Bound to Die Page 2

  “You’re the one who called this in? This is your…?” He waved his hand toward the door, wondering what word she would use. Office? Play space? Studio? Dungeon? He’d heard them all used more than once.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. She crossed her arms and tapped her watch. “When can I leave?”

  This was going to be interesting. No, she was interesting. “Soon. You can go after you’ve finished answering our questions.”

  Hunter glanced toward the elevator. “You can ask. I might answer. My attorney should be here any minute.”

  She’d already called her attorney? Then why even ask when she could leave? What the hell? “I’m merely trying to get a clear picture of all this. Getting your lawyer here will take time. Traffic is a bitch tonight.”

  “As I said before, you can ask. I’ll answer what I feel I can.”

  Her voice was firm and confident, but she grasped her arms tight against herself. Maclean had said she referred to the room containing the body as her therapy room. It was clear she’d talked to Maclean, but had gotten control of herself since then. “Well, all right then, Ms. Hunter. We were told you found the body and called 911.”

  “I did.”

  Hunter’s dark brown eyes met his with a cool aloofness that betrayed her body language. She kept glancing toward the elevator.

  “This your office?”

  “Yes.”

  Ask a closed-ended question, and you get monosyllabic answers. Court chewed on his lip for a second before continuing. “Who all has access?”

  “My clients.”

  She said the word ‘clients’ with deliberate care. “You’re saying your clients can come and go as they please?”

  The look she gave him reminded him of a disappointed kindergarten teacher. “No. They have key cards that let them come into the office right before an appointment. A limited, ten-minute window of opportunity.”

  In a town where computer programmers were barely outnumbered by MBA’s, Court bet there would be a way to hack her entry system. Going through her whole client list was going to be a bitch, and it would require a warrant to get it in the first place. If he couldn’t get her to offer it up voluntarily. “What kind of service do you perform? The sign on the door says financial, but the inside says something different.”

  “I’d rather not answer that until my attorney is here.”

  “Ms. Hunter, I can assure you, all I am interested in is finding out what happened here. What you do probably has something to do with how Berkeley Drummond died in there.”

  Hunter lifted a hand to her necklace, sliding the diamond back and forth along the chain. “I’ve been told to wait to speak to you.”

  It took a lot of effort to keep himself from rubbing at his temples. His head was beginning to throb a slow, steady beat. “Okay, let’s try this. Why is one of your shoes next to the desk in the front office and the other in the room with the body?”

  “Oh.” She raised a hand to her mouth. “Hmmm. That.”

  Court was sure she was hedging for time, trying to figure out what she could say. Before he could press her for an answer, the elevator door opened and a woman rushed out. Everything—from her neatly coiffed all-white hair, her hand-tailored suit, her leather briefcase slung from her shoulder to the tips of her Louboutins—screamed attorney. A pricey one.

  Court nodded at the officer to let him know that she could come inside.

  The attorney put a hand on Hunter’s forearm, squeezing it gently but addressed herself to Court, then Ivy. “I hope you haven’t asked my client too many questions, detectives.”

  She offered her card. Bernice Wagner, Attorney-At-Law. Court was pretty sure she was involved in a bunch of cases recently with the ACLU, but he couldn’t name any of them. They were all civil-rights issues. A high-powered lawyer for a high-powered domme?

  4

  “What’s a civil rights attorney doing here?” Court said in a low voice, watching as the attorney consulted with her client a few feet away. “Even if Hunter was worried about being charged with something vice-related, she’d want a criminal defense attorney.”

  Ivy shrugged. “Could be the only one she knows. My guess is that Wagner can handle the basic questions, but would give her a referral for anything further.”

  “And you think working as a rich guy’s dominatrix would be enough to cover the costs of an attorney like her?” He bet her retainer alone would take most of his annual salary.

  “I don’t know. She probably makes huge bucks as a dominatrix. Think about the checks we found.”

