Snow In Spring

Chapter 1

Arnie’s phone woke him up. It was 2:56 on Saturday night, technically Sunday morning. He listened for a few minutes, then said, I’ll be there in around half an hour.

What’s going on? Melinda asked sleepily.

Some crack dealer in Morristown got killed in a drive-by shooting, Arnie explained. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Arnie kissed Melinda as he rolled out of bed.

Be careful, Melinda said, Love you. She readjusted her pillow and covers and went back to sleep.

Arnie, Elias Arnold to only his parents, was a detective in the Morris County, New Jersey Prosecutor’s Office. As a matter of protocol, the Prosecutor’s Office rather than local detectives handled homicide investigations. Since weekend nights were the most popular times for killings, the detectives rotated weekend duty so no one would constantly be having their weekends ruined because others couldn’t get along. Melinda Devereaux was a partner in a mid-sized law firm in Morristown, Sullivan Milano & Rosenblum. They had moved in together the previous June and had their wedding set for the end of April.

It was the first weekend in March. The weather was clear and crisp. It had been a relatively bad winter, with lots of snow and cold, but the past two weeks had been relatively warm, melting a lot of the leftover snow. The winter was not clearly not done yet, though, because the temperature had dropped again.

At that time of night, there was virtually no traffic on the road, so Arnie was fairly close on his estimate of half an hour from their condo in Mendham to the site of the murder in Morristown. It was, for Morristown, a bad neighborhood. There was a fair amount of gang activity and drug dealers. An ambulance and three Morristown police cars, all with their lights flashing, were on the scene. Arnie parked his Toyota RAV4 as close as he could to the police cars, locked up and turned on his car alarm. He flipped open his badge and put it in the outside pocket of his coat to identify himself as a police officer.

Despite the cold, there were a number of people from the neighborhood out with coats over their night clothes trying to see what was going on. Arnie weaved his way through the onlookers and police officers to the body, which lay in a pool of blood, covered with a white sheet. A Morristown police photographer was taking photos of the scene.

Sgt. Thomas Jones, supervisor of weekend night shifts, was in charge of the police activity. He was impossible to miss. He was a six-foot five and 275 pound African-American. Arnie had worked with Jones several times before, all in the same circumstances.

What’s up Thomas? Arnie said, shaking Jones’ hand. Arnie had never heard Jones called Tom or Tommy. It somehow didn’t seem to fit.

Sho’Quan Washington, Jones said, pointing his notebook at the body on the ground. Local entrepreneur, got killed in a drive-by shooting. They both bent over to take a look at the body. Jones pulled back the sheet. It was hard for Arnie to tell how many times Washington had been shot, but it looked like at least ten times.

Geez, how many guys did this?

According to one of our witnesses, just one. The gentleman said that it was one guy in a BMW with what sounds a lot like a MAC-10

Gentleman?

Over there. Jones said, gesturing in the direction of an African-American man in his mid-20s, dressed in blue jeans, a winter coat and sneakers, leaning on the side of one of the patrol cars.

I think know him, Arnie said. D’Wayne Jackson?

That’s him. How did you get acquainted?

I busted him for selling crack, before I went on homicide. I didn’t know he was out of jail already.

What was Sho’Quan’s business?

Mostly crack, I think some weed on the side.

You think it was local trouble, a gang or something?

I don’t think so. D’Wayne said it was a white guy. I ran the plate number that he gave me and there’s a BMW 750 with that license plate registered to a Geopluyce . . . Goplis . . . however the hell you say this, Jones showed Arnie his notes, Fund LP, care of this address in Harding Township. Jones notes read Geoplistacali Fund. Arnie wrote the information down in his notebook.

Sounds like a hedge fund or something like that. Probably he’s running the car through his business. Nice neighborhood. You didn’t, just by chance, find out who lives at that address, did you?

What makes you think I’d do that? Jones asked, smiling.

Because you’re efficient. What’d you find out?

Jonathan P. and Linda M. Hendricks, husband and wife.

Any report of the car being stolen?

Nope.

What would a guy like that be doing around here at 2 in the morning? And why would he want to shoot some crack dealer?

Let’s see if D’Wayne has anything else to say, Jones suggested. Arnie and Jones walked over to talk to Jackson.

What’s up, D’Wayne? Arnie asked.

I remember you, Jackson said.

How about if you talk to me anyway?

Whatever. What’s done is done.

So, what’d you see?

The man there was sitting by the bus stop and this big Beamer just drove up, and then the next thing I know it was like a machine gun or something and he drove off real fast. I gave the sergeant here the info.

