Stories of the Eight Winds
Last week, I was swept away by the eight winds. And I must apologize for posting a story that just was not good. I was "called to task" by a friend who said
“you have left out that which might give this story some substance, (and by the way, a key convention of crime, i.e., an interplay between the antagonist, Zara, and the protagonist, Sullivan, which tests Sullivan’s flaw, and perhaps gives Zara a hope of escape. So, What is Sullivan’s flaw. I didn’t see one. And therefore, Zara has no hope and just caves. Nope, don’t believe it. IMHO this story is lacking.”
So, I made another attempt at the prompts, which involved a supermodel backstage at a crime scene. The essential tactic is to coax. I hope I got it this time! So, here we go…
All in the Line of Duty
Police cars formed a tight perimeter around Radio City Music Hall, their flashing lights casting an eerie glow on the surrounding buildings. Inside the auditorium, it was a state of controlled chaos. The atmosphere was tense as the audience anxiously awaited news of their fate, unsure who the police would need to question.
The night’s big event was the Emmy presentations. Celebrities from all over the world were in the audience, each one hoping to walk away with an award. The show was abruptly stopped when Maxwell Hunter, star of stage, screen, and streaming, dropped dead just as he was about to announce the award for leading actress in a drama.
Detective Danny Sullivan's head ached; in fact, his entire body ached. Weeks away from retiring, Sullivan hoped that this case could be wrapped up quickly and he could go back to his apartment and sleep. Instead, he found himself backstage with Hunter’s girlfriend, the international supermodel with one name, Zara. Her face tear-streaked, she clutched onto Detective Sullivan's arm for support as she struggled to speak.
“I don’t understand how this could happen. Max took such good care of himself,” Zara said, her voice trembling, her French accent making her difficult to understand.
“Oh sure, lady,” he scoffed, his tone dripping with skepticism. “Like no actor ever od’ed on drugs. They’re all pure as the driven snow.” Facing her with what he hoped was a piercing gaze, he asked, “Were you with him all night?” He was prodding her for answers. Perhaps he was rough, but he was determined to uncover the truth.
“Non, Max likes to be left alone before he has to perform,” Zara said.
“Why is that? Did anyone enter his dressing room? Were you alone with him all the time? Can you tell me if anything has been disturbed here?” But try as hard as he could, Zara remained unmoved, sharing only the basic information that Sullivan already knew.
“Non, no one came in. His agent, Jordon Adler, was there for a while, but he left. Mickey Flynn, the comedian who is the host, came in to say hello. That’s all. Max didn’t want to see either of them. He asked me to make them leave.”
“Okay,” Sullivan continued. “Why was that?” he asked again, coaxing every new detail out of her. A persistent thought nagged at him. There was something about this woman that was hiding just below the surface. “Did Hunter eat or drink anything while they were there? Or before you left?” he continued, setting aside his thoughts.
“Non.” Her long, slim body reminded Sullivan of a snake wrapping itself around its victim as she moved past him to sit in the chair. He couldn’t decide if her tears were real. Did she care for this guy, or was he just another way to get her name out in public?
“Look, uh, Zara,” he said, finding it hard to call her by her unusual name. “Zara, we know he was poisoned shortly before he came on stage. And you were with him in his dressing room until fifteen minutes before he went on. Now, tell me again, Zara. What did he eat or drink?" Detective Sullivan pressed his tone firm, probing for any inconsistencies.
“Nothing! I don’t know,” she insisted.
“Zara,” the Detective said, his piercing gaze bore into Zara like icy daggers. “Do you know that there is security footage of the backstage areas?” He watched as confusion and near panic entered Zara’s eyes.
“Non,” she said again, beginning to tremble.
“It shows someone entering Hunter’s dressing room when you said he was alone.”
“Who? Is this the person who killed Max? Was it Jordon? Max thought he was stealing from him. And Mickey was jealous of Max’s talent. Which one was it? I knew it had to be one of them.” The anxiety in her voice reached an anxious pitch.
“Neither of them. It was a woman.”
“It was his ex-wife. I thought I saw her tonight.” Zara’s eyes glowed with a fevered light.
“May I see your purse?” Detective Sullivan suddenly asked, reaching out to take the Louis Vuitton evening bag from the dressing table behind her. Zara fought back, desperately trying to keep it out of his reach. “I won't let you take that! You can't just invade my privacy like this!"
Deftly putting the bag out of her reach, Sullivan opens it. “And what is this?” he asks, pulling a vial from her purse and holding it up for Zara to see. “When I give this to forensics, will they find poison inside? And will it be the same poison that killed Maxwell Hunter?”
“That’s not mine,” she said. “I didn’t put it there.” Her French accent disappeared as she began to realize the implications of the little bottle. Sullivan watched the beautiful French supermodel transform into Loretta Miller from Long Island, all pretense of glamour gone.
“Tell me how it got in there. Who had access to your bag tonight?”
“I don’t know. It was on Max’s dressing table. I put it there when I arrived.” Zara/Loretta answered.
“OK,” Sullivan said, the ache in his head getting stronger. ‘I really need a drink,’’ he told himself. ‘As soon as I get this over with, that’s what I’m doing. A drink and bed.’ “Now, did you leave the dressing room at any time before the 15 minutes when Hunter wanted to be alone?”
“Well, maybe,” Zara/Loretta said. “I might have gone out to get some champagne. They had buckets of the stuff all over backstage.”
“Ok. Now we’re getting somewhere. How long were you gone?”
“No more than ten minutes,” the model replied. “But I know Max was alone all that time.”
“How?” the Detective dug down. “How did you know he was alone?”
“He told me.”
“So, you only know because he told you. Could he be lying to you?”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. You tell me why. Zara or Lorretta, or whatever the hell your name is. Officer,” he said to the patrolman standing nearby. “Keep your eye on her until I get back.”
