Murder for Hire
"It's always the husband who did it," Detective Les Wynette stated with confidence.
Arianna Kearns looked up into the tired eyes of her aging partner and replied, "Not always."
"Usually. Frequently? More often than not, surely."
"Often enough, but not always," the petite, red-haired detective conceded. "Besides, the manner of death might be suicide. We haven't even seen the body yet. But if we have a homicide on our hands, we need to keep an open mind. Who knows? The husband might have been more than two thousand miles away in San Francisco when the wife died."
"So? Hepworth may not have killed her himself, but he could have hired someone to do it for him. I dare say he had enough money to hire a small army to do his bidding."
"You don't like rich people, do you?" Arianna asked, noting the disdain in her partner's voice when he spoke about Graham Hepworth and his murdered wife, Christina, both of whom had made billions with their computer software company.
"Not particularly. I don't care for their air of entitlement. They think the laws don't apply to them. If I had a nickel for every time some rich bastard evaded prosecution for drunk driving, I'd be able to retire to sunny Florida."
"This is murder we're dealing with, not a traffic violation."
"And if it was the husband who killed her, I've no doubt he'll hire a high-priced lawyer to get him off the hook," Les said with disgust.
"Yeah, well, it's our job to find the killer, not to put him or her away. That's up to the prosecutors."
"I don't have much faith in prosecutors. They're usually kids fresh out of law school who are only treading water in the D.A.'s office until they can get better-paying jobs as defense attorneys."
Arianna smiled at her partner's cynicism and wondered if, once she had been on the force as long as he had, she would lose her youthful idealism. Given that he had worked on more than four dozen homicide cases and this was only her second, she forgave him for his pessimistic outlook.
When they arrived at the Hepworth mansion, located in the Tuxedo Park neighborhood of Atlanta, a uniformed policeman waved them through the gates. Les Wynette pulled behind two patrol cars that were parked on the side of the circular driveway. The medical examiner and the crime scene investigators had yet to arrive.
"The victim is in the master bedroom," announced the young officer who responded to the 911 call. "It's up the stairs and to your right."
Thirty-six-year-old Christina Hepworth was lying on the floor. Her pale blue negligee was stained with blood as was the white carpet beneath her. Fragments of skull and brain matter clung to her copper-colored hair.
"Gunshot wound to the head," Les declared after a brief examination of the victim. "From the location of the entry wound, this is clearly not self-inflicted. We're dealing with a murder, not a suicide."
"The killer must have come up behind her. Perhaps he was hiding in the closet," Arianna suggested.
"That's a closet?" her partner exclaimed, as he stared at the huge walk-in closet filled with designer clothes, shoes and handbags. "Hell! It's larger than my first apartment!"
"Mine, too."
"Where is Mr. Hepworth?" he asked the live-in housekeeper who had phoned the police upon discovering her employer's body.
"He's at a conference in London."
Arianna gave her partner an I-told-you-so look.
"So?" he whispered. "Like I said, he could have hired someone to do his dirty work."
"Don't touch anything, detectives," Ida Marie Merkin, the chief crime scene investigator, warned as she walked into the master bedroom at the head of her team.
"Do you really have to remind me of that every single time there's a murder?" Les groaned. "Don't you think I know that by now?"
"It's part of my training," Ida Marie laughed. "It's not much different than you reading every suspect their Miranda rights. Now, if you'll step aside and let us do our work ...."
Detectives Wynette and Kearns left the room to the technicians who were keen to dust for fingerprints, collect hair and fiber samples, analyze blood spatter and basically go over every inch of the place with a fine-tooth comb.
"There's not much we can do here," Arianna said as they made their way back down the stairs to the first floor. "While forensic evidence is being collected, why don't we canvass the neighborhood?"
"Are you kidding? The Hepworths' nearest neighbor is more than a mile down the road. I doubt they saw or heard anything."
"Leave no stone unturned."
"It's almost midnight. We'll talk to them tomorrow. I'm going home to get a good night's sleep. I have to wake up early tomorrow and catch a killer."
