When Day Breaks (17 page)

O
h, my God, you’re not going to believe this, guys,” said Annabelle, as she walked into the Fishbowl, where Eliza, the senior producers, the director, and production assistants were going over what would be on the
Evening Headlines
that night.

“Try us,” said Range Bullock.

“I just got off the phone with the animal shelter that took in the Great Dane that was found dead on Constance’s property. One of the shelter attendants was found murdered this morning.”

Range emitted a low whistle.

“And what about the dog?” asked Eliza. “Did they tell you anything about the Great Dane and who adopted him?”

“They’re checking their records,” answered Annabelle.

“We should go over there and get some pictures and see who’ll talk with us,” said Range.

“I’ve already asked for B.J.,” said Annabelle. “He’s loading up his gear now.”

“I want to go with you, too,” said Eliza.

There was yellow police tape blocking off the entrance to the animal shelter. B.J. leaned in to try the door. It was unlocked.

“After you,” he said. Eliza and Annabelle bent down and slipped under the tape. Inside, there were cages of animals, some barking, some sleeping, some pacing back and forth, but no police in sight.

Eliza went up to the counter and introduced herself.

“I know who you are,” said the woman who staffed the desk. “This day couldn’t possibly get any more surreal.”

“Well, this is Annabelle Murphy, our producer, and B.J. D’Elia, our cameraman,” said Eliza. Hands were shaken all around.

“Can you tell me what happened?” said Eliza.

“I guess so. The police have already come and gone,” said the woman. “It’s probably just another New York City homicide to them, but Vinny was the world’s nicest guy.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Would you be willing to talk with the camera rolling?” asked Eliza.

“All right,” said the woman. “I suppose so.” B.J. looked around the room. “Maybe we could do the interview closer to the cages,” he suggested. “It would make the shot more interesting to have the animals in the background.”

After B.J. miked the two women and made all the necessary adjustments to his camera gear, the interview began.

“Okay, let’s start with what happened,” said Eliza. “What can you tell me?”

The woman took a deep breath. “Well, I came in this morning, and the minute I opened the door, I really had a feeling that something was wrong. The dogs were all staring at me and barking like crazy. It was like they were trying to tell me something.”

Eliza nodded and waited for the woman to continue.

“So I put my stuff down on the counter, and then I started walking to each of the cages, talking to the dogs, trying to calm them down, you know?”

“Yes,” said Eliza.

“But they didn’t calm down. They went on barking and yelping, and I was getting a creepy feeling, but I kept on going. And then I got to the back.” The woman pointed to the rear of the spacious area.

“Could we walk back there together?” Eliza asked.

“I suppose so,” said the woman. “But I wouldn’t want to go back there by myself. Not for a while anyway.”

B.J. followed them with his camera. The woman stopped in front of a cage that housed a black Labrador retriever.

“This is where I found him,” said the woman, her voice shaking. “This is where I found Vinny. He was just lying there. I could tell right away he was dead.”

“So then you called the police?” asked Eliza.

“Well, I called 911. They sent an ambulance anyway, but that didn’t do any good. They couldn’t bring Vinny back. The police came and searched around. Look at the mess they’ve made.”

“Did the police speculate on how Vinny was killed?” asked Eliza.

“Yes.” The woman lowered her voice. “I overheard one of the detectives talking.”

“What did they think?”

“Sodium pentobarbital. We keep some in the back to put down animals if we have to.”

“And the police think that Vinny was injected with it?”

The woman nodded. “And some of the vials are missing, too—which is really scary.” Her mood brightened a bit when she thought of her coworker. “As for Vinny, he was the loveliest, most sensitive guy you’d ever want to meet.” She looked around the room. “He was so committed to finding homes for these animals. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. Not at all.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Eliza.

“Thank you,” the woman said with a sniffle.

“Let me ask you about something else,” said Eliza.

“What is it?”

“Well, you’ve probably heard that one of our colleagues, Constance Young, was found dead at her county house over the weekend.”

“Who
hasn’t
heard?” the woman said with a sarcastic tone. “That’s all that’s been on the radio and television.”

“And did you hear mention of a dead dog found on her property as well?” asked Eliza.

“I think I heard something about it, but to tell you the truth, I started not paying much attention after the first ten stories I listened to.”

“Well, it turns out the dog was once here,” said Eliza. “We know who brought it in, but we want to find out who took it out.”

The woman hesitated. “Why haven’t the police questioned me about this?” asked the woman.

