Calypso (The Harry Starke Novels Book 8) Page 6

  Anyway, the drawing room was packed. It was a big room, but even so, having more than a dozen people in it made it seem very crowded.

  “Ah, you’re here,” Leo Martan said, making his way across the room toward us, his hand extended for me to shake.

  “Everyone is here, with the exception of Carriere. Something about his boat, I believe. I—”

  “One moment, if you don’t mind, Mr. Martan,” I interrupted. “Who else is missing?”

  “No one.”

  “How about the gardener?”

  “He’s here. He’s over there.” He pointed to a tall, muscular man standing alone by the window.

  “I need for Mr. Carriere to be present,” I said. “Where can we find him?”

  “He’ll be on his boat, I should think, but—”

  “Please, sir. I said I needed everyone. Tommy, Bob,” I said, turning to them. “Go get him. Don’t take no for an answer. Arrest him, if you have to.” They left, and I turned again to Leo Martan. If he was expecting an explanation, he wasn’t going to get one. I looked around the room at the sea of faces; there was not a smile among them. That, I supposed, could have been because of the loss of Gabrielle, or maybe because of my aggressive action. If the latter, well, I’d made my point and established control.

  Most of them were sitting; three, including Jackson, the gardener, were standing at the far end of the room. Kate and I were just inside the door. Martan was on Kate’s right, Moore on my left.

  Martan lost no more time. He made the introductions and then took a seat next to his wife; Kate and I remained standing.

  “Well, good morning everyone,” I began. “I want to say a few words before Lieutenant Gazzara and I begin the preliminary interviews—”

  “I’m sorry.” It was Leo Jr. who interrupted me. “I want to know what the hell this is all about. You,” he said to me, “aren’t even a police officer, and the lieutenant has no standing in the Virgin Islands. I have no time for this. I have things to do. I’m leaving.”

  Martan rose to his feet. His face was white, rigid with anger.

  “These people are here at my request, Leo,” he said, “and their investigation is fully sanctioned by Commissioner Walker. You will treat them with the respect they deserve, which they’ve earned. Now sit down and shut your damn mouth.” The man was shaking with rage. His eldest son did as he was told and sat down.

  “Please continue, Mr. Starke.” Martan sat down again. The room was deathly quiet.

  “To continue,” I said. “Gabrielle Martan was murdered—”

  “Bullshit,” Leo Jr. said loudly. “All right, all right.” This as his father again began to rise from his seat.

  “Gabrielle,” I said, watching each of them carefully, “was murdered by someone here, in this room, and I’m including Sebastian Carriere in that statement. One of you killed her.” I paused, looking around the room, looking for the slightest sign of a reaction that might tell me something. Two of the women, Vivien Martan and Alicia Margolis, squirmed uncomfortably, but that was all. Leo Jr.’s eyes were narrowed and there was a half smile on his lips. Arrogant, smart-ass son of a bitch.

  I knew why. During the ride up to the house I’d opened Tim’s file and scanned through the contents, and oh how interesting they were.

  “We’ve allowed thirty minutes each for the preliminary interviews,” I continued. “It may take longer than that, or not so much. That being said, I don’t want to keep you all hanging around here. Lieutenant Gazzara has made a list of the order in which we’ll take you, so that will give you a rough idea of the time. In the meantime, you can go, but please keep your phones handy; we’ll call you when we’re ready for you. Before we begin, however, I need a quick word with Mr. Jackson, and then we’ll start the interviews, and we might as well begin with you, Junior, since it seems you have better things to do.”

  No, I made no attempt to hide my dislike for the man, or my sarcastic tone of voice. He glared back at me. The smile was gone. His face was a mask—of anger? Hate? Probably both, but who the hell cared? Gabrielle certainly didn’t.

  They each took a copy of Kate’s list and left; only the two Leos and Jackson remained.

  Martan had put his office at our disposal, and it was there we conducted the interviews, the gardener first.

