Chapter 1
Murder is a heartless crime one person executes on another. With all the modern equipment our law enforcement agencies have at their disposal, you would think that this crime would be useless to commit. It seems, though, that the nation’s capital, Washington, D.C., is the murder capital of the United States. With so much bloodshed on the capital’s streets, you would think the District of Columbia was a combat zone, not one of the nation’s beautiful cities. This is the chief reason why the homicide division of the Washington, D.C. police department is one of the busiest in the country. You earn your money on this force.
The homicide department, located on the second floor at police headquarters, is composed of ten working detectives, four lieutenants, one department captain, and a dozen clerical service workers. The team of Ciminelli and Hannigan is one of the best in the whole department. Steve Ciminelli, a Yankee from Boston who joined the D.C. force after serving three years as an Air Force special cop at Andrews Air Force Base, is a veteran with nine years on the force, with the last three as a homicide detective. He earned his promotion the hard way—by hard work on the job.
Linda Hannigan is a second-generation police officer on the Washington force. Her father was a cop, her uncle was a cop, and her two brothers now serve in the Secret Service and FBI, respectively. She became a detective in four years, and many of her male co-workers resent her ability to achieve her rank so fast. Every day she must fight wise-ass sexual remarks made by her colleagues, but she handles them in an expert manner.
The squad room is always active, with people working at their desks or hurrying to other destinations in the building. The captain doesn’t like to see anyone stand too long near the water fountain or have more than two cups of coffee. He believes that with all the workloads our department has to deal with, no one has the luxury to be idle unless he or she is out of his sight.
Steve Ciminelli is over thirty years old and a Yankee transplant from New England. Born and raised in the East Boston area, he attended Boston University for four years. After serving three years in the Air Force, mostly at Andrews Air Force Base outside of Washington, he decided to join the D.C. police force to stay in the area. The Secret Service or the Bureau couldn’t promise him that. Why did Steve wish to live in the capital? Her name is Maureen Stevens, co-anchor on one of the local TV stations. Steve and Maureen’s relationship goes back to his Air Force days at Andrews.
Maureen is from the Long Island area of New York and attended the University of Buffalo School of journalism. She worked in some minor jobs in Buffalo until she earned her co-anchor post at WKWL. She met Steve at a student beer party at the U.B. campus when he traveled to Buffalo with an Air Force buddy. His buddy was getting married. Steve was his best man, and Maureen was a college friend of the bride. Their romance has flowered for the last ten years, with off-and-on periods.
“Ciminelli and Hannigan. In my office immediately,” the captain shouted from behind his office door. The sound of his voice brought the movement in the squad room to a halt, and everyone knew something big had happened. As Steve and Linda walked through the door, the captain ordered it closed. With his unlit cigar in his mouth, he picked up a message sheet and handed it to Steve.
“This is a big one, Steve. A prominent socialite by the name of Laura Smith-Hughes was just found murdered in her condo bedroom. I want a very complete and thorough investigation of this, and you report to me directly with everything. Understand?” the captain commanded with a tough voice.
“Laura Smith-Hughes? She’s the top of Washington society, boss,” Steve remarked after glancing at the name on the message sheet. “She’s loaded with dough—one of the top five hundred in the nation,” he continued.
“Get over to the murder scene and make sure that none of our people screw this one up,” barked the captain of the homicide division. With that last order still ringing in their ears, Steve and Linda left his office and moved out of headquarters quickly. The drive to the condo residence of Laura Smith-Hughes didn’t take too long, but traffic in Washington during the work week is horrendous. The streets are just filled with drivers who don’t know how to drive.
The Smith-Hughes condo was located in the Watergate Complex along the river. The condo itself was worthy of the status of its occupant. It overlooked the marina basin and received gentle breezes from the water side of the complex. When Ciminelli and Hannigan arrived, the area had already been roped off by police tape. As our dynamic duo entered the Smith-Hughes apartment, the appreciation for elegance was immediately observable. The furnishings were elegant and suited the status of the Smith-Hughes name.
