Deception (A Miranda Murphy Thriller) Read online

“If you’re turned on by this, don’t be embarrassed. I feel hot and heavy myself, looking at it.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “It was a joke. We found this and a couple more in Jeff Hackett’s house.”

  Surprise flashed in Gabi’s eyes. “That’s impossible. Jeff would never watch this.” She pointed at the DVD.

  “Nevertheless, he had these DVDs in his house. We also found gay porn movies and pictures on his laptop.”

  “Absolute nonsense. I’m his girlfriend, do you understand that? I know firsthand what turns him on, okay? He’s not gay, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “I’m not getting at anything, Miss Mornell. I’m just stating the fact. After all, it’s a free country and people can sleep with anyone they want. Right now, I’m trying to identify the victim. It’s possible, and let me stress it’s only a possibility, that the victim and Jeff Hackett were sexually involved with each other. My objective is to find out if there was anything going on between them. You need to understand that I have to consider all plausible theories, and according to one of them, that man was killed by Jeff Hackett.”

  “It’s impossible. Jeff is incapable of murder. You are wrong, believe me.”

  “Then why is he hiding?”

  “He’s not hiding. What makes you think he is?”

  “Jeff hasn’t been home for almost a week now. And nobody knows where he is.”

  “Maybe he just can’t come back home. Maybe he’s been kidnapped.” Gabi paused to think. “I’m sure Jeff didn't kill that man. Those DVDs and those movies on his laptop are not his.”

  Chapter 2.

  1.

  After her meeting with Gabi Mornell, Miranda received the fingerprint search results for the victim. Luckily, they had gotten a positive match. The name of the man murdered at Hackett’s place was Patrick Flynn. He was twenty eight at the time of his death and had previously served three years in prison on a fraud conviction.

  Quite a curious twist, wasn't it? It gave food for thought.

  Let’s recap the facts. They had found ex-convict Patrick Flynn’s dead body in Jeff Hackett’s house. Flynn had had Hackett’s house keys with him. There were gay porn DVDs in Hackett’s house and gay porn movies and pictures on Hackett’s laptop. Flynn had had anal sex the day he’d died. Hackett had vanished.

  Who killed Flynn?

  Could it be Hackett? Sure.

  Maybe Jeff Hackett had picked up the Flynn at a gay bar, brought him home, and then murdered him. Why? There could have been a dozen reasons for that. For example, Flynn had tried to steal something, Hackett had caught him red-handed, gotten furious, and shot him. One night stands turned violent all the time, there was nothing extraordinary about this scenario.

  It didn’t have to be a one night stand, by the way. They might have been long time lovers. How about this scenario: Hackett had found out that Flynn had been cheating on him and pulled the trigger? Or maybe Flynn announced he had met his true love and was going to leave Hackett. Miranda certainly couldn’t rule out this possibility. Love made people do crazy things, she knew that from her own experience.

  On the other hand, Jeff’s sexuality might have nothing to do with this murder. Could money be the motive? After all, they said that money was the root of all evil. Had Hackett killed Flynn to avoid repaying a debt? Harris said Hackett didn’t have any debts, which sounded like the truth: it wasn’t very often that a successful businessman and an heir to a three-hundred-million dollar fortune owed money to a smalltime crook. But who said Flynn had remained a smalltime crook? For all she knew, he could have been Hackett’s drug dealer or bookie enforcer.

  2.

  “How are you doing, Ms Murphy.” Dillon turned out to have a very deep, manly voice. He offered his left hand for a handshake. “You see,” he waved his right hand, which was wrapped in an elastic bandage, “that’s what happens when you have a chauffeur—you forget how to drive. I took a car for a spin in Italy three months ago and totaled it within half an hour.” He smiled. “My right hand is still throwing tantrums on me. Doctors are saying it should be as good as new in a month or two, but I don't believe them. They think I’ll be pissed if they tell me the truth. They’re wrong, the truth doesn’t upset me. By the way, have you been to Italy, Miranda? Rome is such a beautiful city.”