  “Prices have risen since I worked vice. There’s no way he was paying her ten K a pop.”

  Ivy nodded. “This setup is pretty high-end, but nothing is that high-end.”

  Court opened his phone’s browser, searched Karen Hunter, and found nothing. Bernice Wagner, on the other hand, brought up hundreds of hits. He scanned the links until Hunter and her lawyer turned back toward them. Of interest was Wagner’s representation of a class action on behalf of several thousand women and men seeking to legitimize many kinds of sex work—prostitution, professional handicap companionship, domination among them. He held the phone’s screen toward Ivy. “I bet they know each other from this.”

  Wagner approached them. “Detectives, we know how things work. Get my client full immunity on anything vice-related, and I’ll let her answer your questions.”

  Court had already figured this was the main issue. All they had in the other room were a bunch of perfectly legal sex toys. The cashier’s checks could be payment to Hunter for a car she was selling him, could be for anything. Bending the rules a little bit might go a long way in this case. “You know we don’t have that kind of authority. But, we’re here to figure out what happened to the deceased, not ding her for her profession.”

  “Ms. Hunter is very upset about this. She wants to cooperate, but can’t until certain assurances are made.”

  Court knew that the only way Wagner would make this kind of offer was if Hunter had given her enough information to make it clear that anything she said wouldn’t lead to her arrest. “We’ll talk to the D.A. about a deal. You get your client to answer our questions for us, first. Establish some basic facts. We can see where things go from there.”

  Wagner studied him for an uncomfortable length of time before nodding. “Do you have a time frame for the death?”

  “Nope. No idea.” Even if he did have a clear idea at this point, he would want to hear what Hunter had to say before telling them.

  Wagner’s lips twitched. “Let’s take it question by question then. You ask, I tell her whether or not to answer.”

  “How about I ask her the obvious… Did she kill or somehow cause the death of Berkeley Drummond? Could save us a lot of time.”

  Wagner shook her head, rolling her eyes with a lazy, maternal grace. “Nice try, Detective. Go ahead, read Ms. Hunter her rights, and we’ll go one by one. Maybe you can question her while your partner can call someone at the D.A.’s office and get a basic deal hammered out so we can expedite this. I have no desire to meet with you again this weekend.”

  Court glanced at Ivy, who was already pulling up her contact list on the phone. “Verbal preliminary work for you?”

  Wagner swung her briefcase around so she held it in both hands, letting it bounce against her knees. “Sure does. For the basics. Gotta give a little trust to get a little trust, eh, Detective?”

  Ivy turned away from them to make the call. Court activated his phone’s recording app, read Hunter her rights, and stated the names of everyone present, along with the date, time, and the location. Hunter stated that she understood what was happening.

  “Okay, let’s get back to the facts,” Court said. “Are you the Karen Hunter who called 911 at four forty this afternoon to report the body in the other room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  Hunter waited for Wagner’s go-ahead. “Yes.”

  Anyone who
had picked up a paper in the last four months would have recognized the philanthropist businessman, but he wanted everything on tape. “Could you state his name for the record, please?”

  “Berkeley Drummond.”

  “How did you know him?”

  Another quick glance at the attorney. Another nod. “He was a client.”

  “Can you be more specific about what kind of client?”

  She smiled. “A private one.”

  Court shook his head. “Okay, when was the last time you saw Berkeley Drummond alive?”

  Wagner placed a hand on Hunter’s forearm. “Detectives, we’re done for now.” She turned to her client. “I advise you to not talk to him further until he has a signed deal offering you all immunity from any vice-related charges.”

  Hunter squeezed Wagner’s hand. “I know. But they said they would get the deal taken care of. I want to answer their questions and get home. Okay?”

  Wagner withdrew her hand and shook her head. “Why am I even here?” She raised a carefully manicured finger in front of Court’s face. “I’m watching you, Detective.”