Did anybody say anything?

I couldn’t hear exactly.

Did you get a look at the person in the car?

Not really, but I saw the car before. This white dude came around before in the daytime sometimes. Sho’Quan and him were talking like they was doing business.

You didn’t happen to hear what they were talking about, did you?

When?

Whenever.

Sho’Quan was smoking more than he was selling, so he wasn’t too good about paying. This guy came around to get Sho’Quan to pay.

You weren’t in business with him, by any chance, were you?

No, man. I stay away from that shit. That shit’ll fuck you up. I’ve been minding my own business.

So what were you doing out here at 2:00 in the morning?

I was hanging.

Hanging? Arnie said skeptically, It’s 25 degrees out here.

Well, my old lady, she was mad at me, so I thought I’d get some fresh air, you know, while she was cooling off.

I see. So, what did this white guy Sho’Quan was talking to look like?

"He was white."

You mean, like, really light skin?

No, man, I mean white. Like, D’Wayne did his best impression of an accent that sounded like a combination of upper class English and Locust Valley Lockjaw, Oh, Jeeves, could you bring us some tea? Muffy and I need to get to the country club to play a few chuckers. D’Wayne switched back to his normal speaking voice. You know, white.

Could you help me out? Arnie asked. Something a little more specific? You know, height, weight, that type of thing.

I don’t know. Maybe this tall. D’Wayne held his hand up, indicating a height of about 5 foot 9 or 10 inches. Kind of gray hair. Expensive clothes.

How old?

I don’t know. Not young, not old. He was rich, but everything else was medium.

"If you saw a photo of him, could you pick him out?

"Maybe, but you guys ain’t gonna have a mug shot of this guy. Maybe something in the newspaper about what rich white people do in their spare time."

Would you be willing to come down to the office during the week to work with a police artist to see if you can put something together?

Man, I ain’t coming down to no police station.

Arnie handed D’Wayne a business card. If you change your mind, give me a call.

D’Wayne put the business card into the pocket of his jacket. Yeah, whatever. You gonna catch this guy?

I’m going to do my best, but I can’t do it all by myself. If somebody knows something, they need to tell me.

D’Wayne thought for a moment. You’re not going to let it slide because a white guy killed a brother, are you?

If I can prove who did it, they’re busted, regardless. And if I don’t, this guy here, Arnie pointed to Jones, he’ll kick my ass.

You got that right, Jones said.

D’Wayne went on his way and Arnie and Jones walked back toward the body, which was being loaded into the back of an ambulance. When the ambulance drove away, the small crowd started to disburse. As they were walking, Arnie noticed some youths taking an uncomfortable interest in his car. He and Jones walked in the direction of Arnie’s car. Um, excuse me . . . Arnie said loudly.

Let me take care of this, Jones said quietly. Gentlemen, he said more loudly to the youths, if there’s so much as a scratch on my man’s car, you’re gonna answer to me. The youths scattered.

Thanks, Arnie said. The decided to get into Jones’ car to get out of the cold. Jones started the car and turned up the heat.

So what do you think? Arnie asked.

Well, I don’t know about D’Wayne’s story that he was ‘just hanging’.

"I agree there. It might be true, but it sounds like bullshit."

Whatever he was doing, chances are it was something he had no business doing. Not at 2:00 in the morning on a night like this.

Everything else seems to add up, though, Arnie said. He also must have gotten a lot better view than he’s letting on because he got the license plate number exactly. If he hadn’t, you would have gotten some different car. And his description of this guy seems to match with what you found out when you tracked down the info from the license plate.

I’m with you. But, what would this guy have been doing around here at 2 in the morning. I can understand if maybe he had a secret habit that he wanted to take care of, so he came down here to buy some crack, but why would he kill the dealer? That part doesn’t make any sense.

I know. That’s why they call these things a mystery.

I’ll tell you what. My guys were knocking on doors to see if anybody saw anything. I’ll send you over the reports once I get them, but I’m going to ask around a little bit more. Chances are people around here are a lot more likely to talk to me than to you.

Good point.

I think D’Wayne’s story mostly holds water.

So do I.

But I also know D’Wayne isn’t exactly the most trustworthy individual in the world either and I know there’s more to his story than he’s telling us.

And I think I need to go see, what’s his name, Arnie looked at his notebook, Mr. Jonathan P. Hendricks to see if he has an explanation about why his car might have been around here at 2:00 in the morning.

Good luck. I don’t know what he’s going to tell you, but I can tell you now it’s going to be bullshit.