As Steve walked through the apartment, the I.D. and forensic boys were busy trying to retrieve evidence from the furniture and items situated in the living areas of the condo. As Steve approached the master bedroom, the intensity of the investigation increased. This was the actual murder scene, for Laura Smith-Hughes lay on the bed in a bright red pool of blood. The victim was clothed in an elegant, expensive teddy, and she was sprawled on a king-size bed covered with silk and satin sheets. Ms. Smith-Hughes was a very attractive woman for her age, but today her body had been punctured over a dozen times by a sharp object—probably a knife.
“For Pete’s sake, close her eyes,” Steve complained as he viewed the body. The victim’s eyes were still open and seemed to glare at the activity around her. One of the coroner’s men complied with Steve’s request.
“A shame that someone so attractive could end up like this—a shame to waste such a body,” replied the coroner as he worked on it. “This wonderful lady had sex before she became a pincushion, Steve,” he commented.
“Give me an analysis of the pubic hair you retrieved and any info on the sperm you sucked out of her. Maybe our records will show a match,” replied Linda as she examined the body of Laura Smith-Hughes closer.
“Already accomplished, detective,” the coroner proudly proclaimed. Linda gave him a smile of thanks for that remark.
“The patio doors don’t show any signs of forced entry, so our sweetheart here must have invited our culprit in through the front door. Having a roll in the hay shows that she knew him and trusted him, too,” Steve mentioned to his partner.
“Nothing in the room looks disturbed, and our boys believe only her prints are on most items. This looks like a love murder to me,” proclaimed Linda as she turned the sheet covering the body to one side. “No great bruise marks on the body. I think our lady was surprised by her lover when he hacked her to death.” She then flipped the bloody sheet back over the body. “I want the carpet cleaned for everything we can find, fellahs,” Steve ordered the guys on the forensic team. “Especially at the door entrance.”
“The lady was the only one who had a drink, for only her prints are on this glass. The cleaning lady who discovered the body didn’t touch or move anything,” declared one of the I.D. team. “It seems her boy- friend came to pump her, not enjoy a cocktail, Steve,” commented one of the investigating officers. Steve walked out of the bedroom, entered the great room in this unit, and glanced out of the patio doors. He noticed that it faced the opposite side of the Watergate Complex. He slid the patio doors open and walked onto the balcony patio outside. Because the apartment was on the third floor, the view to it was enjoyed by several dozen other tenants in the complex.
“Linda, do you think someone across the marina is a peeping Tom? Maybe someone witnessed something about Ms. Smith-Hughes and her lifestyle that would help us. Send some of these blues over there to check it out,” observed Steve as he leaned on the rail of the balcony.
“No forced entry, Steve. We’re looking for one of her lovers. We’re going to have to check her friends out.” As she stated this, she opened a fancy-looking phone directory. “This book contains several hundred names. Some of these people are of high status, including the First Lady herself,” Linda revealed with surprise.
“What did you expect from such a lady, my dear?” remarked Steve. “High society reaches out to high places in this town . . .”
“Can we remove the body, detective?” the coroner’s assistant asked.
“If the boys are through taking their pictures, take her away. Remember, I need your report as soon as you have it ready. OK?” Steve replied back.
“Steve, we found something on the patio,” Linda reported.
“It may be a lead.” The item found on the patio floor behind a flowering plant pot was a cigarette butt. It was from a special, private English brand of smokes. “We’ll send it down to the lab and check it out,” barked Linda, as she carefully placed the cigarette butt into a plastic bag.
Steve checked with the other investigators in the apartment and realized that nothing new was uncovered to reveal or shed any light on this bloody crime. “Lock it up, boys. We may have to return later,” he ordered. He was a good detective who did his job very well. Some said he was the best in the department. Everyone in homicide respected his work. Steve rarely missed anything.
“Want me to drop you off at headquarters, Linda?” Steve asked as they returned to his car. “I’m having lunch at the Old Post Office.”
“A cheap lunch with Maureen again? Someday you had better treat her to a fancy meal, Steve, my boy,” Linda jokingly remarked. “Maureen’s got simple tastes, but she’s a great judge of men,” Steve commented with a sense of bravado. They both chuckled and laughed.
“Drop me off at the bureau. I want to check something out with a special friend of mine concerning the LaRue case,” Linda replied. As Steve turned the corner and stopped in front of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, she declared, “Have a good lunch, buddy.”
The Old Post Office, a mall with fast food places, was always crowded during lunchtime because many of the government workers found it an excellent place to eat their lunch. Steve grabbed the first open table, and not too much longer, Maureen came walking up to him.