  Court wondered what it would mean to have such a high-powered attorney watching him, in addition to the inevitable press and SPD brass. “Okay, Ms. Hunter. Berkeley Drummond is dead. In your ‘therapy room.’ I would like you tell me exactly what happened here.”

  Hunter swallowed, taking in a huge gulp of air and releasing it before answering. “Berkeley has… I mean had, a standing appointment every Wednesday evening. This week, I canceled because of an emergency. I arrived here at three o’clock Wednesday afternoon. I left around four, maybe four-fifteen. I was at the doctor’s office in Redmond by four forty-five and then at the hospital with my son. I spent the rest of the night at Evergreen Hospital. I was there until noon yesterday when my son was discharged, and I took him home.” She closed her eyes for a second. “Then, today, I realized I’d left my iPad here, so I decided to come in and get it after my daughter got home from school. She’s old enough to babysit her brother.”

  Women in the sex trade often had kids. A disconcerting thought. Maybe it was because Hunter lived on the Eastside. The long commute over the bridge across the lake into Seattle would drive Court batty. “Your daughter. Where was she while you were at the hospital?”

  “She was at home, with her dad. She’s okay babysitting into the evening every once in a while, but she doesn’t like spending the night alone.”

  Her alibi would be easy enough to check out. He took down the doctor and hospital information, then opened a HIPAA boilerplate on his phone. Getting her to consent to access the information was much faster and easier than a search warrant.

  She signed without hesitation and with her lawyer’s approval. It was surreal. They were both being awfully cooperative. Maybe too cooperative. Had he missed an angle here?

  “Ms. Hunter, can you tell me what you charged for a session with Mr. Drummond?”

  “I … don’t charge for my services. My clients leave me a tip or gifts when they leave. It varies.”

  “What kind of gift did Mr. Drummond leave each week?” Court asked.

  “Berkeley usually left me a cashier’s check for five thousand dollars. At Christmas, and on my birthday, he would give me as much as ten thousand.”

  “Any idea why he would have ten cashier’s checks made out to you, each for ten thousand dollars in his wallet?”

  Hunter’s eyes went wide as her eyebrows drew together. “What? No. I have … no idea.” She turned to her attorney, mouth open.

  Ivy returned to the huddle, interrupting them. “You have a deal, Ms. Hunter. No charges on anything vice-related, if you answer all our questions about Mr. Drummond to the best of your knowledge and cooperate fully with our investigation. Of course, this does not clear you of the murder charges if we end up going there…”

  While Ivy spoke, Court watched Hunter carefully for signs or tells. She looked back and forth between Court, Ivy and her attorney. “But the money? I don’t understand all those checks.”

  Wagner put a hand on Hunter’s forearm, stopping her, while addressing Court. “I want the written agreement. Ms. Hunter can answer any other questions you might have tomorrow, once we have the signed deal in hand.”

  Court bit back a snarky reply.

  5

  They cut Hunter loose for the evening at the same time one of the county’s Medical Examiners made her appearance, followed closely by two assistant investigators and the CSI unit. Mary Coleridge was the ME on call. Court enjoyed working with her in spite of her somewhat creepy personality, though he’d never met a forensics expert who wasn’t sort of odd. It must come with choosing a profession in which you cut up dead people all day long. Things that sent him over the edge and running for a toilet didn’t faze her. And he had a pretty strong stomach. She would be just as happy picking apart a room filled with slaughtered children as she was an alley with a single bludgeoned drunk.

  Mary had been a study in contrast from the get-go. Her elfin features and large eyes, coupled with her short pixie cut, made her look more like a blonde anime heroine than a geeked-out forensics nerd. It took him only a few minutes on their first scene together to learn that her appearance was utterly at odds with her personality.

  “This better be good. I had tickets to a show tonight.”

  “Nice to see you too, Mary,” Court said. “I think you’ll find this one pretty interesting.”

  He put Ivy in charge of the front office area, leaving her to work with the CSI team there while he led Mary and her assistant to check out the body.