* * *
Rather than talk to the Hepworths' neighbors, Les and Arianna paid a visit to the victim's best friend, Jacqueline Durie. Since Wynette still had his money on the husband being the killer, he wanted to learn what he could about the state of the couple's marriage.
"If you want to know who killed Christina, you won't have far to look," Jacqueline sobbed and reached for a tissue to wipe the tears from her cheeks.
"You think Graham Hepworth had something to do with it?" Les asked as his partner took note of the woman's facial features and body language.
"Who else? Christina knew he was having an affair with his assistant. She suspected that it was only a matter of time before he would ask for a divorce."
"If he wanted to divorce her, why would he kill her?"
"Because she was bound and determined to hold on to him. She was quite possessive. She swore that if she couldn't have him, nobody else would."
"That statement makes it sound like she's the one bent on murder, not him."
"Are you serious?" Jacqueline asked, offended by the detective's statement. "She would never hurt Graham. She worshipped the ground he walked on! Despite his being unfaithful, she adored him."
For the next two hours, the detectives listened to accounts of the many arguments between the husband and wife. Not only did they fight over Graham's infidelity but also over business matters. Hepworth Technology, a Fortune 100 company, had revenues the previous year of more than fifteen billion dollars. That amount of money was bound to be a point of contention.
"Whose business was it?" Les inquired.
"They were partners, fifty-fifty. But I honestly think Christina was the real brains behind many of the apps that were designed—not that Graham was a slouch. He was a computer geek, too. That's what drew them to each other in the first place. Honestly, before she met Graham, Christina never dated anyone, and he was far from being a Romeo."
"Two nerds, huh?"
"That's about right."
Having gotten as much information from Ms. Durie as they thought was possible, Les and Arianna thanked her for her cooperation and left.
"Just what I thought," Detective Wynette said. "Graham Hepworth did it."
"All we know for sure is that the marriage was rocky, and the two were heading for divorce," Arianna said, disagreeing with her partner. "Keep in mind we're dealing with two people who headed a multibillion-dollar software company. I think we might want to see if there are any enemies with motives here. After all, money is a powerful motivator for murder."
"You're absolutely right. Until we have more evidence pointing to a clear suspect, we should investigate all avenues. But I'm telling you, Arianna, it's always the spouse."
* * *
For six weeks, the two detectives interviewed people who were either directly employed by the Hepworths or served the company in some other capacity. In addition to executives, computer programmers, graphic designers and administrative staff, they questioned Hepworth Technology's lawyers, accountants and public relations consultants. There was no hint of a hostile takeover or a financial crisis. Neither were there any lawsuits on the horizon. The employees, who were paid well and received well above-average benefits, all seemed happy with their jobs and expressed loyalty to the company.
"This place seems like a veritable paradise to work for. Makes me want to fill out an application while I'm here," Les laughed after he and his partner interviewed the head of human resources.
"You don't know the first thing about computers," Arianna teased. "Hell! You never even go on the internet on your cell phone."
"I have other skills. I could work here in the security department."
"I don't see you leaving the police force to be a security guard."
"I'm not as young as you. I'm nearing retirement age. Maybe a nice, cushy job would make my so-called golden years more comfortable."
"Don't go applying for your pension yet. We still have a murder to solve."
Despite having interviewed nearly every person who worked at Hepworth Technology, including members of the overnight maintenance staff, there was still an important person they had yet to speak to: Kira Selby, Graham Hepworth's assistant, the woman he was rumored to be having an affair with. Rather than speak to her at her place of employment, the detectives visited her at her home.
The former Miss Georgia was pale, her chestnut hair was uncombed and her eyes were red either from crying or lack of sleep. Her unkempt appearance aside, there was no doubt she was a beautiful woman, a typical Southern belle right out of Gone with the Wind. There was something decidedly Vivien Leigh-ish about her, and Arianna was somewhat envious of the young woman.
As they entered the apartment, the female detective took the lead in the interview while her male counterpart observed.
"Did you accompany Graham Hepworth to London?" she asked.
"Yes," she replied forthrightly. "I frequently attend conferences with him. I'm his administrative assistant and, as such, I'm often needed to take notes, screen phone calls, answer correspondence ...."