  Albert Jackson was not quite what you’d expect of a seasoned gardener but then, as he told me, he was more of a groundskeeper than a man of the soil. His job was, in fact, to keep the grounds around the Mount in pristine condition, and he had several employees to help him do that: mowing, weeding, etcetera.

  He was forty-two years old and single, and he was dressed as if for the golf course next door; tan pants and a pale blue shirt. The only evidence of his life outdoors was his tan. His face and arms were the color of tobacco; his blond hair had turned almost white due to long days spent under the sun. He was not a handsome man. The huge, bushy eyebrows, piercing black eyes, and thin, mean-looking lips reminded me of a wharf rat.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jackson,” I began, indicating for him to sit. “We will be recording the interview.” I picked up the digital recorder, turned it on, and set it back on the desk in front of him.

  I stated the usual details for the recorder—time, place, those present, etc., and then I began.

  “I understand you found Gabrielle yesterday, and I know it must have been a terrible experience, and I feel for you. However, I need a little information.”

  “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

  “The first thing I need to know is exactly what time it was when you found her. I see you’re not wearing a watch, but did you by any chance make a note of the time?”

  “Yes, of course. I use my iPhone. When I called Mr. Martan it was 2:09.”

  I tapped the time into my iPad, looked up at him, and said, “You say you called Mr. Martan. What exactly did you say to him?”

  “I told him I’d found Gabrielle, and that she was dead, and I told him where. He came straight out of the front entrance.”

  “How long was it between when you called him and when he arrived at the scene?”

  “Two, three minutes. No more than that.”

  “So that would have made the time 2:15, or thereabouts?”

  He nodded. “I guess.”

  “No, Mr. Jackson. Don’t guess. This is important.”

  “Well, I didn’t check, but yeah, about 2:15. He was quick.”

  I shook my head, looked at Kate. She rolled her eyes. Good job Jackson didn’t see that.

  “Mr. Jackson,” she said quietly. “Please, take us through the sequence of events, from when you found the body until… well, we’ll see.”

  “Well, as I said, I was making my midday rounds… eh, I was a little late, but anyway. I rounded the end of the house and I saw her lying on the rocks. I ran to her, but I could see she was dead. Her head was a mess, there was blood… and… well, you know.”

  “You were late? Why was that?”

  “One of the mowers broke down. I helped Henry fix it.”

  “When you found her, did you touch anything?” Kate asked.

  “No. Well, I felt her neck to see if there was a pulse, but there wasn’t.”

  “You just said you knew she was dead, so why did you do that?”

  “I dunno. Saw it on TV, I guess. It just seemed like the thing to do, you know?”

  Kate nodded. “Go on, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Well, I got up off my knees, backed up a few steps, and made the call to Mr. Martan.”

  “And you noted the time?”

  He nodded.

  “And Mr. Martan came immediately. Was he alone?”

  “No ma’am. Mrs. Vivien was with him.”

  “And their reactions?”

  “Well, they were upset, of course. Mrs. Vivien was having a fit; screaming, you know. Well not exactly screaming, but making a lot of noise. Mr. Martan… he was quiet, very quiet. He hardly said anything at all. He kneeled down beside her, and just loo
ked at her, and… well, then he—he got up, told me not to let anyone near her, and then he went into the house. To call the police, I guess. He didn’t say. They arrived maybe an hour or so later.”

  “So it was just after 2:15 when he made the call?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “All right, Mr. Jackson,” I said. “That will be all for now. We may want to talk to you later. You’ll be here, yes?”

  He nodded. “I’ll be in the barn if you need me. I have an apartment above it.”

  I waited until he left and then said to Kate, “Okay. He seemed pretty sure about the time. If he’s right, there was at least a thirty-minute delay before Martan called it in. That’s not natural. A normal person’s first reaction on finding the body of one of their children would be to call 911, immediately. Why didn’t he? Also, I noticed earlier that he carries his cell phone on his belt. Why would he need to go into the house to make the call?”

