Nancy Grace - Death on the D-List

Hailey didn’t stop him.

Turning the doorknob, he headed out toward the elevator half-way down the hallway. He didn’t hear her behind him, but a firm hand grabbed his shoulder and turned him back.

He looked down. Her eyes were so green.

“I accept the apology. And, Kolker, of course I’ll help you. Come on back in. Okay?”

They stood there for a moment, silent. So much had passed between them. The murders, Hailey’s arrest, him finding her there on the floor, bloody, beside Matt Leonard’s body. He had thought for a moment she was dead and he’d never forgotten the sick feeling he’d had in his chest… until she’d opened her eyes.

“Thanks, Hailey.”

She turned toward her front door and tossed back over her shoulder, “Plus, I hate to waste a tea bag…”

Unlike before, when he refused to hear Hailey out, this time Kolker had a new strategy. He was actually going to listen.

They sat down and Kolker began outlining what he knew so far. He had his investigative file with him, the only copy. In just a few moments, the two moved to Hailey’s dining room table in order to spread out crime scene photos, charts, measurements, ballistics reports, and autopsy data.

Two hours and two cups of tea later, after going through everything he had, Hailey started rattling a “To Do” list off the top of her head for Kolker.

“Look, I know you’ve probably thought of all this before… but have you pulled all the recent video, appearances, cell phone records, home phone records, credit card receipts, and checks for the past twelve months; travel information; where they’ve been lately, what they have been doing? You know… their full itineraries for the past six, seven months. Have they been to memorabilia signings? Celebrity autograph events? You know a lot of spooks hang out at those things…”

Hailey was talking so fast, in a kind of stream-of-consciousness train of thought, that Kolker didn’t dare interrupt. He was writing down what she said as fast as he could. A lot of it he’d already thought of… but not all of it.

“Any similarities at all about the crime scenes themselves?”

“Well, Stockton was killed in the pool house of an out-of-town movie star and Love was shot in her SUV behind a yoga studio down in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“I mean the forensic findings.”

“Other than the caliber, single shot to the head, close range. Both are contact wounds; we found some tiny particles, maroon tinted, apparently part of the gunshot residue, in both of them.”

“Hmm. Wonder what that is. And of course, there’s the obvious question… other than both being on TV, what do they have in common? Same grocery store? Same gym? Same doctor? Same plastic surgeon? Boyfriends, exes, grocery store delivery boys, florist deliveries, mailmen, carpet cleaners, maintenance, air and heating workers… You know… anybody and everybody that may have been in and out of their apartments.”

Hailey was looking out the window, thinking as she spun it all off. “Also… any wacky New Age religion or meetings the two had been to? It’s probably going to be more basic than that, but you never know.” Turning her head back, she watched Kolker scribbling into his notebook.

Just as she was about to broach the likely murder weapon, Kolker’s police band radio interrupted the two of them with static.

“Kolker, Kolker, please respond. What’s your 54?” The question was followed by another blast of static.

Instinctively, Kolker stood up to speak into the handheld police radio.

“Kolker here. Location, Midtown Manhattan. Repeat, Midtown.”

“Lieutenant Kolker, proceed to West Side. Proceed to West Side. Columbus and Sixty-seventh Street. Repeat, Columbus Avenue and Sixty-seventh Street.”

“Copy that. What’s up, Dispatch?”

“You got another one, Kolker, pretty sure. Fallon Malone. Shot dead, single bullet to the head, in her apartment. Crime Scene Investigators there already. Won’t touch a thing, waiting on you to get there.”

“En route.”

Kolker looked down at Hailey. “Want to do a ride-along?”

“Sure. I haven’t been in a cop car since you arrested me.”

He knew she said it jokingly, but he couldn’t muster a comeback. The guilt over Hailey’s arrest was still raw.

Hailey picked up her jacket and hat, both hanging just inside the entrance hall closet. Walking out the door, Kolker said, “I know that name… Fallon Malone… Fallon Malone…”

“Kolker… are you kidding me? From the Vette scene?” She spoke over her shoulder toward his general vicinity as she turned toward the door to lock the two deadbolts with keys.

They stepped onto the elevator and headed down, and the name Susannah Kolker was not mentioned again… nor was Hailey’s arrest. Both would hurt too much.

AFTER BADGING THEIR WAY THROUGH A FLEET OF DOORMEN AND WALKING through a rarified lobby complete with colossal floral arrangements on inlaid wood tables and huge black-and-white marble-squared floors, Hailey and Kolker made their way up the elevators to the penthouse where Fallon Malone kept her New York apartment.

Winding through the maze of crime-scene techs reminded Hailey of the hundreds of similar scenes she’d visited as a felony prosecutor. It all seemed so familiar… second nature to her.

The front door to Fallon Malone’s apartment was wide open, but flanked by burly uniformed officers. Kolker didn’t need to badge them by flashing his gold detective’s shield; they recognized him.

“Lieutenant.” One of them spoke a greeting, somber under the circumstances.

“Morning, Rourke. All the crime lab staff here?”

“Yep. Got here about twenty minutes ago. We held them off for you to take a look first. They’re in there, though.”

Stepping over the threshold, Kolker called over his shoulder, “She’s with me, Rourke.”

“Roger that, Lieutenant.”

The first thing that struck Hailey was the sheer size of Fallon Malone’s apartment. It looked as if two full floors had been gutted to make a spectacular front entrance, vaulted clear up to at least forty feet, painted stark white. A huge open doorway straight ahead was at least twelve feet high, easily fifteen feet wide, and opened into a den. To the right of the entrance was another open doorway leading to the dining room. Inside was an over-the-top white marble sculptured table, ten white upholstered chairs situated around it, and a fantastic abstract art sculpture, pure white, as its centerpiece. Hailey couldn’t make out a specific form, but it looked expensive.

Up the entrance hall’s winding spiral staircase, the harsh white walls bore only one embellishment, a canvas bearing the likeness of Fallon Malone, but painted in bright neon colors. Looked like a Steve Penley. Must have cost thousands to have that commissioned.

The Penley was the only injection of color in the entire apartment, so far as Hailey could see from the entrance. Like the walls, the floors were matching white marble. A faux (Hailey hoped) white bearskin rug covered the living-room floor and was topped by a clear glass table sitting on thick gold legs. A black-and-white book of art deco photographs was the only thing on it, aside from a white ceramic ashtray.

Taking it one room at a time, they made their way through the living room, then to an adjoining room where a group of uniformed and plainclothes officers were waiting. A tech handed both Hailey and Kolker scrub gowns and footies to put over their shoes before they went in.

“She was always claiming she had stalkers, but no one took it seriously. There was never a note, a threat, anything. I think she just wanted to look as if her fans were mad about her, and when she heard other stars had stalkers, she just had to have one of her very own. Like a pet.” The tech kept talking.