  Now that Dillon had mentioned his driving misadventure, Miranda realized that the unerasable half-smile on the millionaire’s face might have been the result of the damage to the facial nerves incurred in the car accident. And the small scar under Dillon’s left eye had probably been earned in that crash, too.

  Miranda looked around Dillon’s office, which was as opulent as she had expected it to be, with its custom made furniture, an amazing Oriental rug, gorgeous silk drapes, and paintings. For the price of the furnishings one could easily buy a two bedroom condo in South Boston.

  “This is Claude Monet,” Dillon said when he noticed the detective fix her eyes on the painting hanging on the wall behind his desk. “I love impressionists.” He took Miranda by the elbow and led her to the painting. “I paid a million bucks for it five years ago. Now it’s worth one and a half million. My buddies tell me to hang a copy and put the original in a safe, just in case, but I’m not going to do it. I don’t derive pleasure from simply owning a masterpiece. I need to look at it, admire it.”

  The door opened, and Dillon’s assistant entered the office, holding a tray with two cups of coffee and a glass sugar dispenser.

  “Put it on the table and go.” Dillon gestured Miranda to take a seat on the leather couch across the room from the desk and then sat next to her. “I have a few more paintings at home, I can show them to you later if you’d like.” He picked up a cup from the coffee table and took a sip. “That damn car crash really shook me up, to be honest with you. I could have died in it, you know. The funny thing is, even though I hate talking about this unfortunate event, I somehow always end up doing it.”

  “I see you’re doing okay now.”

  “Yes, I’m all right.” Dillon nodded. “Let’s get to business. As I understand, you found a dead man in my son’s house. And I suppose you suspect Jeff of killing him.”

  “You’re right, Mister Dillon. At the moment, your son is a suspect in this case.”

  “I see. If I were you, I’d probably have the same suspicions.” Dillon pointed at Miranda’s cup. “Please drink your coffee. It’s very good, trust me.”

  Miranda picked up her cup and took a sip.

  “I have to say, Miranda, that you strike me as a person who achieves her goals and never gives up. I’m sure you’ll find the killer. The real killer. If I can help you in any way with your investigation, feel free to contact me directly any time.”

  “I came here to ask you a few questions. Question number one: is it true that you and Jeff are not very close?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “One of your son’s friends.”

  Dillon raised his eyebrow. “Yes, it’s true. And there is nothing unusual about it, in my opinion. Life is a complicated thing. People make mistakes and then try to forget them. I consider my marriage to Amy, Jeff’s mother, a mistake, which is why I’m not eager to see or talk to my son as often as I should. But at the same time I’m not disregarding Jeff. After all, he is my son and remains part of my life.”

  “Did he mention having any problems in the past few weeks? Did he appear worried?”

  Dillon shook his head. “Jeff has always strived to solve his problems on his own. He’s not a whiner. Besides, I’d be the last person on the earth he’d complain to.”

  “Has he gotten in touch with you since last Friday?”

  “Last time I talked to Jeff was about three months ago. We spoke on the phone. I’ve had no contact with him ever since.”

  “Do you have any idea about your son’s whereabouts?”

  “No. As I said, Jeff and I don’t talk a lot. I know as much about his whereabouts as I do about yours.”

  As
he wrapped up the conversation, Dillon asked Miranda to keep him informed of the developments in the investigation. Miranda promised to be in touch.

  3.

  “So how is the investigation going?” Captain Tom Webb asked as he began scanning Miranda’s report on the Hackett case. “Any breakthroughs?”

  “Nothing to brag about, Cap,” Miranda replied.

  “You do know who Hackett’s father is, right? That guy is filthy rich and has the Mayor on speed dial.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “I see you’ve identified the victim.”

  Miranda nodded. “Some scam artist. He spent three years in prison.”

  “You think they were buddies?”

  “Right now I’m not ruling anything in or out.”

  “I wonder what they could have in common.” Webb scratched his head.

  Miranda asked herself if she should tell the boss that Hackett and Flynn could be gay lovers, but before she made up her mind, Webb said, “Listen, maybe this Flynn guy stole Hackett’s car? Then found the house keys and tried to rob Hackett’s place. I’ve dropped the house keys in my car a couple of times before, so there’s nothing unusual about it.”