“Hi, sweetheart. Sorry I’m a bit late,” she apologized. He reached out and pulled her to him for a greeting kiss. It tasted good, so Steve planted another kiss on her dry lips. “I’m hungry, Steve, not horny. A hot roast beef with gravy will satisfy me for now.”
“Two hot beefs and two Bud Lites, right?” Steve asked. Maureen nodded in agreement as Steve left the table to retrieve their order.
Maureen Stevens, a very attractive brunette with a very sexy-shaped body, landed her job at WKWL News Center by her good looks. Born and raised on Long Island, she attended the University of Buffalo School of Journalism in Buffalo, New York. She worked there briefly on several of their local news staffs until the position at WKWL became available.
Her career had always been the stumbling block in their relationship. Their romance had its ups and downs, and it was up just now. It had been tough trying to keep a romance going when Steve had to leave her apartment in the early morning just to get ready for work, so weekends were the only times to enjoy sex and a comfortable relationship.
When Steve returned with their two hot beefs, they sat down and enjoyed a hearty lunch. These small meetings in the middle of the day allowed the two to exchange idle chatter and touch each other before the evening hours. Steve tried several times to convince Maureen to move in with him, but each time her excuse was the same. She didn’t want to be tied down at this time. Steve always thought this was a crappy excuse.
“Remember, Steve, we still have that cocktail party at the Kennedy Center tonight. Pick me up around eight. I can’t wait to see who will be there,” proclaimed Maureen, with a bit of excitement in her voice.
“I’ll be there with my tux and on time, darling,” Steve replied with a touch of frustration, despite his expectancy about the night’s events. He finished the last bite of his sandwich and downed it with the rest of his brew. The two slowly cleaned up their table. As they were leaving the eating area, Steve gave Maureen a hard hug and kiss and left through the west door of the building.
Steve found himself back at the Watergate Complex. He walked around, checking out the outside of the complex on the marine side, especially with the view of the Smith-Hughes apartment balcony. The area around the marina revealed nothing—nothing unusual. Our boy sure knew Ms. Smith-Hughes and knew her well, Steve thought. As Steve was ready to leave, a female occupant of one of the docked yachts in the marina came on deck and flirtingly started a conversation with him.
“Haven’t seen you around these parts before,” she stated with a smile. This woman was dressed in a scanty bathing suit and was in the mood for some companionship. Steve, being a handsome-looking guy, was a good target for her advances.
“Well, hello,” he greeted her with a broad smile. “Did you know the lady in 3B West? Was Ms. Smith-Hughes a friend of yours? I wonder, did you see anybody strange or suspicious hanging around her apartment?”
The answers to all the questions were a cool no, and as Steve leaned against the railing of the ship, his new female friend came forward and leaned over to face him. The view of her well-shaped breasts hanging there in front of him was a tempting sight to his eyes. Steve knew she wanted to show him her charms somewhere below the deck, but Steve decided not today. He reached up and caressed her breast and reminded her that he would take a rain-check for today. She grabbed his hand, placed it on her chest, and smiled, agreeing to wait for him. Steve wondered as he walked away from the marina how interesting this broad would be if he had accepted her invitation. Maybe she did know something but didn’t wish to say anything at this time.
When he arrived back at his desk in the squad room, Linda was busy making phone calls from the telephone directory she recovered at the murder scene. “Here, good buddy, start calling,” she stated as she handed Steve a couple of sheets of paper. Steve plopped into his chair and slowly started to dial the first number on the list.
After going through the first twelve numbers on the list, Steve hit the jackpot on number thirteen. The person on the other end of the phone was a close friend of Laura Smith-Hughes, an Elizabeth Johnson, the wife of one of America’s industrial leaders. He quickly made an appointment to talk with this Ms. Johnson because her estate was located in the Mount Vernon area of northern Virginia. It took Linda and Steve about an hour to reach the Johnson estate, which suited the wealthy status of its occupants. Steve had seen people and places of wealth, but the Fair Oaks Estate of the Johnson’s was one that had to be seen. The ride from the main gate to the mansion took several minutes, and the grounds were elegant and beautiful. Everywhere you looked, it smelled of money in large amounts.