"Rumor has it you did more than that for him.
Les raised his eyebrows, surprised at his partner's direct approach.
"Is it common practice for the police to listen to idle gossip?" Kira asked, adopting a Scarlett O'Hara simper.
"Knock off the feigned innocence, Ms. Selby. We know the two of you are an item. His wife knew it, too."
"I certainly hope you don't think I had anything to do with her death!"
"The thought had crossed my mind. Your boyfriend is a billionaire. Only Christina stood between you and becoming the next Mrs. Hepworth."
The Southern belle suddenly disappeared, and a frightened young woman took her place.
"I didn't do anything. I swear."
"And what about your boss?" the detective prompted. "Was there more on his mind while in London than a boring seminar and a roll in the hay with his secretary?"
"I'm not a secretary; I'm a ...."
"Don't bother to clarify your job description. Just answer my question. Did Graham Hepworth have anything to do with his wife's murder?"
"I ... I don't think so," Kira stammered.
Arianna gave her partner a look that he interpreted as meaning "Now we're getting somewhere." Les had to hand it to her. She was good at her job. He sat back in the chair and relaxed, more than willing to watch the redheaded detective grill the suspect's girlfriend.
* * *
"Aren't you the early bird," Arianna teased when she walked into the station twenty minutes early and found Les at his desk going through a pile of papers. "Coffee?"
"What? No donuts?" he asked, taking the Starbucks venti dark roast she bought for him.
"Sorry. I'm a little strapped for cash right now," Arianna explained. "What's that you're reading?"
"The preliminary forensics report."
"What's it say?"
"Nothing much. No shell casings were left at the scene. No fingerprints or DNA. They vacuumed up hair and fibers from the carpet, but most of the samples belonged to the victim and her husband."
Les handed the typed report to his partner who quickly scanned it.
"Nothing here is of much help to us," she concluded. "As far as crime scenes go, this one is practically immaculate."
"The very absence of physical evidence supports my theory."
"How so?"
"This looks like a professional killing. No doubt it was paid for by someone who just happened to be four thousand miles away in London. Like I keep saying, it's always the husband."
"Any word back on our request for a search warrant?"
"Not yet, but Howard promised to get back to me sometime this morning."
While waiting for the warrant, the two detectives paid a visit to the Hepworths' neighbors. The house on the left—a full mile from the scene of the murder—was owned by a retired couple, the Dresslers. The one on the right belonged to the Paladins. Both couples were in the same financial bracket as the Hepworths.
"I can't believe such a dreadful thing happened right next door!" Daphne Dressler exclaimed when she was being questioned.
"Did you know your neighbors well?" Arianna asked.
"Not really. Since we're both retired, my husband and I travel quite a bit. In fact, we were on a Mediterranean cruise when the murder occurred. We came back a week later."
"But when you weren't traveling?"
"The Hepworths worked a lot. And there is the age discrepancy. We're old enough to be their parents."
"Are you saying you never spoke to either of them?"
"No, that's not true. Last November, I agreed to help collect toys for the needy children. Our country club does it every Christmas. When I went next door, I must have interrupted an argument between them. Despite being quite upset, Christina invited me inside for a cup of coffee. Moments later, Graham went storming out of the house. I then heard him drive away in that sports car of his."
"Do you know what the argument was about?"
"Sorry, no," Daphne replied, apologizing for her lack of knowledge. "But I do know one thing. That marriage was headed like a freight train for divorce court."
"Oh?"
"Just before my husband and I left for our latest cruise, we saw Graham at the Le Bilboquet. He was there with a woman who was not his wife; and from the way they were making eyes at each other, I'm sure it wasn't his sister either."
"Do you know who the woman is? Have you ever seen her before?"
"No, but she was young and beautiful. She reminded me of Vivien Leigh."
After thanking Mrs. Dressler for her time, the detectives visited the house to the right of the Hepworths. Unfortunately, both of the homeowners were at work. They did, however, speak to the couple's nanny. This time, it was Les who asked the questions.
"I don't imagine you were friends with Christina Hepworth," he said.
