Chapter 3

“You look terrible.”

“Good morning to you, too.” Morgan collapsed into her chair, tired and cranky after a disturbed night’s sleep.

“Not sleeping well?” Henry asked jovially. Morgan didn’t appreciate her partner’s enjoyment of her discomfort. “It’s not like we’re on a big case, you know. I just feel unsettled.”

“You’ve got to lighten up, or you’re going to make yourself crazy.”

“Crazy? It was one night of broken sleep.”

“Uh-huh. And what was so important that you lost sleep over it?”

“I suppose I could say ‘mind your own business,’ but the truth is, I don’t know.”

“It wouldn’t have something to do with a certain ADA?”

She slumped in her chair and cradled her head in her hands. She looked up at Henry. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.”

“Maybe something, or someone, is bugging you and you don’t know it.”

She looked at him.

“Seriously.”

“Well, whatever it is will have to wait. I’m not making much sense this morning,” Morgan mumbled.

“Sense was never your strong suit.”

“Geez, thanks a lot. Is this ‘kick Morgan while she’s down’ day?”

“If the shoe fits—”

Markham stuck his head through the door and aimed his finger at them. “My office. Now.”

Morgan looked at Henry. “Now? All right!”

“Let’s get in there before he gives a repeat performance.”

As they entered the office, Markham spoke. “Don’t bother making yourself comfortable. There’s been a murder, and I need you two over there ASAP. Make that five minutes ago.” He handed the details to Morgan.

“Christ. Is this who I think it is?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding, Sergeant? The press is going to be all over this one, so quick and quiet. You got me? Dismissed.”

“We’re on it.” Morgan ushered Henry out of Markham’s office. She handed him the 911 report and glanced at him to watch his reaction to their assignment. A low whistle escaped his lips as he read the name and address.

“You get the motor running,” Morgan said, “while I grab a couple of things.”

“I’m on it.” Henry pushed through the back doors leading to the police garage to sign out a car for their use. Morgan made a dash to gather her notebook, cell phone, and blazer before heading out the front door to wait for him. As she stood on the sidewalk, she wondered whether the use of a car would save any more time than just running the couple of blocks to the crime scene. Still, it was a warm day and it would look unprofessional to jog up to the uniforms on the scene, panting. Nope, detectives pulled up in speeding vehicles, sirens wailing and lights flashing like they meant business, scaring dogs, cats, and little old ladies alike as they hurried about their important investigation. One day, she’d like to run up to a crime scene like a veritable Batman and Robin for pure shock value. Maybe she could get Henry to say “Holy Crapola, Batman!” every time they discovered a clue. She chuckled as she waited for the car to arrive. With a squeal of tires, a nondescript Crown Vic skidded to a halt in front of her. She stood there for a moment before the door flew open. “I thought you were in a hurry.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your shirt on,” Morgan muttered as she climbed into the passenger seat. She had barely closed the door when Henry pulled out into traffic without so much as a signal. He flipped a couple of switches on the dash to activate the sirens and lights.

Morgan studied him as he negotiated traffic like a Brickyard 400 driver for all of the twelve seconds it took to get there. She decided he could always fall back on that career if the police force didn’t pan out for him.

She had barely taken two breaths when the car screeched to a halt in front of an expensive piece of neighborhood. “Your foot get stuck on the brake?”

“Ha, ha, very funny. We’re here.”

“Don’t want to do a donut in the middle of the street or anything, do you?”

“Are you saying something’s wrong with my driving?”

“Besides your need to smear us all over the pavement?”

“Picky, picky,” Henry said.

“Hey, I’m not the one driving like Mario Andretti.” Morgan looked at the chaotic scene in front of her. “Christ.”

“You can say that again.”

“Christ.”

Henry flashed her a wry smile She smiled back, thinking how well they worked together. Besides, he kept her sane, kept her focused, and kept her out of trouble.

Morgan reached into the glove compartment for a couple pairs of latex gloves. “Let’s get this show on the road.” She opened the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk to face a handful of reporters asking questions. “Come on, guys. We just got here. You know the drill.” She shoved through the waiting throng, touching her badge on her belt as she approached the uniform who blocked the way to the building. “Detectives O’Callaghan and Chang, Fifth Precinct.”

“Hey, O’Callaghan. You took your own sweet time.” A rotund detective stood on the stoop and signaled to the uniform to let them through. “Come on, I’ll fill you in.”

As she climbed the stairs to the front door, Morgan inspected the street, looking one way then the other. Brownstones with private entrances lined the street. These were houses, not apartments, and spoke of money. A lot of money.