  Miranda gave Webb a curious look. The captain could be onto something.

  “Remember I said you were an incompetent buffoon?” she said with a smile.

  “How could I forget?” Webb cracked a grin.

  “I was wrong.”

  Why hadn’t she thought of this herself? The theory was simple, yet beautiful. Flynn had stolen Hackett’s car, found the house keys in it, and decided to play a bigger game. How had he gotten the house address? Maybe Hackett had dropped his driver’s license in the car, too.

  Question: why was Flynn so sure he wouldn’t bump into Hackett when he got into his house? Was it because Flynn had rendered Hackett unconscious earlier?

  Was it because Flynn had murdered Hackett before heading to his place?

  Let’s hold this thought.

  Moving further. If Flynn had knocked Hackett out, then chances were Hackett had nothing to do with his murder.

  Wait a minute... Assuming that was the case, one could venture the following guess: what if Flynn had been killed by mistake? What if the killer was actually after Hackett, but because of a certain facial similarity between the two men had mistaken Flynn for Hackett.

  “Looks like you just had a eureka moment, Detective Murphy,” Webb said.

  With half-smile, Miranda silently nodded.

  Someone wanted to take Hackett out. Well, Detective Murphy, congratulations on the new working theory!

  What had happened after Flynn had arrived at Hackett’s house? Where had the killer been waiting for Flynn, in the house or outside? Most likely, outside. This conclusion was based on the fact that there were no signs of breaking in and the door locks, according to crime scene investigators, hadn’t been picked. Could the killer have made a copy of the house keys? Miranda didn’t think so; the perp obviously didn’t know Hackett very well—otherwise he wouldn’t have confused Flynn with Hackett—and therefore the chances of him having gotten hold of the keys were slim.

  Apparently, the killer saw a man walking up to the porch and figured it was Jeff, which was an easy mistake to make in light of the resemblance between Flynn and Hackett. When Flynn opened the front door, any remaining doubts about the man’s identity must have evaporated: the guy looked like Jeff and had the keys to Jeff’s place, ergo he had to be Jeff. Just to be sure, the killer probably asked Flynn if he was Jeff Hackett.

  “Yes, it’s me,” Flynn must have replied, which was a sensible answer in this situation.

  What happened next? The killer could have shoved Flynn into the house, threatening him with a gun, or they could have entered inside in an amicable manner, while making small talk.

  A new question arose: who was after Hackett?

  Who could fit this role?

  Gabi Mornell? Not likely. If she was involved in the plot to murder her boyfriend, Hackett would be dead. Why? Think about it. There were two possibilities: she had either pulled the trigger herself or hired a hitman. In the first case, she would have never mistaken Flynn for Hackett; in the second, she would have provided the killer with plenty of detailed pictures of Jeff and might have even arranged for him to see Hackett in person. This theory could be wrong, of course; no amount of preparation would prevent an inept hitman from screwing up.

  Harris could be excluded from the suspect list on the same grounds. In general, the killer (or the hitman’s client) appeared to be outside of Jeff Hackett’s inner circle, which certainly complicated the matters.

  4.

  On Monday morning, she met Gabi Mornell.

  “Has Jeff contacted you since we talked?” she asked her.

  Gabi shook her head.

  “You have a very good reason to tell me the truth,” Miranda continued. “First, Jeff is no longer a suspect in this case. Second, I believe someone wants to kill your boyfriend. Things have gotten serious, Gabi. If you want to help Jeff, you’ll tell me everything you know.”

  “Thank God. I told you Jeff is not a murderer.”

  “So let me ask you again: have you talked to him since we met?”

  “No, we haven’t. I’m telling you the truth, Miranda.”

  “What about his friends? Has he contacted them?”

  “I don't know.”

  “If you hear from Jeff, please let me know immediately. Try to get him to meet me as soon as he can. Tell Jeff his life’s in danger.”

  “Very well, I’ll do it.”