Hopefully, I can get that done first thing in the morning. It’s my girlfriend’s birthday tomorrow, Arnie looked at his watch, today, whatever. I promised to take her out for dinner.

You better not miss that.

She’s understanding about work, up to a point, but I don’t want to push it. Not that far anyway.

Then you better get on your way. And wish her a happy birthday from me.

Chapter 2

Melinda slipped out of bed the following morning, trying to let Arnie sleep late. He had made it home at around 5. Melinda vaguely remembered him coming back to bed because she briefly had woken up. She pulled on some shoes to go out to pick up the newspapers, copies of the Newark Star-Ledger and the New York Times, from the front walk. Arnie was awake and in the kitchen by the time she was back in the house.

I was trying to let you sleep late, Melinda said, giving Arnie a kiss. Her silky brown hair was pulled back into a loose pony tail to keep it out of her face at night.

Thanks, Arnie said, but I needed to get up anyway. I promised to make you breakfast for your birthday. Arnie started to make coffee for both of them.

I think under the circumstances I’d let you out of that promise.

And I should go out to talk to this guy as soon as it gets to be a semi-decent hour.

Something about the call last night?

Yeah. One of the witnesses said this guy from Harding Township with a boat Beamer was the shooter. I’d like to talk to him as early as I can to see what the story is. So, what would you like for breakfast? Anything you want.

Anything? Melinda had a mischievous twinkle in her sapphire blue eyes.

Within reason.

I guess that leaves out chocolate croissants from the baker near my grandmother’s house.

Yeah, I would say. I don’t think I can go 4,000 miles and back in the next 15 minutes. So, what’ll it be?

Melinda had a taste for crab benedict, but she knew Arnie didn’t know how to poach eggs and the whole dish was a large production, particularly considering that Arnie needed to go out again. How about your thing with the scrambled eggs and bacon and cheese all mixed together?

Coming up.

So tell me about this thing from last night, Melinda asked. She sat at their dining room table while Arnie began to make breakfast in the kitchen and told her about the investigation. The guy’s car is registered in the name of a partnership with a Italian-sounding tongue twister name that I’m guessing is some kind of hedge fund or something like that. I assume it means something, but I obviously haven’t had a chance to track it down yet.

What’s the name?

Arnie did his best to sound out the name, then Melinda asked him to spell it. She pondered for a few minutes, rolling the name over in her head.

Oh. Wait, Melinda said. That’s not Italian, it’s Greek. It’s kind of a bad transliteration and it’s a couple of words crunched into one, but it means ‘greed is good’.

And how do you know that?

I’m multitalented.

Yeah, I know, but how do you know what that word means?

I needed to fill up my schedule the last semester in college so I decided to take a Greek class pass-fail.

Why?

It seemed like a good idea at the time. I thought it might be useful in diners and the bank was talking about transferring my father to Greece around that time, so I figured that if that happened, I could speak the local language when I went to visit.

And when was the last time you went to a diner?

First year of law school. But it came in handy now, so shush.

You’re a nut.

You’ve mentioned that.

So, assuming your guess is correct . . .

"Which isn’t a guess and is correct."

It definitely sounds like some kind of hedge fund.

Arnie brought Melinda her eggs and a cup of coffee, then went back to the kitchen to get his own. As Arnie sat down to eat, Melinda said, Assuming what your witness says is true, the whole thing doesn’t make sense. Why would this guy who seems to run a hedge fund and lives in a ritzy neighborhood want to gun down some low life crack dealer with a machine gun?

That’s what I need to find out. Maybe the name of his fund says it all, greed is good. Maybe he wanted to branch out from the financial markets into another high risk business.

That’s a different way of thrill seeking.

* * *

Arnie skipped reading the Sunday newspapers so he could try to interview Hendricks, then have the rest of the day to spend with Melinda. He was trying to walk an unpredictable line between getting to their house late enough that he didn’t wake them up but early enough that they were still home.

On his way out of the house, Arnie said, Sorry I have to run out, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.

It’s not a problem. I’m probably not going to be ready to move before you get back anyway. I want to finish the papers, then I need to call my grandmother. She said she wanted me to call so she could wish me a happy birthday.

Arnie gave Melinda a kiss and headed to the door.

By the way, Melinda asked, what time is our dinner reservation?

7:30, at Carlo’s.

* * *

Arnie arrived at the Hendricks’ house at about 9:20. It was a little later than what he had in mind, but it took a while to find the house. It was at the end of a long driveway which wound through the woods. The house was new and ultramodern. Arnie parked in the circular driveway in front of the house, but coming up the driveway it looked like the house had a four or five car garage. Even though the sun was out, it had not warmed up noticeably from the night before.