“Looking for something?” Henry asked.

“Nope. Just checking out the local terrain. Let’s hear what Detective Graham has to say.” Inside, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the change from sunlight to shade.

“Arthur Vaughan is a Wall Street moneymaker,” Graham reported. “A delivery boy was delivering the groceries this morning. He found Vaughan on the kitchen floor with a gun in his hand, and his maid lying next to him, shot dead. You’ll find the family in the parlor ready for their statements.”

“Anything else?”

“The stick insect with them is the family lawyer.” Graham consulted his notes. “Marks. According to the wife, she notified him just after calling 911. He was already inside when we arrived.”

“A stick insect?” Morgan laughed at the bizarre description.

“Just you wait and see.”

“Still, the timing’s all wrong. No way he could have beaten you here if you were called first. That’s lie number one. What about the CSU?”

“The crime lab’s in the kitchen now. Fingerprints and gunshot residue still need to be taken.”

“What were you doing while I wasn’t here? Playing Parcheesi?” Morgan smiled.

“Nah, waiting around for you to finally say ‘yes’ to poker night.”

“Unlike you bozos, I want to keep my money.”

“Aw, c’mon, O’Callaghan. We all want to see if you have your dad’s luck at the game.”

“And that’s why I don’t play, Graham.” She returned to the reason they were there. “The case looks straightforward, then.”

“Looks like it. Just got the word from upstairs to hand it over to you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Morgan said absently, her thoughts already focusing on the case at hand.

“Yo, O’Callaghan.” The middle-aged crime scene unit officer greeted her cheerfully.

“Hey, Hodges. What’s going on?” She took a moment to wave goodbye to Graham as he waddled down the staircase. “Call me Friday, okay?”

“Sure. Good luck.” Graham folded his substantial body into the waiting car and left the scene.

“What’s going on?” Hodges said. “One of the city’s richest men was found on the kitchen floor next to the body of the dead maid with the murder weapon in his hand. And you want to know what’s going on?” He stared at her. “Where have you been? Australia? This has got to be the hottest case in the last two years.”

“Well, duh, Hodges. I just got here. Cut me some slack.”

Hodges laughed in silence, his shoulders bouncing up and down. He continued with his report. “The police photographer is here and is taking pictures. Forensics is just beginning.”

“Where’s Vaughan?”

Hodges pointed to the sitting room.

“Thanks.”

Morgan stood at the entrance to the room, Henry by her side. A silver-haired man, sitting slumped in an overstuffed chair, his eyes vacant, drew her attention. So this was Arthur Vaughan. Financier. Philanthropist. Old Money. She had read an occasional piece written on him in the papers, not that she had paid a lot of attention at the time. Shock couldn’t begin to describe the man’s stunned expression. One of the paramedics who attended the 911 call was kneeling beside him, monitoring his vitals. Behind him stood a woman Morgan assumed was his wife, her hand resting on his shoulder. A thin, wiry middle-aged man sat in the chair opposite Vaughan. That had to be Marks.

“I’m Detective Sergeant O’Callaghan, and this is Detective Chang. We’re from Homicide.”

“Sergeant... O’Callaghan, was it?” Vaughan’s wife said. Much younger than her husband, maybe in her mid-thirties, she was dressed in a robe nice enough to wear out on the town and had a rock on her finger that would make Ivana Trump look twice. “Can you give us a moment or two before questioning him?”

“As you wish, ma’am. If you’ll excuse me, while we wait I’d like to examine the scene.” Morgan moved away from the doorway, and Henry followed closely.

She stopped in the doorway that led to the kitchen and whispered to him, “Check out what’s going on, will you? And get a list of who we need to interview.”

“Sure, boss.”

She raised her eyebrow at him then turned her attention to the body on the floor. The victim was lying on her side like she was asleep. A short, balding man was hunched over the body. “Hey, Wyman. Got anything for me?”

The ME looked up at her and adjusted his glasses on his nose.

“Not much yet. We only just got here. We have the deceased with a gunshot wound and a possible murder weapon.”

“The boys are dusting for prints and gathering blood spatter,”

Hodges added.

“Cause of death?”

Wyman gently tipped over the woman until she was lying on her back. “Probably the single gunshot wound to the chest.” He cursorily looked over the body. “There doesn’t seem to be any other evidence of trauma. But you know better than to take that as gospel. You’ll just have to wait for my autopsy report like everyone else.”

“You’re too smart for your own good,” Morgan said with a grimace. “I would appreciate a copy of your report as quickly as possible.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks.”

