena said she and Ramon wanted his attorney to introduce the theory of evidence tampering. They wanted to accuse the cops, but the attorney wouldn’t allow it.”

  “I would have said the same thing had I been his attorney,” Grayson said. “Saying the cops planted evidence is sure to turn the jury against your client. It’s so…”

  “So O.J.,” Paige muttered. “I know. That’s what I told Maria and Elena. But ‘Cops chasing me’ kind of changed my mind.”

  “You need to open your mind to the fact that, assuming Ramon was innocent, the evidence could have been manipulated by anyone. It didn’t have to be the cops.”

  She frowned. “The cops had Ramon’s keys while he was being questioned. They had access to his home. And his closet.”

  “Anyone could have broken in.”

  “There was no sign of forced entry.”

  “Paige,” he said. “If Clay wanted to get into a place and didn’t want to leave a trail, could he?” He’d scored a point, he could
see. “Elena may have been mistaken about who was chasing her. Or maybe she thought saying that would keep you on the case.”

  She shrugged. “Either way, someone killed Crystal and it wasn’t Ramon.”

  “All right. There was no sign she was dragged into the shed. She entered under her own power, either by choice or by force.”

  “What was her blood alcohol level? Had she been drinking?”

  He looked through his own file and found the autopsy report. “Zero point two, so she wasn’t anywhere close to drunk. Her tox reports were clear. No drugs in her system.”

  “Let me see that report.” She dragged her chair around the table so that she sat closer. Much closer. So close that her scent filled his head, chasing everything else away. So close that when he slid the autopsy report in front of her, his hand brushed her breast. And if he’d said it had been unintentional, he’d have been lying.

  For a moment he let himself breathe her in. Let himself look. His hands itched to run themselves over every curve, but he flattened his palms on the table, fully intending to keep them there.

  Her face was hidden by hair that he knew was as soft as it looked. Indulging himself a little more, he lifted one hand and slid it under her hair. And felt her shudder.

  “Did you leave anyone behind in Minnesota?” he asked, very quietly.

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “No. No one.”

  He massaged the base of her skull, gratified at her soft hum. He wondered what sounds she’d make if he massaged somewhere else. “You need to sleep,” he said.

  “In a little while.” She rolled her head, meeting his gaze, and again he let himself stare. And want. Her cheeks grew flushed, her eyelids heavy, and he knew she wanted, too. But before he could say anything more, she looked away, straightening in her chair, the moment gone. “The autopsy says cause of death was the stabbing.”

  “Three times,” he said. “She was strangled beforehand.”

  “This also cites inflammation in the bronchial pathways and in the eyes and mouth.”

  “Because she was pepper-sprayed. The ME testified to that. It just made Ramon look worse then, that she’d tried to fight back and he’d used pepper spray on her.”

  “I read that in the transcript. But no pepper spray was found at the scene.”

  “No. Either her assailant brought it and took it with him, or she brought it and it was taken from her. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have crime-scene photos?”

  Intrigued, he handed her the police report. “Where are you going with this?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just thinking about her, that night. She goes to a lot of trouble to meet Rex McCloud and get invited to a party where everyone’s drinking and doing God knows what, but she doesn’t get drunk. Instead she goes to the shed.”

  “CSU said her attacker came at her from behind, that he was taller by at least six inches based on the angle of the ligature marks around her throat. That fit Ramon.”

  “Along with half the men in town. Okay, so she walks into the shed, he comes from behind and strangles her. She fights, maybe takes out her pepper spray…” She frowned and leafed through the police report until she came to the crime-scene photos. “Her dress is pulled up to her waist. What was she wearing that night?”

  It was Grayson’s turn to frown. “What does it matter what she was wearing?”

  She glanced up at him. “Not because her dress sent out ‘rape-me’ vibes. I’m wondering where she hid the pepper spray. Her dress doesn’t look like it has pockets.”

  “You’re assuming it was her pepper spray.”

  “It’s not usually something a man carries, but it is something a woman carries.”

  “Do you carry it?”

  “Always. I didn’t have it on me today because I was in the courthouse. I carry it in my backpack unless I feel unsafe. Then I stick it in my bra so it’s on my person. This dress looks tiny and, the way it bunched, was probably very tight. I don’t think she could have fit even a lipstick-tube pepper spray on her. She had to have had a purse.”

  He frowned again, mostly because his mind instantly conjured the picture of Paige wearing nothing but a bra. “Did Crystal have a purse? I can’t remember.”

  “The report doesn’t list one among the items found at the scene. She would have had a phone and credit cards. She’d need a purse for all that.”

  “We ran her financials. Her credit cards were maxed out and she had no cash in the bank before the party, so maybe she didn’t have credit cards. She didn’t have a cell phone, not one that was traceable anyway.”

