All He Takes, page 5
As Belmont closed the door behind them, Vivian surveyed the room, taking in every detail—the position of the furniture, the books on the shelves, the absence of personal photographs. It was a space of function over sentiment.
When Sterling’s voice cut through the stillness of the moment, Vivian was shocked at how blunt he was—at how quickly he arrived at his point. There was no beating around the bush with this guy.
“We’re here because your hairs were found at the scene of a murder,” Sterling said. “More specifically, they were found on one of the fake fingernails of the victim.”
Vivian watched Belmont closely. She saw his jaw tighten, the slight widening of his eyes. Surprise flickered across his features, genuine and unguarded. It was a reaction she had learned to spot—a twitch here, a gulp there. Belmont stood frozen for a moment, his annoyance at being interrupted wiped clean by Sterling’s blunt disclosure.
“Murdered?” Marcus croaked, as if the word itself was foreign to him. “You…you think I had something to do with a murder?”
“We don’t quite know. But we had the hairs analyzed, and they were identified as yours. So we need to understand why your DNA was present at the crime scene.”
Belmont sank onto one of the leather chairs, his posture deflated. He ran a hand through his silver hair, leaving it in disarray. “This is… what? I had nothing to do with any murder. Where is this scene you’re referring to?”
“Cadence Park,” Sterling said. “More specifically, the western edge of Cadence Park where there’s a tight little grove of trees bordering the edge right along the fence that separates the park from the street.”
Vivian remained silent but vigilant, absorbing the space around her—the way the light danced off the polished surfaces, the faint hum of electronics in standby mode. She did her best to take in everything in the same way she would study a location she was planning to break into. The work desk in the corner was cluttered with tools of the trade—soldering irons, wire strippers, a magnifying glass. Her eyes snagged on something out of place—a lockpick set partially hidden beneath a pile of papers. A casual oversight, or something more telling?
“Well, yeah,” Belmont said. “I was at Cadence Park on Sunday.”
“What time?”
“Around two. I stayed for about an hour and a half. Maybe two hours.”
“What were you doing there?” Sterling asked.
“Me and a few old friends got together. Friends from college…we used to have a band up until about ten years ago. We do it every now and again, play our guitars there… just acoustic stuff, to have fun.”
“Where in the park?”
Belmont’s eyes were filled with consternation before he answered. “Not too far away from that grove of trees you mentioned. A bit further up that little trail, there’s a fountain. A small one, with this weird-looking fish in the center. We set up our lawn chairs right there…that’s where we play. That’s where I was sitting.”
“How many others were with you?”
“Three.”
“I’ll need their names and contact information just to confirm all of this,” Sterling said.
“Yeah…yeah, of course,” Belmont said.
As Belmont scrolled through his phone to share his contacts with Sterling, Vivian walked over to the work desk. She saw Sterling giving her a cautionary look, as if telling her not to overstep her bounds.
She nodded, but was already getting a closer look at the tools on Belmont’s desk. She was particularly interested in the wire strippers. She knew these types of tools well, and these wire strippers were used for very fine precision work. Next to the tools, she saw a newer model video doorbell camera. He was repairing the wiring behind it.
But the lockpick set was the most peculiar thing. It wasn’t exactly top-of-the-line, but it was a jump up from the basic kits she knew police used.
“What’s wrong with this doorbell?” Vivian asked.
Both Belmont and Sterling looked over at her. Sterling looked annoyed that she was speaking, likely not understanding her reason for asking the question.
“Oh, nothing. A friend of mine asked if I could optimize it so that he could hardwire it into his building rather than having to recharge the battery every two weeks.”
Vivian nodded, as if that satisfied her question. In a way, it did. But she still had her suspicions.
“Mr. Belmont,” Sterling said, “do you know anyone by the name of Emily Turner?”
Belmont thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Okay. And if I asked, would you be able to account for your whereabouts every night for the past five days?”
“I think so, yeah,” Marcus said. “I mean, it depends on the time of night you’re asking about. But Monday, I went to see a movie with a lady friend. Tuesday I had my sister over for dinner and we FaceTimed my dad…he lives up in Maine. And then Wednesday night, I spent far too much time helping a friend install a brick oven at his new pizza shop.” He looked back over to the desk and said, “It’s the same place that doorbell is being installed.”
“You used to work in security, right?” Vivian asked.
“Yeah.”
“What field, specifically?”
“Security systems and infrastructure. Things like that. Mostly for small-to-medium-sized businesses.”
“And you have the tools and skills to install a brick oven?” Sterling asked.
“Yeah. Frankly, it’s not that hard, so long as you know where the support beams are.”
“Where are your tools now?” There was a hint of challenge in Sterling’s tone.
“Still there. I’m not done with the installation.” He tilted his head at Sterling slightly, showing he was getting annoyed again. “You can check with Tony. He owns the place. I already sent you his number…he’s one of the guys I jam with from time to time.”
Sterling looked over to Vivian and she could only shrug. Based on everything she’d heard, it sounded like Belmont checked out. Still…the lockpick set didn’t sit well with her. But she thought she’d wait to discuss it with Sterling before showing her entire hand to Belmont. She didn’t want to make any missteps in this unfamiliar arena.