  “He was checking on someone,” Kate said.

  “Yeah, but who the hell was it… and why?”

  “I think we should talk to him next. We need to find out before we talk to anyone else, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. Let’s get him in here. Junior can wait.”

  I made the call and asked Martan to join us.

  Chapter 7

  Sunday November 13, 10:30am

  We were in Martan’s office, so it felt a little weird when I asked him to sit, especially as Kate and I were seated behind his desk.

  “I’ll get right to it, Mr. Martan,” I said. “We have a problem. Why did it take you so long to call emergency services after you saw the body?”

  His mouth opened as if in protest, then he snapped it shut. I heard his teeth click together.

  “I… I…. It didn’t,” he blustered. “I called it in as soon as I could, as soon as….” He trailed off, looked down at his hands, then back up at me defiantly.

  I took my time, made him wait, stared down at my iPad. I wanted to make him as uncomfortable as possible. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Kate was playing along. She had him fixed with an unblinking stare. I slowly counted to twenty, to myself, and then I looked up at him, shaking my head slowly.

  “No you didn’t,” I said quietly.

  “I most certainly did.”

  “No you didn’t,” I repeated. “Jackson found the body at 2:09 exactly. He noted the time on his iPhone when he called you. Your call was recorded in Charlotte Amalie at exactly 2:42. That’s a thirty-three-minute gap. Jackson also said you were with him for less than five minutes. What were you doing during the twenty-eight minutes between when you left Jackson guarding the body and when you made the call. Mr. Martan?”

  “I told you. I made the call as soon as I got back into the house. Jackson must have made a mistake.”

  “No. He didn’t make a mistake. He was very specific. Now look, Mr. Martan. I’m here at your request. I expect you of all people to tell me the truth. If not, I’m not going to fool with you; I’m out of here. Understand?”

  He nodded, dropped his chin, and stared down at his hands.

  “Look,” I said gently. “I know what you’re trying to do. It won’t work. Who are you trying to protect? Where did you go when you left Jackson?”

  “I went… looking for Leo. My son.”

  I waited, but he didn’t continue. He just continued to stare down at his hands.

  “And?”

  “They, Leo and Gabrielle, had had a huge fight just after breakfast. It was a carryover from the night before. They’d been at each other’s throats for more than a month, and I thought maybe….”

  “Go on.”

  “I thought… I thought he was here somewhere. The helicopter was still on the pad. He has a pilot, but the man was off. When that’s the case, Leo flies it himself, so I thought he had to have been here, but he wasn’t. There’s no other way off the island, other than the boat, but that was still at the dock, so I assumed he’d gone out. I called him, but he didn’t answer, not until much later that afternoon. He said he’d needed to get away for a while, that he’d taken the Sunfish and gone sailing…. That was when I told him about Gabby.”

  He looked up at me. I watched his eyes. He couldn’t look me in the eye for more than a few seconds. Kate caught it too.

  “And you believed him?” she asked.

  He seemed startled by the question, but after a moment he said, “Why, yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I get the distinct impression that you’re worried about him,” she said. “He’s having money problems, isn’t he?”

  Again, the startled look. “No. Well… yes, he’s….”

  “He’s under investigation for a whole litany of fraudulent stock deals, is what he is,” I said, watching his eyes. Not exactly true, but near enough.

  “Well, he has some financial problems, but nothing really serious; at least I don’t think so. He never discusses his business with me.”

  “Why not?” Kate asked.

  He shrugged, looked down at his hands again, and said, more to himself than to us, “One of those father-son things, I think. Claims he’s always walking in my shadow; which he is, I suppose. Anyway. His dealings are his own. If he needs help from me, all he has to do is ask. But he never does, never.” That last part was said with some angst.

  “So what were they arguing about?” I asked.