  “She’d have car keys or cash or a bus ticket. Some way to get home. And a girl doesn’t go to a party without at least lipstick. She had to have a purse. Whether the pepper spray was in it is a different question.”

  “Why is that important?”

  “Because if she went to the party to play, she’d have played. She didn’t play. She stayed pretty sober and had pepper spray with her. She was prepared for something.”

  “Like?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. She was financially strapped, right? Maybe she was planning to steal something from the rich people at the party. Maybe she knew about the drugs and sex and planned to blackmail them, or maybe even sell to them.” She paused. “Wait. She had no cash in the bank?”

  “Less than fifty dollars. Why?”

  “Because she paid to audit that class at Georgetown and that’s not cheap. Why would she have paid? Why not just meet Rex in the cafeteria and lie about being a student? She was living paycheck to paycheck. Why spend her money to audit?”

  He blinked. “I don’t know. Maybe she was afraid he’d check up on her.”

  “Maybe. This makes her reason for going to the party even more important. She didn’t just lie to Rex—she spent a few hundred bucks to be near him. Then she didn’t stay near him, but went to the shed. Why?”

  “The note found near her body said ‘Gardener’s shed, midnight.’ Signed, ‘RM.’”

  “Ramon Muñoz,” she murmured. “Or Rex McCloud.”

  “Which was why I watched all that video of drunk, naked people having sex in the swimming pool. I needed to be sure Rex hadn’t left the party at the time of the murder. I didn’t want to rock the political boat if I didn’t have to. It would have been a hassle for nothing and would have made it harder the next time I really needed to rock the boat.”

  Plus, he’d known Ramon was guilty. And I didn’t look as deep as I should have. The admission shook him. Shamed him. Paige watched him steadily and he got the uncomfortable feeling she knew that.

  “Did you see Crystal on the video?” she asked.

  “No. She never got in the pool and the camera was focused on the pool area. Rex McCloud never left.”

  “Do you still have the video?”

  “Not me personally. It may be saved on the server downtown. I can get it for you if you want to check for yourself.” He heard the defensiveness in his own voice.

  She met his eyes, having heard it, too. “I believe you about Rex. And Crystal. I want to see who else was at the party. There’s no ID listed among the items found with her body. She told Rex her name was Amber. How did they ID her as Crystal Jones?”

  “They ran her prints. She had a record. Mostly little stuff like shoplifting, but there was one prostitution charge, when she was barely eighteen.”

  Paige had started to yawn, but blinked instead. “The defense didn’t mention that.”

  “They tried, but I had it suppressed during pretrial. Crystal was the victim. Even if she’d lured Ramon to the shed to sell a trick, she didn’t deserve to be murdered.” His voice had gone hard. “Her previous bad acts had no bearing on this case.”

  “Good for you.” She nodded sleepily. “I hate it when they blame the victim.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll get the party video. I have to locate the guests, question them to find out if anyone knew why Crystal came to the party. You’re right. If she’d come
to have fun, she would have. She was there for another reason. For now, go to sleep.”

  “I think I will. Would you mind walking Peabody before you leave?”

  “I’ll walk Peabody, but I’m not going anywhere. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  For a long moment he thought she’d argue. Instead she sighed. “I don’t want to need you to guard me. But I’m not going to be too stubborn to accept help. I need to sleep and I won’t if I’m alone. Thank you. For everything today. For staying.”

  “Lock up behind me. I’ll knock when Peabody’s ready to come back inside.”

  Nine

  Tuesday, April 5, 10:00 p.m.

  “Another, please.” Silas pointed to his empty glass and the bartender nodded.

  Next to him sat Roscoe “Jesse” James, who stared balefully into his drink, the picture of a man who wanted to get drunk and be left alone.

  Sorry, pal. Tonight you die.

  There was a goose egg on James’s skull, most likely courtesy of Grayson Smith’s briefcase. Smith was built like a damn tank. James had to have one hell of a headache.

  The bartender slid another drink his way. Silas did a quick swish with the hollow stirrer that held about a quarter ounce of Rohypnol. Now he just had to wait for the right time to switch the glasses. The way Roscoe was gulping them down, it wouldn’t take long for him to be out like a light.

  Silas’s family phone buzzed in his pocket. He’d call his wife back later. He had to stay focused. He had to stay alert.

  He got his chance a moment later when the bartender had to break up a fight at the other end of the bar. Roscoe and everyone else looked. In seconds, the glasses were switched. Roscoe blindly grabbed for his glass, not taking his eyes off the fight.

  It was the fighting that the man was addicted to, Silas understood. Not the booze. The booze just deadened the disappointment. He glanced at the puddle near his foot, the remnants of his own first glass, dumped so that no one would realize he wasn’t drinking, too. He needed to stay sharp until Roscoe was dead. He’d deaden his own disappointment later.