Two crime lab officers moved about collecting evidence. They took scrapings of anything that looked like it was part of the investigation. Morgan could see where they had been by the fingerprint dust liberally scattered over walls, floors, table, chairs, sink, utensils, and appliances. Nothing was left untouched.

“Call me right away, huh?”

“Sure,” Wyman said. “You think I’m going to forget you?” He looked at her over his glasses.

“Owe you one.”

“That makes three.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Morgan looked around for a gun. “Anyone bag the murder weapon?” One of the investigators held up a bag with the evidence. “Why do I bother even asking?”

The techs laughed as if to say, “Why do you?”

“Hey, Wyman,” Morgan said.

He looked up from his work.

“Can you get your boy here to take fingerprints and gunshot residue on our suspects in the living room?”

“Of course.” Wyman caught the attention of his assistant and nodded in the direction of the lounge room. The young officer graced Morgan with a smile as he passed her, carefully stepping around the assorted spots of forensic dust and marked cards. Morgan waited a few minutes for Wyman’s assistant to finish fingerprinting. She looked up when Henry returned. “Let’s see what Vaughan has to say for himself. Or maybe Mrs. Vaughan will fill us in, since she seems to have taken it upon herself to do the talking for him.” This might be only a preliminary interrogation, but she needed some sort of report to give to the captain. She entered the front room and approached the man slumped in the chair. “Mr. Vaughan? Do you remember me? Sergeant O’Callaghan?”

Dull blue eyes tracked up to her, but little life showed in them. Morgan studied Vaughan, wondering what would make him do such a thing. Would he? Could he? Her gut instinct was saying no, but the circumstantial evidence was saying otherwise. 37

The other man, tall and spindly, affected an air of officiousness in his crisp three-piece suit and slicked-back hair. He stood next to Mrs. Vaughan, whispering to her.

“Ah, Detective—” he said.

“Sergeant O’Callaghan.”

“Yes, of course. Detective Sergeant O’Callaghan. I’m Clifford Marks, Mr. Vaughan’s attorney. I’m representing him at this most unfortunate time.”

Morgan jotted the name down in her notepad. Marks. One of the partners at Schneider, Marks, and Edgerton. She had heard of these heavy-hitters by reputation only, and she knew her case would be scrutinized by some very smart lawyers. She didn’t envy the DA’s job of prosecuting the case.

She spoke to the elderly gentleman sitting in the stuffed chair.

“Mr. Vaughan? Are you up to answering some questions?” He looked up in response to his name but said nothing. Morgan turned her gaze to Marks who pursed his lips in what might have been aggravation.

“Sorry?” Vaughan spoke for the first time.

“Sergeant, my client is clearly not able to competently answer your questions at this time.”

Morgan opened her mouth to respond, but Vaughan interrupted. “Sergeant, wasn’t it?” A glimmer of recognition appeared on Vaughan’s face as their eyes met momentarily.

“Yes. O’Callaghan.”

“Arthur, I’m advising you not to say another word,” Marks said in a low voice.

With a flick of his hand, Vaughan dismissed his attorney’s caution. “Yes, yes, continue.”

Morgan heard a sputter escape Marks’s lips. She ignored him and instead focused on Vaughan. “Mr. Vaughan, can you tell me, in your own words, what happened?”

“My husband went into the kitchen, but the maid was already dead. Distraught, he just picked up the gun without thinking. He couldn’t possibly have killed her.”

“Mrs. Vaughan, I was asking your husband to tell me in his own words.” Morgan paused for a moment. “How do you know this, ma’am? Did you go with him? Or maybe you were already present in the room when he entered?”

“Certainly not. He told me when you left the room, Sergeant.”

“And yet your husband here is clearly stricken from the incident, Mrs. Vaughan. How could he possibly have been cognizant enough to say anything?”

“That’s enough, Connie,” Marks interrupted. “Is Mrs. Vaughan a suspect here, Sergeant?”

“Mr. Marks, everyone is a suspect until eliminated from the investigation.”

Mrs. Vaughan sighed, her platinum blonde hair shifting with her motion.

Morgan signaled the paramedic on the floor, and they moved away from the suspects. It took only a moment or two to make a decision.

Morgan returned to address the family. “Mr. Vaughan, you’ll be taken to Sacred Heart Hospital for further observation. Your blood pressure’s very high, sir.” But she could see that it was more than blood pressure. His face had taken on a grayish tinge. He didn’t look good at all.

