Black Silk

“According to the kid at the front desk, our vic was very popular,” Vince said.

“I’ll say. Wait until you see the tape,” the whiz-kid tech named Rich replied.

“We are waiting,” Charlie pointed out. They had been racing from Stratton’s home to the station when the call came saying someone of interest had popped up on the security tapes. She had spent years searching for a lead on Emily’s killer and at last she had one—even if it had come through another tragedy. And she wanted to move on that lead now.

“Here we go,” Rich said as a view of the elevator door and hallway to Francesca Hill’s apartment came onto the screen. A tall blonde in a black leather skirt, sweater and thigh-high boots exited the elevator carrying a gift bag with a frilly ribbon.

“That must be the hot chick the kid at the desk told me about before the manager showed up and put a muzzle on him,” Vince remarked as the woman strutted toward the apartment. “The kid said her name’s Danielle. She’s a dealer at the casino where our vic worked before she hit the engagement lottery.”

Danielle Marceau, Charlie noted, locating the name in the guest log.

On screen Francesca peeked inside the gift bag, then ushered the woman inside her apartment. After several moments spent staring at the closed door, Charlie asked, “Can you speed it up?”

“Your wish is my command, Detective.”

She rolled her eyes. The boy wonder with peach fuzz on his chin had joined the department six months ago. Despite his weird sense of humor and even weirder fashion style, he was a walking, talking, electronics genius. He could make anything electronic sing. A few taps of his fingers and Danielle zipped down the hall in fast-forward motion. The time lapsed on the tape was thirty minutes.

“And here’s our next guest,” Rich said as he slowed the tape again.

“The intended bridegroom,” Charlie remarked when J. P. Stratton stepped out of the elevator. He was greeted at the door with a kiss, before disappearing into the apartment. Fast-forwarding had him leaving again less than twenty minutes later.

“I guess he’s not big on foreplay,” Rich joked.

“Skip the commentary and just run the film,” Charlie said dryly.

Aaron Stratton arrived next, carrying a briefcase, and stayed for fifteen minutes. “You remember sonny boy mentioning a visit to his stepmother-to-be?” Vince asked.

“No,” Charlie replied and made a note to question Aaron Stratton about his visit. The film was fast-forwarded and when it was slowed again, an older gentleman wearing a gray overcoat, hat and carrying a bible went to the apartment. “Reverend Homer Lawrence,” she read the name in the visitors’ log. “I wonder what the minister wanted at that time of night?”

“I’ll get Mackenzie to find out what church he’s affiliated with and we’ll ask him,” Vince said as he scribbled in his notepad.

“Wait! Slow it down,” Charlie instructed. She sat forward, studying the newest arrival. The man was tall, probably six foot three or better, two hundred pounds, early to mid-thirties, she guessed. He had an arresting face with a strong jawline, a sensual mouth and cheekbones sharp enough to cut ice. His hair was thick, straight and looked in need of a trim. Dark brows rested above knowing eyes that stared directly into the camera. Despite the grainy film, the man made an impact. “He looks familiar.”

“He should. He’s Cole Stratton, the owner of CS Securities, one of the fastest-growing companies in the South. The Times-Picayune ran a profile on him in the paper’s business section a few months ago.”

“What’s his relationship to J.P. Stratton?” she asked.

“His firstborn, courtesy of the first Mrs. Stratton. The story is that she was some kind of heiress and it was her money and connections that J.P. used to get started.”

“Divorced?” she asked.

“Dead. Cancer,” Vince explained. “Apparently J.P. did a real number on her before she died. Cole Stratton was just a kid at the time, but word is he never forgave the old man and as soon as he was old enough, he walked out. Turned his back on a virtual fortune and struck out on his own. According to the grapevine, lots of bad blood there.”

“With all that bad blood, one has to wonder why he was visiting his father’s fiancée,” Charlie pointed out and decided to find out what she could about Cole Stratton.

They sped through more surveillance tape and watched as a young woman approached the apartment. Judging by her clothes and the long, straight hair, Charlie pegged her to be in her early to mid-twenties. She didn’t stay long and when she left, she was swiping at her eyes as though crying. Charlie checked the visitors’ book, but there were no further guest entries to the Hill apartment. “Whoever she is, she didn’t sign in.”

“I’ll take another shot at the desk clerk to see if he recognizes her and find out why she didn’t sign in,” Vince offered.