"People like them don't mix with nannies," Avery Burnell replied with laughter.
Arianna knew of several wealthy husbands who had affairs with their children's nannies—celebrities such as Ethan Hawke, Jude Law, Ben Affleck and Mick Jagger among them.
"All I can really tell you about them is that they didn't get along."
"How do you know that?"
"I take Carol Anne for a walk every day, and when I pass by the Hepworth house, I frequently hear them fighting."
"I don't suppose you know what any of those arguments were about?" Les asked hopefully.
"One time I heard Mrs. Hepworth—she had a loud, shrill voice that carried all the way out to the street—scream that she would die before she'd let her husband go. Funny!" Avery answered. "It looks like that's exactly what she did."
* * *
There was a smug look on Les Wynette's face as he tossed a bag from Sublime Doughnuts on his partner's desk.
"You look like the cat that ate the canary," Arianna laughed, reaching for a Butterfinger donut and a napkin.
"I just spoke to Chandler, the computer tech, on the way in. He's printing out the last six months' worth of text messages he got from Graham Hepworth's cell phone. He hasn't gone through them all, but the few he has read point the finger directly at the husband. Need I say more?"
"No. I think, in this case, you might be right. I've been going over the Hepworths' bank records. It seems Graham had a separate individual account. The day before he left for London, he withdrew fifty thousand dollars, and there's no record of his having exchanged those funds for British pounds."
"Sounds to me like payment for a murder."
After sending the printout of the text messages to the detectives, Chandler investigated Graham Hepworth's search history, which he forwarded to Les.
"This is incredible!" the detective exclaimed when he saw the websites the suspect had visited. "He googled about a dozen sites on poison."
"So? His wife was shot, not poisoned," Arianna reminded him.
"True, but he researched strangulation, electrocution, blunt force trauma. Unless he planned to write a murder mystery, there was no good reason for him to visit these sites outside of planning the murder of his wife. Whoa! Hello! What have we got here?"
"What is it?"
"It seems Graham was also looking to buy a gun."
"But we have no record of him actually purchasing one."
"No," Les conceded, "but obviously in the end, he chose to hire someone to do it for him."
"We need to find solid proof of that."
"The fifty thousand."
"Not good enough. He could have used the money for any number of reasons."
Wynette did not bother to argue with his partner since he knew she was right. The information they had gathered so far pointed to Graham Hepworth's guilt, but it was all circumstantial in nature. The D.A. would demand a lot more before he agreed to go to trial.
More substantial proof came in the form of a text message sent from Graham Hepworth to a burner phone. Although the word murder was not mentioned, the meaning was clear. The unknown person was instructed to "take care of the problem" on a specific day when the sender was in London. The message ended with the promise of the balance of payment once the job was completed. The day Christina Hepworth was shot, a message from that same burner phone was sent to the victim's husband. It consisted of two words: "mission accomplished."
"We got him!" Les exclaimed when he received the go-ahead from the chief to arrest the suspect. "What do you say we celebrate with a drink after work?"
"Only if you promise not to rub it in that you said along it had to be the husband," Arianna replied.
"Agreed."
Once Graham Hepworth was in the holding cell, the two detectives received a round of attaboys and attagirls from their fellow law enforcement officers.
"This is quite a feather in your cap," the chief praised his female detective. "Less than a year on the job and you helped solve a high-profile case."
"I have an experienced partner," she said modestly. "He taught me well."
However, the more praise she received, the more uncomfortable she felt. Graham Hepworth was an intelligent, highly educated man. Why had he been so stupid as to incriminate himself in a text message? He was a key player in the communication technology industry. Surely, he knew the police would go through his phone records.
Later that evening, as Arianna sat at the bar with a strawberry daiquiri—one of the few alcoholic beverages she actually enjoyed—she mentioned her doubts to her partner.
"He's guilty," Les insisted.
"But ...."
"End of story. And what's that you're drinking? A Shirley Temple?"
"No."
"You're a cop. Why not have a real drink?"
"I don't like beer."
"Beer schmeer! Bartender, get this gal a whiskey."