“Mr. Marks, your client will be accompanied by a uniformed officer. After all, he is a prime suspect in a murder investigation.”

“Thank you for your consideration, Sergeant O’Callaghan. May we continue this interview at a later stage?” Marks said.

“I’ll wait on the paramedics first. After that, we can make an arrangement for his statement. In the meantime, these two officers will stay with you until the paramedics have finished. Excuse me, please.” Morgan paused at the doorway and looked the attorney straight in the eye. “Oh, and Mr. Marks? We will require the pajamas, the robe, and the slippers he’s currently wearing.”

Marks acknowledged her request with a slight nod.

“Mrs. Vaughan, do you have any objection to us looking around?”

Constance glanced at her lawyer who gave her a slight nod.

“No,” she said.

“Thank you.”

Morgan and Henry moved out into hall.

“What do you think?” Henry said. “The old guy did it?”

“Nah, the wife did it.”

“Really?”

“Heh—gotcha.”

“Good. Very good. You know, I like this other side of you.”

“What are you talking about, Henry?”

“You’re normally so...”

“Single-minded? Focused? A bitch?”

“Stuffy. Good to see you’re finally coming around to my way of thinking.”

“Hey.” Morgan was finally coming out of her shell. She felt it. And she could tell that Henry was trying very hard not to laugh. They were involved in a murder investigation, after all. “C’mon, let’s check things out upstairs before they kick us out and we have to get a warrant.”

Morgan returned to the front room just as Vaughan was about to be taken away by the paramedics. She stood beside the gurney and looked down at him. “Mr. Vaughan, the ambulance will take you to the hospital. We still need a statement, so we’ll stop by this afternoon, say around two?” She looked up at the lawyer for confirmation and received a small nod. “In the meantime, Mrs. Vaughan, we need to get a statement from you.”

At that precise moment, a younger woman, barely twenty years of age from the looks of her, rushed into the room. “Mother. Daddy. What’s happened?”

Morgan watched Mrs. Vaughan’s reaction to the arrival of the young woman. Constance Vaughan couldn’t possibly be this woman’s mother, unless she had her when she was about fourteen. Somehow Mrs. Vaughan didn’t seem the sort of girl that would allow herself to get knocked up at that age. Eighteen maybe, but not fourteen. No, Mrs. Vaughan was the proverbial wicked stepmother in this young woman’s eyes, and by the looks of the taut lines around Mrs. Vaughan’s mouth, the feeling was mutual.

“Excuse me, and you are?” Morgan said.

“Chelsea Vaughan. And who are you? What’s going on?”

“These detectives are investigating Rose’s murder.” Mrs. Vaughan’s voice sounded tight and clipped, as though she could barely control her anger.

“Rose? Murdered?”

Morgan wondered if Chelsea was playing out a scene. Calling Mrs. Vaughan “mother”? Obviously they disliked each other. Morgan would bet Chelsea called her stepmother a variety of words, none of which would be “mother.”

“Now, Mrs. Vaughan, can you tell me—” Morgan tried to continue the questioning in spite of the daughter’s unsettling arrival.

“Sergeant, please,” Mrs. Vaughan said, “my husband needs to get to the hospital. Can we give our statements later this morning once I’m sure that Arthur is resting comfortably?”

“One moment.” Morgan whispered over her shoulder to Henry,

“Get some uniforms here for escort duty.”

“All right. Ms. Vaughan, you can come with your mother to the station when she gives her statement. We need a statement from you, as well, as to your whereabouts this morning. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for a detective to accompany you.”

“I don’t think I can be of much help to you, Sergeant, but I’ll do what I can,” Chelsea answered sweetly.

“Until later in the morning, then.” Morgan didn’t like the arrangements, but it was the hand she was dealt. She and Henry moved outside to the stoop, leaving the group to get organized for the trip to the hospital. As expected, a pack of media thronged the sidewalk. Once Morgan and Henry had been sighted, the noise rose as journalists and cameramen jostled for position to get a story.

“Well, that must have been painful,” Henry said as they stood on the top step, watching the mass of bodies on the sidewalk looking up at them expectantly for a statement.

“What are you talking about?”

“Having your head stuck up your own ass. Got to be the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever seen.”

“And how would you know?”

“Come on. How much more disgustingly polite could you be? Any more kissing up, and you’d be in bed together. Care to explain?”

Morgan glanced at him. “That slimy high priced suit-job of theirs was just waiting for one wrong move from me. I was going to make damned sure that he had no call to complain up the ladder. Not for now, anyway. Let’s play it by the book and see who screws up first. It should be interesting.”