After ringing the doorbell, Arnie looked around the property. With all of the leaves off the trees, he could see a few of the neighboring houses, but they were far in the distance. During the summer, the house would be completely private.

Could I help you? a woman’s voice asked through the closed door.

Mrs. Hendricks? Arnie asked, holding his badge up to the peephole in the door.

Yes.

I’m Det. Arnold from the Morris County Prosecutor’s Office. I was wondering whether Mr. Hendricks was here. I’d like to ask him a couple of questions.

He should be back in a couple of minutes. He had a racquetball game this morning. What’s this about?

Mind if I come in?

I suppose. I guess it is a little cold out there.

A blonde woman about Melinda’s age opened the door. Arnie stepped into the house and Mrs. Hendricks closed the door behind him. She had the well-tended look of a trophy wife. Notwithstanding the fact it was 9:20 on a Sunday morning, she was perfectly put together. Every hair was in place and her makeup was flawless. She was wearing a casual looking outfit which could have been taken from a Ralph Lauren ad in the Sunday Times Magazine. On her ring finger was a diamond studded wedding ring and an engagement ring which had, by Arnie’s estimation, around a 5-carat diamond. To Arnie’s taste, she could have used some meat on her bones, but she obviously subscribed to the theory that one can never be too thin or too rich.

The house matched the woman. The entranceway had a white marble floor. To left was a living room and to the right was a dining room which both looked as if they had been photos in Architectural Digest. In fact, Arnie had a bit of a déjà vu feeling because he was reasonably sure that the house had been in a recent throwaway magazine about Morris County cultural events.

You were saying, detective? Mrs. Hendricks continued.

Oh, yes, ma’am. There was a drug dealer killed last night in Morristown. I was just trying to tie up a couple of loose ends.

I’m not surprised. You know how those people are.

Yes, ma’am. Arnie thought it politic to leave her comment about those people alone for the time being.

But what does that have to do with Jon?

One of the witnesses said that he saw a car in the area with a license plate number that matched your husband’s.

That’s silly. We were together here all night.

Yes, ma’am. You understand that I still have to track these things down.

What did you guys do?

Went out to dinner then came home and went to bed. I was sleepy.

Hope you slept well.

Like a baby, all night. Are you trying to get at something, detective?

No, ma’am. Just chitchatting.

Well, you’re in luck, because here Jon comes.

Arnie looked through the front window and saw a black BMW 750 drive up the driveway toward the garages. He noticed that the car was completely clean. With all of the salt on the roads, the only way the car could have been so clean was to have been washed that morning. A few minutes later, Mr. Hendricks called from the kitchen. Linda, who’s at the door?

A detective, she called back. He said he has to ask you some questions. Something about a dead drug dealer.

Within a minute, Hendricks was at the front door. His hair was mostly grey, but he otherwise looked on the younger side of not young, not old that D’Wayne had described as the shooter. He was sweaty, so he had just come from some kind of workout, but he also looked like he had just stepped out of an ad for designer athletic wear.

What’s this about, detective? Why are you in my house at 9:30 on a Sunday morning? Hendricks had an upper class accent that he couldn’t place. It sounded a bit like from Boston, but not quite as grating.

I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I’m investigating a murder that happened last night in Morristown. A witness said that the person driving a car that matched your license plate number was in the area. I just need to tie up a loose end or two, you know, to find out if it was you, and if it was if you might have seen something.

That’s absurd, detective. We had dinner out last night, watched some TV in bed, then went to sleep. Whoever told you they saw me was smoking the same thing they were selling.

Yes, sir. Who did you have dinner with?

Just the two of us.

And where was that?

At Carlo’s in Morristown. What’s with all the questions? Isn’t my word good enough for you?

I just need to make sure I cover all the bases, sir. Mr. Hendricks, what’s the Geoplistacali Fund?

It’s an investment fund that I run. It pays for all of this. Hendricks waved his hand around, as if to show off the house and his wife.

Yes, sir. I can see it’s doing very well.

Damn right.

That’s a different name, Geoplistacali. Is it Italian?

Greek. It’s the site of an epic battle between the Greeks and the Persians.

I must have missed that one in school, sir.

I’m sure you would have heard of it if you went to Harvard.

Yes, sir. Would you mind if I took a look at your car for just a minute?

Yes, I do mind, detective. I need to take a shower. We’re meeting some friends for brunch at our club. Now, if you’d be on your way. Hendricks opened the door for Arnie to leave.