"No."
"You surprise me. I never took you for one of those teetotalers."
"I'm not. My drink has rum in it."
"I don't care," her partner laughed. "Any drink that has an umbrella in it is not a real drink."
"What have you got against umbrellas?" Arianna laughed.
Before he could answer, the chief and several fellow detectives entered the bar. With the testosterone levels on the rise, she got up from her seat and walked toward the jukebox, taking her drink with her.
* * *
"Wynette is taking the morning off," the desk sergeant informed Arianna when she arrived at the station the following morning.
Probably nursing a hangover, she thought, remembering how much alcohol her partner consumed the previous night.
Rather than wade through the pile of paperwork that sat on her desk, she decided to pay a visit to Graham Hepworth while he was still being held in the lockup.
"Detective Kearns," the accused killer said with a smirk. "Have you come here to gloat?"
"You went to MIT, didn't you? Graduated in the top one percent of your class, too, if I'm not mistaken."
"So?" he said, his handsome face expressing his arrogance and contempt for the police.
"You'd think someone of your intelligence would have enough sense to use a burner phone when he's hiring a paid killer."
"I didn't hire anyone to murder my wife. I had already contacted a divorce attorney. Why would I then have her killed?"
"Divorces can be expensive. Hiring someone to get rid of Christina was bound to be much cheaper."
"It wasn't me."
"Your computer and your cell phone say differently," Arianna pointed out.
"I wasn't the only one who had access to those devices."
"Are you suggesting Kira Selby may have had a hand in your wife's death?"
"Kira? Hello no. Not only did she not have my passwords, but she's not exactly computer literate. She has a hard enough time trying to figure out Microsoft Word."
"Who then?"
"Christina. She also graduated from MIT in the top one percent."
"Come on! If your wife wanted to commit suicide, why wouldn't she have just taken a bottle of sleeping pills?"
"She was devastated when I told her about the divorce. She was determined to hold on to me at all costs."
"By killing herself? That makes no sense."
"If I'm sent to prison for her murder, it does. Christina was the most possessive, controlling woman that ever drew a breath."
Arianna shook her head. She just didn't buy his outrageous story.
As Les had predicted, Graham Hepworth hired the best criminal lawyer money could buy. Arthur Tryon did what many defense attorneys did: he attacked the victim. Friends, coworkers and even family members testified to her extreme possessiveness. At least six people claimed to have heard the woman say she would die before she would allow her husband to leave her—or words to that effect.
Her cousin summed it up nicely: "Christina would cut off her nose to spite her face."
"No one is going to seriously buy this nonsense," Les opined before taking a bite out of his white chocolate peach fritter. "Hepworth should have saved his money and just taken a plea deal."
His partner was not so sure of the trial's outcome.
"Tryon has to convince just one person on that jury that there is reasonable doubt," she replied.
"Don't tell me you think he's innocent!"
"It's not up to me to decide. I'm not on the jury."
"Yeah, well, we know the kind of people who are. They're not rocket scientists by any stretch of the imagination. Juries acquitted O.J. and Casey Anthony, didn't they?"
"Whether or not we believe twelve average citizens are capable of understanding the evidence or not is immaterial. This is how the justice system in this country works."
At the end of the trial, those twelve people chose to give the defendant the benefit of the doubt.
Six months after Graham Hepworth left the courthouse a free man, Detective Les Wynette retired from the Atlanta police force.
"Did you hear the news?" he asked his soon-to-be former partner on the evening of his retirement party.
"What news is that?" Arianna wondered.
"Hepworth announced his engagement to that Scarlett O'Hara wannabe."
"He's going to marry his assistant, Kira Selby?"
"Yup."
"I'm not surprised. She's gorgeous. A former Miss Georgia if I remember correctly."
"She's beautiful, and he's rich. It's a match made in heaven."
Arianna's thoughts went to the deceased wife. If Christina Hepworth had been spiteful enough to hire someone to kill her to prevent her husband from finding happiness in another woman's arms, then her death had been for nothing.