The two detectives were guided into a high-ceilinged room called the reception room, but it was big enough to be an apartment for two working people. Steve looked around and marveled at the elegant furniture and wonderful use of Italian marble. The walls were covered with paintings of people who probably were descendants of the Johnsons. After a wait of about ten minutes, Ms. Elizabeth Johnson entered the room. She was a woman in her early fifties with blond hair, and her slim figure showed her constant fight to hold her weight down. Dressed in shorts and sneakers, she was carrying a tennis racket in one hand and a towel in the other. She had just played her afternoon tennis match and decided to see us immediately instead of changing and freshening up first. As she wiped the sweat off her face, she politely introduced herself in a ladylike manner.
“How can I help you, Detective? This terrible crime about Laura must be solved,” she remarked as she sat in one of the room’s chairs.
“How well did you know Ms. Smith-Hughes?” Steve asked. “Did she have any enemies or people who would wish her dead?”
“She was on everyone’s social list. Sure, she ruffled a few feathers since she separated from Jonathan, her husband, but her close friends include the First Lady and the President. Even William Anderson was a frequent visitor to her events,” exclaimed Ms. Johnson.
“How did she get along with her husband, Jonathan?” questioned Linda, as she busily copied the information into her notebook.
“Jonathan Farnsworth Smith-Hughes is one of the wealthiest men in the country. He controls the Winn-Dixie and Publix fortunes, plus several others. Laura had it made when she married Jonathan, but I knew it wasn’t going to last. Laura liked to control her men, and many came and went at the Smith-Hughes estate. Laura and I went to college together, and we were both determined to land the right man. I got my Henry, and she married Jonathan. But Laura wanted to live the high social life, and Jonathan was the quiet, business-first type of man. Parties and social life in this area didn’t satisfy him at all. He tolerated Laura up to a point, I guess,” she commented, as she again wiped her brow with her towel. She then ordered one of the servants to get them some cool drinks.
“Did Ms. Smith-Hughes and her husband ever fight, or did he ever threaten her or cause any harm to her in any way?” Steve questioned, as he sipped on his cool lemonade.
“Jonathan didn’t like what Laura was doing behind his back, but he’s not the violent type, Detective. The man put up with a lot before he temporarily moved out of their home in Maryland and moved to Washington. Laura was killed in his apartment, not hers. She lived at Fairborn Estates, the Smith-Hughes mansion in Maryland,” Ms. Johnson related.
“But everything in that apartment indicated that she lived there, Ms. Johnson. No men’s clothes at all were found there,” replied Detective Hannigan.
“Strange,” she pondered. “Maybe Laura did a swap and moved into the city to be closer to her men friends, especially Mr. Anderson.”
“William Anderson, the Vice President, was one of her male friends?” Steve asked in a surprised tone.
“She knew him when he was a senator, but I can’t truthfully say that he was one of her lovers,” Ms. Johnson related.
“Our Ms. Smith-Hughes was a very busy woman. She kept good company. I’ll bet this could drive any man nuts,” responded Steve as he glanced at Linda for agreement. She nodded approval with her eyes. “Ms. Johnson, can you make a list of the men friends you can recall that were friendly with our late Laura Smith-Hughes? We would deeply appreciate your help, madam.”
“Surely, Detective Ciminelli,” she replied. “I would be delighted to do so. I’ll have my secretary fax it to you as soon as I can,” she continued. Steve and Linda rose from their chairs and both personally thanked Ms. Johnson for her help and then departed back to Washington.
The drive back was a quiet one as Linda occupied herself by studying the landscape and daydreaming. Steve hummed to the music on the radio and wondered how boring the night ahead of him was going to be. Maureen attended these social events only to make contacts with people to enhance her self-esteem and her job. She acted like entertainers usually do. For Steve, a good roll in the sack would be more satisfying and enjoyable.
When they arrived at the office, the memos on his desk informed him that the coroner’s report would be ready tomorrow morning. Forensic lab reports were a day or two away.
“Linda, our friend Jonathan has been located in Chicago and is flying home tonight. Let’s see him tomorrow as soon as possible,” Steve stated as he closed the case folder and placed it in his desk drawer. “See you tomorrow, partner, or we could do some ‘special homework’ at your place tonight,” he jokingly remarked.
“No thank you, Romeo. Your Juliet is waiting for you.”