Night Moves: Kate Gardener Mysteries, #6

By Gabriella Messina

A late-night call… Two dead at a luxury hotel…

A well-known philanthropist and a female escort are found dead, presumably in the throes of passion. Kate Gardener knows there's a lot that's not right at this crime scene, and as the intricate case begins to unfold, more suspects – and victims – are added to the mix. This case has dark and dangerous roots, and Kate suspects that not only is nothing in this case what it seems, but it could be the key to a case from the past…

Crack the code… if you dare…

Cryptic writing and coded transactions… As Detective Constable Paul Owens wades through the files of a questionable (and deceased) tattoo artist with ties to the infamous Mary Stoner, he uncovers a secret web of crime stretching across Europe. Filled with trails of money and mayhem, the files also yield a shocking revelation… One that touches lives closer to home, and could shake the halls of Parliament, the Met, and beyond if revealed.

Nothing hides the truth forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gabriella Messina
• Release date: Dec 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386444404

Gabriella Messina

Always a spinner of tales, Gabriella Messina’s journey as an author began in the realm of screenwriting. Whether writing fantasy or crime fiction, short stories or full-length novels, Ms. Messina brings a fresh point of view and a snarky wisdom to her work, exploring science, justice, faith and feeling in equal measure. In addition to her creative writing, Ms. Messina helps other authors reach their goals, designing book covers and graphics, and providing proofreading and editing services.  When not writing, she enjoys indulging in her favorite “guilty pleasures”: coffee and chocolate, watching car racing with her son, and spending too much time looking at music videos online.

Book preview

Prologue

Empress Hotel, Hyde Park

Late-night calls for therapeutic massage were not unusual, and Titarian Hacken had worked in enough hotels and resorts over the past twenty years to have been called up on several. Back home in Hong Kong, his skills with pressure points and Reiki had not been novel, but here, where the damp chill of even the summer enflamed joints and the stress of city life made even the simplest technique or piece of advice almost sacred.

Some of these calls were legitimate and the man or woman waiting would look at him with a mixture of relief and joy that was almost as rewarding as the generous tip he received. Almost. Others, however, seemed to think that a massage in the wee hours of the morning would come with some kind of happy ending. Hacken smirked as the lift doors opened and he stepped out into the hallway. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been tempted on several occasions by the attractiveness of the client or the very obvious offer of substantial gratuity, but he’d never crossed that line...

Tonight’s clients (yes, two of them) were waiting, and Hacken sped up as he contemplated them. He had treated the man before, both here at the hotel and by private appointment at the gentleman’s office in the City. The woman rarely participated, preferring to sit by while her companions submitted to ministrations in preparation for whatever carnal delights she had in store for them.

Hacken knocked at the door. He had a room key at ready, but he preferred not to use it unless necessary. It appeared this time it would be. Hacken pressed his ear against the door, heard nothing, then knocked again.

Hacken, sir. Here for your massage. Hacken hesitated, room key poised at the lock. He could return downstairs, but if the client were simply... detained... he could risk losing a valued patron if he was not on-time. There was also the possibility that the client was in distress. Hacken pressed his ear against the door once more, his stomach in knots, then quickly slid the room key in. The light turned from red to green.

It was dark inside, darker than he’d expected it to be, and the fact made him uneasy.

Mista Erskine? Hacken stepped quietly forward, his soft, slipper-like shoes aiding in his silent movement into the suite. His hand felt along the wall and found the light switch. He pressed it, and immediately gasped, his hand covering his mouth at the sight.

Bed linens were tossed here and there. The fruit bowl on the table was tipped, its contents strewn on the floor. The bed was not empty, nor had he expected it to be. The man lay still as a stone, naked but for the end of sheet thrown across his legs. The woman was over him as well, her face turned toward the door. Hacken could feel his stomach lurch at the sight of her contorted face, eyes bulging, lips blue, skin the ghostly pallor of death. Her titian hair increased the stark contrast of the scene, like some grotesque Pre-Raphaelite tableau.

Hacken stumbled back a step and his eyes fell on the room phone on the stand nearby. He could run for the lift, but it would be better to call from here. He carefully dialed for the front desk, his eyes never leaving the bodies. Simoné answered, and Hacken couldn’t remember ever being so relieved to hear that pretentious, posh male voice in his life.

Concie—

Simoné, Mista Erskine in Suite 1203... is dead. You must phone the police.

"Hacken? Is that you? What are you on about?"

Call the police. Hacken swallowed hard and dared to utter what he’d been thinking since he’d first entered the rooms. They’ve been murdered.

Chapter 1

Kate Gardener glanced around the hotel suite, her keen eyes and photographic memory noting what looked moved and disturbed. Most would have said it wasn’t her job... Hers was to document the scene, taking photographs and video and preserving the crime scene as close to fresh as possible. She glanced at the other forensic technicians in the rooms collecting samples and preserving items in the specially-sealed bags that would be opened at Lambeth by the proper scientists, analyzed and used to resolve the case.

Resolved... Kate frowned, wondering why that strange word had popped into her head.