  Again he shrugged and didn’t look up. I figured he was trying not to give away his feelings, his thoughts. It wasn’t working. The fact that he couldn’t look me in the eye was a dead giveaway.

  “The usual,” he said. “Money. It’s always about money.”

  We waited, but he said no more.

  “Please, Mr. Martan,” I said. “You’re not making things any easier, for yourself, your son, or for us. You need to be candid with us. Please don’t make us drag every little piece of information out of you.”

  He looked up at me, his face set, and he straightened up in his seat and took on a whole new attitude. He became the Leo Martan who would take no garbage from anyone.

  “My son, Leo,” he said—and now he looked me right in the eye—“and my other son, Evander, are both disappointments to me, Mr. Starke. They are both weak willed, lazy, easily led, and have never made a good decision in their lives, either of them. Evan is dead broke and out of work, living here on handouts, and Leo’s business is a disaster—I know; I keep an eye on it—his private life is no better, and his wife… she’s a gold digger, man hungry, and… well, you’ll see for yourself when you meet her. But let me say this: for all my son’s faults, he loved his sister. They bickered back and forth, and I know he wanted her to give him money, but he would never have harmed her. They have always slapped each other around—she more than him—but that was it.”

  “Could it have been an accident during the argument?” Kate asked. “Could he have lost control and hit her harder than he intended?”

  “Anything is possible, I suppose…. I don’t know. I’ve been worrying about it all night long. I hope not. I really do hope not.”

  “So do I,” I said, “because a single unintended blow to the head is one thing; tipping her over the balcony after turns it into murder. Okay, enough about your son for now. Let’s move along. Let’s talk about Gabrielle.”

  “Of course. What would you like to know?”

  “First, who benefits from her death? How much money is involved?”

  “Money? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Well, from what I understand, she was quite wealthy, correct?”

  “Not right now. Not until her twenty-fifth birthday next month. She has an allowance, from her trust. Her mother set it up before she died. She did it for all three of our children. It’s enough for her to live very well, but not enough to be worth killing her for.”

  “And on her birthday?” Kate asked.

  He looked sideways at her, his eyes narrowed. “She would have become extremely wealthy.”

  I s
ighed. He took notice. “She would have attained full control of her trust…. Approximately thirty million.”

  I leaned back in my chair and stared at him.

  “Who the heck was her mother?” Kate asked, slowly shaking her head.

  “Jessica. I was her second husband. Her first husband was Henry Morton.”

  “The media tycoon,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yes. When he died in that airplane crash, she inherited everything. She sold it all soon after she married me. And then we had the children, so she set up trust funds for their educations and futures. Ten million each. Wise investing increased that over the years until… well, you understand, I’m sure.”

  I sure as hell do.

  “Okay, so what does happen to her money?”

  “The way Jessica set it up was that if anything happened to one or more of the children, the survivors would benefit. It will go to my two sons, split equally between them; they’ll each get approximately 14.5 million.”

  Hah! And there’s the motive.

  He caught my look. “No… no, they wouldn’t.”

  “Stranger things, Mr. Martan. Who else would benefit from her death? How about your other son, Caspian?”

  “No. He is mine and Vivien’s child.”

  “How about you, sir?”

  He smiled, for the first time since we’d met. “No,” he said. “Mr. Starke. Do you have any idea how much I’m worth?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “If you did, you’d know that a paltry few million dollars wouldn’t even be a drop in the proverbial bucket.”

  “She was engaged to be married, correct?”

  “Yes, to Sebastian Carriere. He’s a local man, of Caribbean descent.”

  “You mean he’s black,” Kate said bluntly.

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes, he’s black. So what?”

  “Not a thing,” Kate said. “Just clarifying things. How did you feel about that, about your daughter marrying—” she made air quotes with her fingers “—‘a man of Caribbean descent’?”

  He shrugged. “That’s a loaded question, Lieutenant.”

  “Which is why I asked it. How did you feel?”