  An hour later, Miranda spoke to Dean Harris. Just like Gabi, Harris had had no contact with Hackett since his last meeting with Murphy.

  “And none of our mutual friends have heard from him either,” Dean said.

  Miranda gave him the same instructions as she had Gabi Mornell.

  5.

  At a quarter past four in the afternoon, Miranda arrived at Hackett’s house, hoping to come across a piece of evidence or a clue they might have missed. When you were out of ideas, even tea-leaf reading began to seem like a reasonable option. As she climbed the porch steps, she heard a movement behind her back and quickly turned around. She saw a dark-haired man, who appeared to be in his early thirties and wore a slightly crumpled suit, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. The man stopped a few feet from the porch and said, “Hello, I’d like to see Jeff. Is he home?”

  Miranda shook her head. “No, he’s out.”

  It appeared that the man had not noticed the yellow police line tape which ran across the front door. Or maybe he didn’t understand what it meant.

  “When did he leave?”

  “A few days ago. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don't know.” Miranda shrugged. “He didn’t tell me. And you are?”

  “Me?” The man frowned. It was obvious that the news of Jeff Hackett’s long absence was terribly upsetting to him. “Who are you?”

  There was a tinge of impudence in his voice. The guy was a little too sure of himself.

  “I’m his cousin,” Miranda replied. “Why did you want to see Jeff?”

  “His cousin?” The man glanced at his watch, then looked past Miranda at the front door. “My name’s Simon.” He shook the detective’s hand. “Jeff and I agreed to meet today, so here I am.”

  “Do you work with Jeff?”

  “Yes, I work with him. Where do you think he is now?”

  Could this guy be another business partner of Hackett’s?

  “I honestly have no idea.”

  “So you’re his cousin?” He took out his cellphone and touched the screen a few times. “And he’s been gone for several days now. Interesting.”

  “I’m looking for him myself. When was the last time you talked to him?”

  Simon mumbled something unintelligible. “He was supposed to meet me,” he said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “F
ive days ago.” Making stuff up on the go was easier than she thought.

  “Did he ask you to tell me anything?” Simon gave Miranda a studying look. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Jane. No, Jeff didn’t ask me to tell you anything.”

  “Here’s the thing, Jane. I shouldn't tell you that, but I guess I have to. I’m a Boston police detective. I’m working on a very complicated case, and your cousin is an important witness. In fact, he’s a key witness. Therefore, I need to meet him as soon as possible, okay? Here’s my badge.” He slipped his hand into his inner jacket pocket and produced the badge.

  The badge appeared real, and, for a second, Miranda was willing to accept Simon’s claim that he worked for the Boston PD. After all, there were plenty of people in the Detective Bureau who had no idea of what had recently happened in Jeff Hackett’s house.

  With her right hand on the handle of her pistol, which sat in the shoulder holster, Miranda fished her badge out of her jeans pocket and showed it to Simon (if that was his real name).

  “What a coincidence,” she said. “I’m a detective, too.” She pulled out her gun and lowered it, its muzzle pointed at the ground. “Want to go to my office and have a chat?” She stepped down the porch.

  As soon as Simon realized who he was dealing with, the smug expression on his face rapidly transformed into sulkiness. Miranda could barely suppress her laughter.

  “I’m a little busy,” Simon said in a monotonous voice. “Maybe some other time, okay? I’ll get going.” He began to turn around, but Miranda grabbed him by the forearm, preventing him from completing the movement, and said, “Let’s do it now.” She aimed the pistol at the man.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Simon snarled. “I told you, I’m a cop.”

  Staring into his eyes, Miranda gave him a quick pat down with her left hand. She found no weapon.

  “Your boss will hear from me, I promise,” Simon said. “You’re in a big trouble, honey.”

  “Just don’t try to run, okay? Don’t run, stand still. It will be over soon.” Miranda plucked the badge from Simon’s hand and read the credential inside the wallet. “Simon Rooney,” she said aloud. “I guess you won’t mind if I call the Bureau.” She slid the man’s badge into her pocket and dialed the Detective Bureau.