Yes, sir. Sorry to take up your time. If I have any more questions, I’ll let you know. Arnie stepped out the door.

It would be better if you didn’t. I’m friendly with the governor.

Yes, sir. Lots of people are friendly with the governor. That’s how he got to be the governor.

Are you being smart with me?

No, sir. Just making an observation.

Chapter 3

Melinda finished the newspapers and took a shower before calling her grandmother, who lived in southern France. They had prearranged the time in their last monthly call because her grandmother was generally not doing anything outside in the middle of the afternoon, her time. Melinda sat on her bed wearing her fluffy white bathrobe and combed out her hair while she was talking.

"Happy birthday, dear," her grandmother said in French.

"Thank you."

"So, what is your young man doing for you for your birthday?"

"We’re going out to dinner tonight. He got me a birthday cake for later."

"That’s good. At least you won’t have any more birthdays before you finally get married. Melinda looked at the clock. It had had taken her grandmother nearly thirty seconds to get in a dig about how long Melinda had taken to get married. Which reminds me. How are your wedding plans coming along, dear?" her grandmother asked.

"Everything that can be done in advance is done. I’ve got my dress, and we’ve arranged for everything for the reception. I sent out the invitations to everyone that’s being invited, so pretty much all that needs to happen is for people to show up."

"Speaking of showing up, can I speak to your young man?"

"He had to run out this morning to take care of something for work."

"Work? On a Sunday morning? I’ll bet."

"Grandma, you’re being a trouble maker. Crime doesn’t take days off. I might worry about a lot of things, but him fooling around on the side isn’t one of them."

"You’re sure you don’t need any help with anything."

"Really, no. I’ve got everything under control. It’s not going to be a big wedding and I’m organized. How would you help out, anyway. You’re there and I’m here."

"Maybe I should come after all. A woman can’t put together a wedding all by herself and your mother certainly isn’t going to help. This was a big change for Grandma. Before, she had always been adamantly opposed to getting on a plane to go anywhere, much less going on a trans-Atlantic flight. Even though as far as Melinda’s grandmother was concerned, Melinda’s mother couldn’t do anything right, Melinda thought it was an interesting twist that Grandma was going to blame her mother for her changing her mind. Melinda also did not want to think about what her grandmother might want to do to help because help" generally meant that she took over and everything had to be done her way.

"She’s not going to help because I didn’t ask her to help and she respects me enough not to butt in where’s she’s not needed." This was true, but Melinda also would not ask for her mother’s help no matter how desperate she was because she didn’t want to deal with her mother under foot telling Melinda she needed to lose 20 pounds before the wedding, which, as far as Melinda was concerned, she didn’t. If you want to come, there’s still time, and I’d be happy to see you, but you don’t need to come to help me out.

"I’m sure you’re forgetting something. When are Philippe and Colette coming?" They were Melinda’s aunt and uncle who were coming to the wedding and who lived near Melinda’s grandmother.

"The Wednesday before the wedding."

"And what day is the wedding?"

"Last Friday in April."

"What about Celeste and her young man?" Celeste was Melinda’s cousin, who lived in Paris with her husband, Henri.

"They’re also coming on Wednesday."

"What about your parents?"

"Wednesday. I’m pretty sure everyone is on the same flight from Paris. " At this point, Melinda was figuring that Grandma was trying to get someone to come with her far enough in advance to have some input into the wedding.

"Where are they staying?"

"In a hotel in Morristown, near where the wedding is."

"Nobody at your house?"

"No, nobody at my house. I don’t have any place to put them." Nor did Melinda want the stress of having houseguests just before the wedding. The last thing she needed was her grandmother in her condo alone and unsupervised while she and Arnie were at work. Her grandmother would have her house reorganized within an inch of it life and/or burned down by the time she got home.

"Well, I’ll think about it."

"If you come, what are Uncle Yves and Aunt Marie going to do? You made them stay home to take care of you while Philippe and Collette came to the wedding."

"I didn’t make them do anything. They couldn’t get away. If I decide to come, they’ll understand."

"You’d better think fast because the wedding is in less than two months. You might not be able to get a plane ticket at the last minute."

"I’ll let you know. Maybe I’ll have Philippe send you a message on his computer thing."

"That’ll be fine, Grandma."

"Tell your young man I said hello."

"I will."

Oh brother, Melinda said to herself as she hung up. She sent an email to her uncle from her phone to warn him what Grandma was up to.

Arnie was home by the time Melinda was done getting dressed. She had just pulled on a sweat