“I don’t know why,” said Eliza. “But you can bet they will. Maybe the county police haven’t been talking to the city police. Maybe they haven’t made the connection with the dog and this shelter.”

The woman’s facial expression grew even graver. “So you think there’s some connection with the dead dog, this shelter, and Vinny’s murder?”

“That’s what we want to find out,” said Eliza. “We already have the name and New York City address of the man who owned the dog and brought it here before he moved out of town.”

The woman considered Eliza’s words. “All right,” she said finally. “Let’s go back up front to the computer.”

A few strokes of the computer keys and the information came up.

“Here it is,” said the woman. “Graham Welles. He brought in a male black Great Dane named Marco. I remember now. Vinny had been so worried that nobody would choose that dog. He was so excited when he found a home for it.”

“Can you tell me who adopted the dog?” asked Eliza.

The woman squinted at the computer screen. “Yes. Ryan Banford,” she said, pointing to the data. “And here’s the address.”

As Eliza, Annabelle, and B.J. drove back to the Broadcast Center in the crew car, B.J. speculated. “How much you want to wager there’s no Ryan Banford at that address?”

“I’m not going to take that bet,” said Annabelle. “But can you believe we beat the police in making the connection between the dog and this animal shelter?”

“Nice work, Annabelle,” said Eliza. “And let’s hope they don’t make that connection before airtime. Then we’ll have an exclusive.”

“And let’s hope something else,” said B.J. as he steered the car through midtown traffic. “Let’s hope that missing sodium pentobarbital isn’t used on anybody else.”

T
he detectives entered the office building of Whitaker Medieval Enterprises. The receptionist buzzed Mr. Whitaker’s secretary, who escorted the investigators upstairs.

As they walked down a long hallway, the detectives observed the artwork hanging on the walls. Renderings of dragons, dungeons, armor, crossbows, and spiked-ball flails flanked the dimly lit corridor. The detectives shot looks at each other.

“Please, have a seat here in the conference room,” the secretary said. “Mr. Whitaker will be right with you.”

A huge circular table dominated the room. Its legs were carved with menacing gargoyles and human figures with angry faces. A reproduction of the table reputed to be that of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table in the Great Hall of Winchester Castle in England, the table must have weighed a ton. The names of the knights were painted at each place, with a portrait of the great mythical king painted at the place farthest from the door. Neither of the detectives had the nerve to sit at King Arthur’s place, choosing instead to sit in two of the other twenty-four chairs stationed around the table. As they waited, they took in the other medieval accoutrements in the room. At one corner, a full suit of armor stood with lance in hand, arranged like a knight going into battle. In another corner, hammered iron shackles hung from thick chains on the wall.

“Does this place creep you out, or is it just me?” one detective asked.

“This Whitaker guy is one strange customer,” said the other, shaking his head and looking around the room. “God, and to think he’s made millions with this stuff. We’re doing something wrong, buddy. Why couldn’t we have thought of making video games based on crap from the Middle Ages?”

“Probably because we couldn’t even say when the Middle Ages were.”

“You’re right.”

The conference room door opened. Stuart Whitaker entered, followed by another man.

“Hello, gentlemen,” said Stuart, shaking both detectives’ hands. “This is Philip Hill, my attorney.”

The attorney nodded at the detectives.

“You’ll notice there is no head to this table, gentlemen. Everyone is equal at a round table,” said Stuart as he took a chair across from the detectives. “That’s why King Arthur had his knights sit at a round table.”

“Is that so?” asked one of the detectives. “You learn something new every day.”

“Mr. Whitaker,” said the other detective, “let’s get to why we’re here.”

“Please, do,” said Stuart, taking off his glasses and wiping the lenses with a snowy white handkerchief.

“We’re here about the ivory unicorn and the death of Constance Young.”

Stuart put his glasses back on and waited.

“The Cloisters’ security staff has informed us that you and Ms. Young had access to the unicorn on a private tour you took there.”

“Yes, that is correct,” said Stuart.

“Well. Let me come right out and ask you, Mr. Whitaker. Did you take the unicorn?”

Stuart looked from detective to detective and then to his lawyer. Philip Hill nodded encouragement to his client.

“I
borrowed
the unicorn,” said Stuart. “I intended to make a copy for Constance, who had admired it so. But then I could not wait to show it to her. She loved it and, when I placed it around her neck, it looked so beautiful on her. I couldn’t bring myself to take it back. Constance was a true queen, and she deserved the real thing, not a fake.” Stuart hung his head. “I realize that was not the right thing to do.”