  Mary raised her gloved hands. “Don’t say anything. Let me do my thing.” She circled the body twice, dropping to a deep squat to examine his underside several times during her inspection. At length, she stood up to contemplate the tangled mess before them.

  Court hoped—maybe even prayed a little bit—that he’d never end up like this, hanging on display, all vulnerable and naked. In all the ways he’d seen people die, this had to be the most humiliating. He wanted to throw a towel over the poor guy.

  Mary tilted her head. “The room is soundproofed, isn’t it?”

  Court pointed to the funky foam on the windows. “We still need to check and see if the walls are also insulated. But yeah. So, what do you think?”

  Mary clapped her hands, rubbing them with the exuberance of a five-year-old opening a birthday present. She bobbed up onto her toes and rolled back down on her heels before answering. “He’s dead, all right.”

  “Thanks, that helps tons.”

  She pointed at the thermostat. “What was it set at?”

  “It was too hot in here to think. It was at ninety-eight. The thermostat was on manual override, so it had to have been cranked up the entire time. Maybe I shouldn’t have touched it.”

  She shrugged. “On-scene temperature is highly overrated, anyway.” She turned to her assistant. “Martin, go ahead and take a liver temp. Note that the surrounding temp has been messed with.” The look she gave Court as she spoke made him want to crawl under a rock, in spite of her blasé response.

  “So, you think it was the rope around his neck?” Court hoped she’d confirm the obvious.

  Mary indicated the mess on the floor beneath the body with the sweeping gesture a maître d’ might use to seat someone at a fine restaurant. “Bowels often evacuate during asphyxiation. I will venture an educated guess that this is urine and excrement. I can’t be certain about that until we get the analysis back from the lab.”

  Another evasive answer. Mary at her finest, saying nothing with a bunch of words. “Okay, let’s theorize that maybe the rope around his neck had to do with his death. Would that be a bad working theory?”

  Mary leaned forward and carefully lifted Drummond’s head while watching the rope. She sucked in her lower lip and nodded. “The rope around his neck. Tied brilliantly. If he got tired and slumped, it would constrict. Not that I can tell you with certainty that is the cause of death. Won’t know a
nything for sure until I do the autopsy.”

  Of course. “So, by what you see here, what are the possible causes of death?”

  “Really? You want me to list all possible causes? He could have been poisoned and brought here by six large men who tied him up and left him to die. He could have been tied up having a good time and had a heart attack.”

  Court raised his hands, willing her to stop. “Okay. So, how long can someone hang like that, the arms and all the other ropes. Pretend the rope around the neck wasn’t there.”

  Mary let out an exasperated sigh. “Well. It’s a bad position. Not good for anyone. Not long. Certainly not days. Hours, maybe.”

  Human beings aren’t built to have their entire weight supported primarily by their arm sockets. It had to be an excruciating position. Court put his arms behind his back and pushed them upward. He imagined being lifted in the same position as Drummond. The pain in his shoulder would have him crying like a baby for release in a couple of minutes. The few videos he’d watched with this kind of shit weren’t instructional or realistic.

  Ivy suddenly appeared at his side. “You thinking of trying it out, Pearson?”

  He straightened up, shaking his arms out. “Shit, Langston. I’m trying to imagine what it must have been like for him.”

  “Yeah, right.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm. “They’re boxing up her computer and iPad. I’m sending it over to tech.” She tucked a straying curl behind her ear and turned to Mary. “Could someone be left there, hanging, for a while and still be okay?”

  “‘A while?’ That’s pretty vague,” Mary said.

  Court had learned long ago that Mary had semi-autistic tendencies toward precision. “Okay, you think they could last an hour?”

  Mary considered the ropes and the angle of the body. “Hypothetically, someone hanging like that for an hour would be in pain, but would survive. Most likely.” Mary lifted Drummond’s head by the hair, and showed them the slack in the rope. “The rope is not even against his neck when in this position. But, when it drops, it binds the neck tightly.”