* * *
Arianna got off the plane in Orlando and walked out of the airport into the sunshine. Since this was her first vacation in nearly ten years, she chose to rent a Mustang convertible rather than an economy car. She drove south on Route 17 and arrived in Kissimmee in less than half an hour. The navigator directed her to a lakeside house with a boat anchored at a private dock.
"This can't be the right place," she told herself, estimating the cost of the home. "There's no way Les could afford this on a detective's pension."
The front door opened, and her former partner was poised to welcome her.
"This is where you live?" Arianna asked with disbelief.
"Like it?"
"Who wouldn't?"
The Atlanta detective had expected inexpensive furnishings from IKEA or Wayfair and accessories from Walmart. She was surprised to see an interior that looked as though it had come from the pages of House Beautiful.
"Are these chairs real antiques or reproductions?" she asked.
"Antiques. Everything in this place is authentic—even the artwork," Les proudly boasted.
"How in hell could you afford all this?"
The look on the retiree's face spoke volumes. It was obvious he had forgotten his guest was a police detective who would wonder how he could live so far above his financial means.
"Most of this stuff was cheaper than you'd imagine," he answered, turning his head away to avoid looking her in the eye. "You can get great deals at flea markets, estate auctions and on eBay."
"I guess I'll have to do some shopping while I'm here," she laughed.
Although Arianna had taken an entire week off, she would only spend three days with her former partner. Afterward, she planned on meeting her sister back in Orlando where the two of them would visit Walt Disney World. During her stay in Kissimmee, her partner picked up the tab for every expense she incurred.
"I can pay for the meal," she insisted when the server handed Les the check for an overpriced steak dinner. "I've been saving up for this vacation for three years."
"Nonsense! You're my guest. The dinner is on me."
"Did you win the lottery or something?" Arianna laughed.
"Something," he replied cryptically.
When he removed his wallet, she could not help noticing the embossed gold initials on the black leather. The entwined G's. Gucci.
"Where did you get that?"
"This? It's a knockoff. Just like this watch."
"An imitation Rolex?"
"Looks real, doesn't it?" he asked, waving his left arm in front of her.
"Not that I'd know what a real Rolex looks like."
* * *
"You keep in touch," Les said after putting Arianna's bags in the trunk of her rental car.
"I will," she promised and hugged him.
The first three days of her vacation were over, but there were still seven more to enjoy.
"I'm off to see Mickey Mouse!" she exclaimed and started the engine.
On the drive back to Orlando, the detective replayed events from the past three days in her mind. Even if the Gucci wallet and the Rolex had been knockoffs, her former partner had still spent quite a bit of money on drinks and meals. And then there was the house he lived in. How did he afford the place, not to mention the antique furnishings, the top-of-the-line appliances and high-tech gadgets? Could Les have taken bribes at some point in his career? When he was still a rookie traffic cop, could he have accepted cash to overlook speeding violations and drunk driving charges? Or worse, as he rose through the ranks, was he on some drug dealer's payroll?
Arianna told herself to ignore the signs of dishonesty. During the time she worked with Les, he was an honest cop. She had never seen any evidence of corruption.
I ought to give him the benefit of the doubt, she mused. Maybe a rich relative left him a sizable inheritance or maybe he hit it big at one of the casinos.
However, the cop in her made her wonder. When she met her sister at Disney's Grand Floridian, she pushed her doubts to the back of her mind. For the remainder of the week, she would forget about police matters and concentrate on having fun. However, her thoughts returned to her former partner's unexpected windfall the moment she boarded the plane back to Atlanta.
The following Monday morning, Arianna reported for work at her usual time.
"How was your vacation?" Santos Ferrer, her new partner, inquired.
"Fun but expensive. Not only did I spend all the money I put aside for this trip, but my Visa card is maxed out."
"I know what you mean. I went to Vegas last year. You know that old saying 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas'? What stayed in Vegas was my money."
Once the people at the station all had the opportunity to welcome her back, she took her coffee and doughnut and sat at her desk. Since the chief was in a meeting with the commissioner and had yet to assign a new case to her, she used her free time to hopefully put her nagging doubts about Les Wynette to rest. When she checked her former partner's bank statements, she was flabbergasted. Other than the money he made on the sale of his former house, his only means of income were his pension and his social security checks.