Rich fast-forwarded through more film and when the light glowed on the elevator, he slowed to real time again. A man wearing sunglasses and a hat with a brim exited. The collar of his jacket was turned up, shielding the lower half of his face, which he kept angled away from the camera. “Hold it there,” Charlie instructed and glanced at Vince. “Do you think wearing sunglasses indoors at night is some kind of new fashion trend? Or do you get the feeling our visitor knew about the security camera and didn’t want to be identified?”

“My guess is number two,” he said. “Can you get a close-up of our shy guy?”

“Give me a sec.” Rich tapped at the keys, formed a frame around the face, then magnified it. “That’s about the best I can do,” he said after several attempts at enlarging the image failed to yield a clearer view. “I’ll see if I can get a better angle of him leaving.”

But that view proved no better. Disappointed and frustrated, Charlie clenched the pen in her hand. “What about the cameras in the lobby? Maybe there’s a better shot of him on those tapes? And check the camera at the delivery entrance, too, just in case he didn’t come through the front door.”

“I’ll check them,” Rich said.

“Call us if something pops,” Charlie said and started to push away from the table. They had a lot of territory to cover and with each hour that passed the trail grew colder.

“Hang on a second. Don’t you want to see what else I found?” Rich asked.

Charlie eased back down and waited while the whiz kid tapped the computer keys. He fast-forwarded, then slowed it to real time. One second, two seconds, three seconds ticked by showing only the same scene of the elevator door and the empty hall leading to the Hill apartment. Then she saw it—a blip in the film. The blip was so quick, it was almost indiscernible. The empty hall scene remained the same, but the time on the film had jumped forward by nearly two hours. “Wait. Back it up a few seconds, then run it.”

Rich did as he was told. And there it was again—a break in the surveillance tape. It lasted no longer than the blink of an eye, but according to tape, nearly two hours had passed. “Somebody monkeyed with the surveillance camera,” she said aloud.

“Someone who obviously knew his or her way around the security system,” Vince pointed out.

“Good job, kid,” she told the tech as she stood and grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair. “Let us know if you come up with anything else on our mystery guy.”

Vince followed her to the door. “Who do you want to start with?”

They’d already interviewed J.P. Stratton and his son Aaron once. “Why don’t we start with the other son, Cole Stratton. Since he owns a security company, chances are he knows how to get around one.”

* * *

Sitting alone in the dark, he turned on the television and tuned in to Channel 4, knowing they would be the first tobreak the news story. He sipped his scotch and waited patiently for the beer commercial to finish.

“Good evening. This is Bill Capo filling in for Eric Paulsen,” the veteran investigative reporter began in that deep, sincere voice that made him a favorite among the locals. “Today in Washington…”

He listened to the reporter give a rundown on the national news front, the budget deficit, the rising cost of health care and the use of steroids in professional sports before he shifted to news on the local front. After a station break, Capo’s face returned to the screen.

“In other local news, the much-talked-about wedding of businessman J. P. Stratton to Francesca Hill that was scheduled to take place this evening has been canceled,” Bill announced. “Live on the scene with more on that story is Anne Le Blanc.”

The TV screen switched to the perky blond reporter standing at the entrance to the museum with the wind whipping her hair around her face. “Bill, I’m here at the New Orleans Museum of Art, where less than an hour from now J. P. Stratton, the founder of Stratton Hotels, was scheduled to take Francesca Hill as his bride. Inside,” she continued, extending her arm toward the structure, “thousands of red roses were flown in for the event and food was prepared by some of the top chefs in the city for the guest list of five hundred. But I’m told, a short time ago the guests began receiving calls from Mr. Stratton’s staff, advising them that the wedding had been canceled.”

“Anne, has any reason been given for the cancellation?” Bill asked.

“Not yet, Bill. And so far, our calls to both Mr. Stratton and Ms. Hill have not been returned. But as you can see from the cars arriving, not all of the guests received the news in time.” She walked down to the street and knocked on the window of a sleek black limo. When the window slid down, she asked, “Sir, you’re live on Channel 4 News. Are you here for theStratton/Hill wedding?”

She pointed the microphone at him. “Yes, I am.”

“No one contacted you to tell you the wedding had been canceled?” she asked, and angled the microphone at him.

“My secretary reached me on my cell phone just as I arrived and gave me the news.”

“Were you told the reason for the cancellation?” Anne asked.