What’s wrong? Kate whirled, banging her camera lens into the well-muscled chest of a certain gorgeous detective. Detective Sergeant Richard Pierce smirked, looked at her closely. You alright?

Kate smiled. Yeah, just thinking. And working. She raised the camera slightly, breaking the tension as the camera moved between them.

I saw. I think you took enough photos to mosaic the entire room. Kate narrowed her eyes... he was teasing her. Since he’d returned from leave, shoulder fully healed and professional life safe and secure, at least for the moment, Rick Pierce had been what her grandmother would have called a pistol. Usually reserved, even withdrawn, Pierce had been more relaxed, joking with fellow Murder Squad officers, teasing her in front of others... Kate wasn’t entirely sure how to take it, but her keen intuition told her something was up... and her insatiable curiosity meant that she was determined to get to the bottom of it... But right now...

Is that a challenge, Rick? Kate smiled mischievously. ’Cause you know I can totally do that, right?

Pierce chuckled, his voice low as he replied. I think you can do anything you set your mind to, darlin’. Anything at all. With that, he drifted toward the doorway, where Hagen was still talking to the Asian masseuse who had reported the scene.

Weird, Kate murmured, watching the athletic Irishman walk away.

It is strange, isn’t it?

Forensic Pathologist Diana Monaghan stepped up beside Kate, her own gaze fixed on the bed, and the two bodies that still laid there. The woman had been lifted off the man and turned onto her back after numerous photographs and samples were taken from stem to stern of her posterior side. I can’t read an exact time of death, but... they appear to have died at the same time. But how?

Kate bit her lip, cocked her head as she looked at the pair on the bed. Murder-suicide?

Monaghan shrugged. Possibly. I honestly haven’t a clue. Pallor, blue skin, petechial hemorrhaging on both bodies suggests something impeded respiration to the point of death. But I don’t see any evidence of strangulation, or any sort of force exerted on either of them.

Could it be... natural? Kate ventured. I mean, maybe they took something, and it just sort of... happened.

He obviously took something, Monaghan murmured, a smirk playing across her lips and draining some of the irritation from her expression and voice. Kate bit her lip so as not to laugh. It was painfully obvious, that little tent-pole in the lower abdominal region of the body.

Some kind of ED medication, maybe? Or something natural... Are there natural things that do that?

Quite a few, actually. Both women started a bit at the sound of Pierce’s voice so close behind them.

Oh, and you would know this because...? Kate fought the smile as hard as she could, pressing her lips together tightly. Pierce winked at her, but didn’t reply, turning instead to Monaghan. Hagen wondered about a time of death? He’s trying to compare times with the masseuse. He lowered his voice.  Did you catch his first name?

Kate nodded. Mhmm. He’s from Hong Kong. That’s actually pretty tame when it comes to names there.

Pierce smiled. Noted.

Well, Monaghan began. Time is difficult because of the temperature in here, the air conditioning and all, but tentatively... I’m going to say approximately two this morning. And they both died at about the same time. I’ll get samples to toxicology as soon as we get the bodies to Lambeth.

Thank you. Pierce moved back to Hagen, leaving the women on their own again.

Toxicology, huh?

Yes. Full panels. Monaghan took a deep breath and pulled out a fresh pair of gloves. Oh, and you’re right.

Kate frowned, puzzled. Huh?

Monaghan jerked her head toward the detectives by the door. Pierce. He is acting ‘weird’. With that, Monaghan made her way back to the bodies.

Kate returned to what she had been doing, visually scanning the room starting with the bed. The bed linens had been wrenched nearly free from the end of the bed and some of the blankets were piled at the head of the bed.

That could have happened in the throes of passions, Kate supposed, but it doesn’t seem as if they’d gotten to that point. While the man was unclothed, the woman was not, and there were no indications that any kind of role-play was going on. The man’s fists gripped the top sheet tightly, white-knuckled... Kate’s eyes fell on the bowl of spilled fruit, and she frowned... Something was not...right...with that, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She took a couple more pictures of the fruit bowl and the pieces of fruit that had fallen to the floor, mentally satisfied that whatever was wrong, she would see it when she played with those photos. Her eyes kept moving and fell on Detective Constable Paul Owens. He stood near the door to the bathroom, surveying the scene for himself as he took notes on his tablet.

Paul? He glanced up, his brown eyes finding her quickly in the crowd. Kate motioned him over. Owens hesitated, as if debating whether to leave his post, then crossed to her side. "Paul, what’s weird about this fruit?’

Owens looked at the bowl, at the fruit, then at Kate, his neutral expression unchanged as he replied, his Scottish accent rolling over the letters. I have no idea. Should I?

Nah, not really, Kate replied. I just feel like something is off here... but I don’t know what. So I thought I’d throw it your way.

Owens’ posture straightened a bit, obviously pleased that she’d singled him out for consultation. In the year that Kate had worked at Lambeth, they’d grown to be go-to research assistants for each other, there unique minds complimenting well when needed.

Owens stared at the fruit on the floor for a moment, and started to speak, but stopped. Kate felt her adrenaline rush a bit.

What is it? What do you see?

"There