Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Cut

“Of course,” said the girl, nodding. She then led the way into the house, which was as starkly modern on the inside as on the outside. There was only one color scheme, really: black and white, with shades of gray. No decorations. Black concrete walls. Gray concrete floors and ceilings. And tiny little pinpricks of halogen casting a hard light across the starkly empty rooms.

“Nice place you got here,” said Gran, by way of small talk, but the maid was obviously too distraught to engage in social niceties.

“Were you the one who found Mr. Flake?” asked Odelia.

She nodded. “Yes, I was. Mr. Flake hated alarm clocks, or any indicators of time, really. He didn’t wear a watch, or condone clocks in the house. We even had to get rid of the digital clock on the microwave. So he instructed me to wake him up in the morning by entering his room, and switching on the light therapy lamps. They mimic natural sunlight, you see.”

“Couldn’t you simply open the curtains?” asked Gran.

“Mr. Flake hated the sun. He rarely left the house.”

“Like a vampire,” Gran muttered.

They’d arrived at a floor-to-ceiling set of double rusty decorative sheet metal doors, and the girl halted. “I-I went in to wake him, as I usually did, at seven o’clock, only the moment I set foot inside the room, I-I saw him.”

“Gabriel?” asked Odelia gently.

The girl nodded, then pressed the tissue to her nose again and closed her eyes as she relived that horrible moment.

“He was just standing there, frozen like a statue. At first I didn’t know what was going on. It was dark, of course. So I cheerfully asked, ‘Oh, I didn’t know you were up already, sir.’ He didn’t respond, though, and just stood there. So I switched on the lights, and as they slowly lit up the room, that’s when I saw it: he was holding a knife in his right hand, blood dripping to the floor. And he had the weirdest expression on his face.”

“What expression?” asked Gran.

She shook her head, a frown on her face. “Confusion? Yes, that’s probably what it was. He looked confused, and scared, and then he spoke those horrible words. ‘Is he dead?’ And that’s when I saw Mr. Flake. His silk pajamas were streaked with blood, and his eyes were wide open, staring up into space.” She shivered. “That’s when I knew Mr. Crier was right. Mr. Flake was dead, and he’d killed him.”

She opened the door, almost as an afterthought, and the first sight that met Odelia’s eyes was the red-haired female cop standing just inside the door. She recognized her as Sarah Flunk, Chase’s colleague. Sarah tipped an imaginary peaked cap to the newcomers. “Detective,” she said. “Odelia.” She hesitated as she fastened her eyes on Gran, then nodded in greeting. “Mrs. Muffin.”

Tough to deny the mother of your boss admission to a crime scene.

Near the window, a burly cop had been stationed. His name was Randal Skip, and judging from his dark scowl he was not a man to be trifled with. When he saw Odelia, though, his crusty features crumbled into a smile. He’d always been a big fan of the boss’s niece. He held up a hand in greeting.

On the bed, as the maid had found him, lay one of the most famous fashion designers of his generation. His trademark white mane was unruffled, his square face with the thin lips chalk-white as usual, and the only thing that gave away that he was dead was the fact that he wasn’t breathing.

After uttering a distraught little yelp of distress, the maid fled from the room, and Sarah Flunk closed the heavy steel doors behind her.

“No one’s been in or out?” asked Gran, as she took out a pair of plastic gloves from her pocket and directed an earnest look at the dead man.

“No one, ma’am,” said Officer Randal Skip. “Your son told us he’d send in a team, so…” He directed a quizzical look at Chase, but the latter merely shook his head, and Randal rearranged his features into a stoic expression.

“So where’s the culprit?” asked Gran now.

“You mean the boyfriend?” asked Sarah. “At the station, ma’am. Chief Alec took him into custody.”

“So did he confess?”

“Not to my knowledge. But then he doesn’t have to confess, does he? He was caught red-handed, so to speak.”

“He was covered with his victim’s blood,” said Randal. “As clear-cut a case as there ever was, ma’am.”

“Mh,” said Gran, not convinced. “Too clear-cut, wouldn’t you say?”

“Ma’am?”

“A case as clear-cut as this is a rarity. In all my years I don’t think I’ve ever handled a case where the killer, instead of fleeing the scene of the crime, simply chose to wait for a witness to show up, if you see what I mean.”

Randal cut another glance to Chase, who, once again, shook his head. ‘Humor the lady,’ his demeanor appeared to indicate.

“So you don’t think he did it?” asked Sarah, not hiding her skepticism.

“I’m not saying he did, and I’m not saying he didn’t,” Gran said as she checked the body. “He looks pretty dead to me,” she concluded after a long moment, then bent over to put her ear against the man’s lips. Straightening, she added, “Yep, I think he’s dead. What did Abe Cornwall say?”

“Hasn’t shown up yet, ma’am.”

“Mh,” she said, then studied the wound more closely. “Stab wound would you say, Randal?”

“That would be my conclusion, ma’am,” said the burly cop. “Of course I’m not an expert, but seeing as the killer was still holding the knife, that would be my best guess.”

“Straight to the heart,” Sarah murmured as she looked on reverently.

“A-ha,” said Gran. “Of course. Crime passionnel .”

“I wouldn’t know, ma’am. I’m not a detective.”

Gran turned to Chase. “What do you say, Detective Kingsley?”

Chase had taken up position on the other side of the bed. “Any cameras?” he asked, glancing around.

“As a matter of fact there are,” said Randal. He pointed to the only painting in the room. It depicted the dead man, seated on what looked like a throne, his trademark dark glasses obscuring the upper strata of his face, a white cat perched on his knee. It reminded Odelia of Dr. No, the James Bond villain.

“There’s a camera embedded in the painting,” Sarah explained. “It’s the cat’s eyes. They’re actually two lenses. But we haven’t been able to locate the footage.”

“Did you check with Flake’s security team?” asked Odelia.

“We did. The guy in charge of security reckons that either the camera is a dud—just for show—or else it fed into a parallel security system only accessible to Flake himself. At any rate he doesn’t seem to have a clue.”

“It must feed into something,” said Gran, as she climbed on top of the bed to take a closer look at the camera. “Clever,” she said. “Very clever indeed.”

“There’s a rumor going around that Flake and Crier used it to create their own private home movies, sir,” said Sarah, addressing Chase. She lowered her voice. “Home sex movies, sir. Only we haven’t been able to find them yet.”

“When I talk to Crier I’ll ask him about it,” said Chase as he cast a worried glance at Gran, who was still trudging around on the bed, potentially disturbing the crime scene. Finally she was satisfied and climbed down.

“Kinky,” she commented, then swung round with the air of one who has come to a conclusion. “Sex game gone wrong is my conclusion. Flake had probably found himself a new, younger, boyfriend, and had been adding to his collection of sex tapes with this virile young man. And when Crier found out, he flew into a rage and killed his lover in a moment of insanity. Classic.”

“Right,” said Chase. “Sarah and Randal. I want you to talk to the rest of the staff. And ask them about the camera. I’ll talk to the head of security.” He turned to Odelia. “Are you all right in here, babe?”