How does he afford to live like he does?
Through a more thorough search, she uncovered another savings account. The amount of the first deposit was fifty thousand dollars. The second one was for one hundred thousand. Following these two transactions there were many withdrawals and additional deposits. What Arianna found most disturbing was the dates of the first two deposits. The initial one was made just before Christina Hepworth's murder, and the second was made immediately after it.
* * *
"When I suggested you stay in touch, I never expected you to be back so soon!" Les exclaimed when he opened his door and saw his former partner on the stoop. "You should have told me you were coming; I would have made reservations for dinner tonight."
"Which one hired you?" Arianna asked, coming right to the point of her unannounced visit. "Was it Christina or Graham?"
Les hung his head in defeat. He knew he could not bluff his way out of his predicament with lies about flea market finds and knockoff designer items.
"I should have known you'd be suspicious. You're a good detective."
"I had a good partner. You may be a killer, but you were a damned good detective. I learned a lot from you. So, which one hired you?"
"You have to ask? Didn't I tell you that it was always the husband?"
"You not only killed his wife but you blackmailed him, too, didn't you? That would account for the subsequent payments."
"Funny!" Les laughed. "A hundred and fifty thousand doesn't go that far anymore."
"You admit it."
"I admit to taking the money and blackmailing him, but I didn't kill anyone."
"How can you say that?"
The retired detective led his former partner into the kitchen where he poured them both coffee to which he added a generous amount of alcohol.
"One of my informants alerted me to the fact that Graham was looking to hire someone to take out his wife. I offered my services, but I never intended to kill anyone."
"You took the money. Not just the fifty thousand upfront but the hundred thousand for completing the job."
"I would have been content with just the fifty. I figured Hepworth wasn't going to sue me for breach of contract; and maybe having been taken by me, he wouldn't be so foolish to hire someone else. Damn me if Christina didn't do exactly what her husband claimed she'd done. She hired someone to kill her as well!"
"That's absurd!" Arianna cried.
"It's true. Just check out that sweet nanny next door," Les suggested.
"You're telling me Avery Burnell murdered Mrs. Hepworth?"
"Let's just say she won't have to take little Carol Anne on any more walks."
"How did you come to that conclusion?"
"Graham wasn't the only one with a private bank account. Christina had one, too. She paid Avery two hundred and fifty thousand. Two days after we questioned the Paladins' nanny, she quit her job and flew to Mexico."
"Then how did you get the hundred thousand?"
"Hepworth naturally assumed I'd carried out my end of the deal, so he paid me the balance of the contract."
"But that wasn't enough, was it?"
"He's worth billions. He could afford to give me a little more to keep my mouth shut."
"And you were never a fan of rich people like him."
Silence then descended on the room as Arianna decided upon a course of action. Meanwhile, her former partner stared out the window, watching the sailboats on the lake, as he stoically waited to hear his fate. The coffee in their cups was cold when she finally made up her mind.
"The investigation is closed," she announced. "I don't think the Atlanta P.D. is going to be too eager to open it again."
Les, who had been holding his breath, heaved a sigh of relief.
"And as far as blackmail is concerned, I'm a homicide detective. I don't concern myself with such matters unless they're a motive for murder."
"I always liked you, kid," the retired policeman said with genuine affection.
"Right back at you."
Half an hour later, Arianna got behind the wheel of her rental car. Despite having chosen to ignore her former partner's criminal activities, her conscience was clear. Les had not killed anyone. All he did was take money from an arrogant, greedy man who had gotten away with murdering his wife.
He was a good partner, she thought as she headed north to Orlando. He taught me well.
A smile came to her face as she looked down at the Rolex watch on the console. With the money she made from selling it, she would not only pay off her credit card balance but would also have enough left over to finance her next vacation. She always wanted to go to Paris and London. Now she could afford to travel first class.
I once had a problem with mice in the saltbox, and Salem wanted to hire someone to kill them. I guess he didn't know that it's a cat's job to kill mice.