“Did Ms. Young know that the unicorn was the real thing, or did she think it was a copy?”

“At first she thought it was a copy. I did not tell her until last Friday that it was the authentic unicorn.”

“Friday? The day she died?” asked a detective.

“Well, Friday, her last day on
KEY to America
anyway,” said Stuart. “I do not know exactly when Constance died.”

“So you saw Ms. Young on Friday?”

“No. I spoke with her on the phone that morning after I saw her wearing the unicorn on television. I called her to tell her that she was breaking her promise not to wear it in front of anyone but me, and that I was disappointed in her.”

“So you were angry with Ms. Young,” stated the same detective.

The attorney interjected. “Mr. Whitaker said he was disappointed in Ms. Young. He didn’t say he was angry with her.”

The detectives gave the lawyer a resigned look.

“Well, Mr. Whitaker,” one detective asked, “
were
you angry?”

“You don’t have to answer that, Stuart,” said the attorney.

“That is all right, Philip,” said Stuart quietly. “I have nothing to hide. In fact, I want to get this off my chest. I was, as I said, disappointed that Constance was wearing the unicorn amulet, even though she had promised me that she would wear it only when we were together. And, of course, I was worried as well.”

“Worried about what?” continued the detective.

“Worried that someone would recognize the unicorn and realize that it had been stolen,” said Stuart.

“And then figure out that you took it from the museum?”

Stuart nodded.

“So then what happened?” the other detective asked.

“I told her the unicorn I had given her was not a copy, that it was the real thing. I asked her to give it back to me,” said Stuart.

“What was Ms. Young’s response?”

“She said the unicorn had brought her good luck and she would not ever want to part with it.” Stuart rubbed his hand over his bald head. “Then she rushed me off the phone.”

“So she didn’t care that you could be in trouble for taking the unicorn?” asked the detective.

“I do not know how she felt,” said Stuart. “I loved Constance, and I cannot allow myself to think that she would be so callous.”

The detectives watched closely for any expression, any hint of emotion on Stuart Whitaker’s face. What they saw was a paunchy, pale-skinned, middle-aged man looking defeated and sad.

“So that was it, Mr. Whitaker?” asked a detective. “That was the last conversation you had with Constance Young?”

Stuart nodded.

“And you made no further attempt to get that unicorn back?”

Stuart looked quizzically at his attorney.

“It’s all right, Stuart,” said the lawyer. “Tell them.”

Stuart nervously cleared his throat. “Well, I did try to get the unicorn back. At least that was my plan. I went to the restaurant, Barbetta, where the farewell luncheon for Constance was being held, in hopes of seeing her and asking her again to return the unicorn to me.”

“And did she?”

“I never got to talk with her. I never even saw her,” explained Stuart. “Her assistant was worried there would be a scene, and he thought I should leave.”

“Was that Boyd Irons?”

“Yes. He told me he understood what it was like to have Constance give him a hard time. He said he would do his best to get the unicorn back for me.”

“And what did you tell Mr. Irons?”

“I said that I would make it worth his time if he did. I asked him if he could get the unicorn for me. I didn’t mean that he should kill her for it.”

Whitaker’s attorney interrupted again. “Detectives, it would seem you are investigating two separate things here—the theft of the ivory unicorn from the Cloisters and the death of Constance Young. On the first point, Mr. Whitaker has already admitted that he misguidedly borrowed the artifact from the museum with every intention of returning it. I have been in contact with people at the Cloisters, who have already agreed that this was all a gross misunderstanding. They understand that Mr. Whitaker, a longtime and generous patron of the museum, had only borrowed the unicorn amulet. And they have assured me that they will not be pressing charges against him. If the unicorn is not physically recovered, Mr. Whitaker will make financial restitution for it.”

The detectives looked at each other knowingly. It was nice to have money.

“On the second point,” the lawyer continued, “as to the death of Ms. Young, my client knows absolutely nothing about that horrible tragedy. He left the restaurant on Friday without ever seeing Ms. Young. In fact, he never saw her again.”

The attorney rose from his seat and indicated that Stuart should follow suit.

“As Mr. Whitaker just informed you, he told Boyd Irons that he would pay him if he could reclaim the unicorn. I suggest you talk to Mr. Irons about how successful he was in that regard.”