Sullivan, grateful to be out of that room and away from the heady perfume the model was wearing, walked over to where officers were conducting interviews with the other presenters and winners.
“Any leads, Sargent?” he asked the officer in charge.
“Sir, that woman says she saw a woman hanging around outside of Hunter’s dressing room. But she couldn’t identify her.”
“Anything else?”
“Zara was seen twice. Once getting champagne and hanging around in the winner’s press room the second time.”
“That’s it? Okay, Sargent.”
“Oh, Sir. I was told that Hunter’s agent gave her a glass to take back to Hunter.”
“Let me know if you hear anything else.”
As he turns to go back to the dressing room, the officer he left in charge comes running. “Detective, Zara has collapsed. The paramedics are with her.”
Sullivan returned to the dressing room just as the paramedics stopped their life-saving activity. “Sorry,” a paramedic says to Sullivan. “She’s gone. I suspect it is the same poison that killed Hunter.”
‘What the hell is happening here?’ Sullivan said to himself. ‘Two murders. Jeez, I’m not getting out of here any time soon.’ Turning to the officer he left in charge, he said, “Tell me what happened.”
“I was watching her, like you said, Sir. She was sitting in that chair drinking the champagne that was in here. Then I heard a knock on the door. I thought it was you, so I went to answer it. No one was there. When I turned around, she was slumped down. I called the paramedics, and you know the rest.”
“Which glass,” Sullivan asked, seeing one glass on the dressing table and one on the floor where it fell from her hand. “Better get both over to forensics ASAP.”
“On it, Sir.”
‘This night keeps getting better and better,’ Sullivan thought. “Find the agent, what’s his name, Jordon something.”
Jordon Adler walked over to where Sullivan was standing. The detective thought he didn’t look too upset about losing a big client. “Can you tell me what you know about tonight’s events?” Sullivan asked.
“I only saw Max for a few minutes when I went into his dressing room. Then, I was out near the winner's area for the rest of the night. I had other clients who were nominated. I saw Zara when she came out to get some champagne. I gave her a glass to take back to Max. But maybe I shouldn’t say that. It might incriminate me.”
“Did you poison him? Do you know anyone who would benefit from his death?”
“No! Why would I do that? Max was a star. Everyone loved him,” Adler said.
“Well, someone didn’t,” The Detective replied, frustration obvious in his voice. “Why did you give a glass of champagne to Zara to take back to Hunter?”
“She had a glass in her hand, and I suggested she take one back for Max. Help loosen him up before he went on.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was sitting on the bar. The bartenders filled glasses and set them on the bar for anyone to take.”
“Is that where Zara got her glass?”
“I assume so,” Adler said, somewhat puzzled by the question. “I didn’t see, so I have no idea. It was in her hand when I saw her.”
“Stay close by. I may need to talk to you later.”
Sullivan started going over the events of the evening in his mind. Zara was returning to the dressing room when Adler handed her another glass. One of the two were poisoned. How could she put the poison in the glass with Hunter in the room? Makes no sense. ‘I need to know where the first glass came from. Who gave it to her?’ A commotion started nearby as he was going over the sequence of events. A woman was trying to get past the police and into the dressing room.
Sullivan walked over to her. “Sorry, but this is a crime scene. No one can enter.”
“Is it true,” the woman asked Sullivan. “Is Loretta dead?”
“You had better tell me who you are,” Sullivan answered. “How do you know Loretta? “
“She’s my daughter. She took that ridiculous name Zara when she started modeling. Please, can I see her?” she asked.
“First, tell me how you got in here tonight. Security for the Emmys is tight. Who brought you in?”
“I was working with the caterers, passing out the hor d’oeuvres. I just wanted to see her. She never comes home anymore. Especially since she got involved with Maxwell Hunter, he’s an evil man.”
“Why do you say that?” Sullivan asked, his voice deceptively calm.
“Drugs! Cocaine!” With a venomous tone, Loretta's mother spat out her words. “All that stuff that can kill you. I hated him. I wanted him dead.” She looked up at the detective with an astonished look on her face. “I didn’t mean to say that,” she almost whispered.
“I’m sorry to tell you that Loretta is dead. Do you know anything about the champagne that was intended for Hunter?”
“No,” Loretta’s mother cried. “Is that what killed her? No, it wasn’t for her. Oh god, what did I do?”
“Mrs. Miller, did you poison the champagne?” Sullivan demanded.
“There’s no point now in denying it. Yes, I slipped the poison into his glass. I went to his dressing room and offered him some hors d’oeuvres. I had another glass on my tray, the one with the poison. He turned his back on me, and I switched glasses then. You know, I was standing right next to Loretta with my tray,” she continued, her voice tired. “She didn’t notice me. Imagine that. Not noticing that your own mother was standing next to you. Hunter did that to her. He filled her head with all these grand ideas. My poor baby girl,” she said, breaking down.
“Why did you put the poison bottle in her purse?” Sullivan continued.
“I didn’t,” she said. “I have it right here.” She held up the empty vial for the detective to see.
Sullivan thought for a moment, his head throbbing, as he began to piece together the night's events. “Well, Mrs. Miller, this may be a case of mother and daughter having the same idea. I suspect what happened is that Lorretta also planned to murder Hunter. I think she wanted to get away from him and his hold on her. She put the poison in one glass, and he drank it just before he went onstage. Then, later, she drank from the other glass, not knowing you had poisoned it. What do you say, Mrs. Miller? Like mother, like daughter.”
Detective Danny Sullivan stood up. A fleeting sense of triumph mingled with a heavy sadness as he realized that another case had been solved. Another person was dead.
“Mrs. Miller, please stand. I am placing you under arrest. You have the right…”