“Thank you, Mr. Belmont,” Sterling concluded, his words polite but his stance suggesting anything but closure. He got to his feet and started walking for the door. “You’ve been very helpful. But please stay in the city for the next few days. We may have more questions.”
“Of course,” Belmont said, escorting them to the door. “And I certainly hope you find whoever it is you’re looking for.”
As they left the apartment, Vivian’s mind was alight with questions. Perfect alibis were rare—and those that seemed too perfect often pointed to fabrication. And then there was the location of his impromptu jam session, directly across from where Emily was found.
Too many conveniences and coincidences.
Vivian and Sterling descended the stairs back down to the lobby, their footsteps echoing off the walls of the narrow stairwell.
“Thoughts?” Sterling asked once they were back in the car.
“Something’s not right,” she answered. “I mean, if his alibis all check out, we can’t do much, right?”
“We can…but it would be difficult. Why? What did you see?”
“A lockpick set.”
Sterling raised an eyebrow as he started the car, the engine purring to life. “Lockpick?”
“On his work desk. In the living room.” Vivian’s fingers drummed against her thigh as she recounted the sight. “And it was a nice set. Probably better than what the NYPD carries. He also had a set of very nice industrial wire cutters. The sort of tool I’ve used in the past. Not just the sort a home-repair guy would pick up at a hardware store.”
“Could be a leftover from his old job,” Sterling offered, but his skepticism was evident.
He pulled away from the curb and into the street, and Vivian wondered where they were headed next. “So, we check his alibis, right? And if even one is faulty, we can bring him in, right?”
“Possibly. But at the end of the day, we can’t touch him without something concrete.”
“Like his hair on that fingernail?”
“I guarantee you that there were at least a dozen other hair samples out there, Fox. Maybe he was just unlucky enough to have his waft across a dead woman’s press-on.”
“Yikes. Man, I’m starting to see how no one ever caught me after all these years…if this is how Interpol approaches things.”
Sterling sighed. “Okay then. Other than checking his alibis, what would you do next?”
“I’d get the address for the pizza place he mentioned,” Vivian suggested, her voice a mix of determination and urgency. “The one where he installed the oven. I want to see his tools for myself. If he had a lockpick set and wire cutters of that standard just sitting haphazardly on his desk, his other tools might provide some answers…especially if you’re looking for the sort of thieves that could easily break into places undetected.”
“Alright,” he agreed, a slight nod accompanying the word. “But if we’re wrong about this, you’ll be in charge of researching his alibis.”
“Fine.”
As he drove, Sterling pulled out his phone and pulled up the number for Tony, given to him by Belmont less than ten minutes ago. And as he set the call to speaker mode so she could listen in, Vivian could no longer deny the stir of excitement in her heart.
The hunt was on. And for once, she was part of the hunting party rather than the one being hunted. It was an odd feeling, for sure, but a nice change of pace.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vivian became aware of just how quickly the day was getting away from them as she and Sterling approached the skeletal silhouette of what would soon be a pizzeria. The windows were dark, the neon “Open” sign unlit. Peering in through the windows, she could see fragments of plywood and unused portions of two-by-fours.
“So, Tony was unavailable to come open the place up for us,” Vivian said. “What a shame. You think it was just him not wanting to deal with the hassle, or that he and his buddy Marcus Belmont may be hiding something?”
“No clue,” Sterling said, peering in through the window. “You think you can get us in without breaking anything?”
“Man, you underestimate me, huh? Follow me…”
They walked around the side of the building, cutting through a narrow, darkened alleyway. At the rear of the property, Vivian sized up the back delivery entrance, its lock an invitation she couldn’t resist. She rummaged through her small bag, retrieving a hairpin and tweezers.
“No actual lockpick set?” Sterling asked.
“No. I don’t say this as a joke…it’s one hundred percent accurate: it’s in my other bag. And your boss-lady Garnett didn’t exactly give me the chance to go home and pack before this little adventure.”
Vivian narrowed her focus on the lock. The hairpin slid into the keyhole, feeling for pins, while the tweezers applied gentle pressure. There was a satisfying click, and the door gave way with a hushed groan. They slipped inside, enveloped by the musty aroma of sawdust and drying paint.
The interior of the pizzeria-to-be was a jumble of construction materials and draped tarps. Vivian’s eyes darted around, landing on a set of tools propped against a half-built counter. Belmont had mentioned these, but seeing them in person sparked a new wave of suspicion in Vivian’s chest. There was a pretty standard toolbox—the sort that resembled a jumbo-sized lunchbox. She opened it up and found an assortment of tools, but nothing out of the ordinary—wrenches, screwdrivers, nuts, washers, bolts, an assortment of screws, a few anchors.
But when she was done investigating the box, she turned her attention to the large black case propped against the wall. She was pretty sure it was the case for a drill…and a large drill, by the looks of it.
“Over here,” she called to Sterling, who was scanning the perimeter with a practiced eye.
The two approached the case. Vivian opened it and found that she was right. It was not only a drill, but a very nice drill. The sort of drill she’d used before—a drill that was not going to be found in hardware stores. She took the drill out of the case and hefted it a bit in her hand. It was of an industrial design, a high-powered model.
“Looks like a bit much for the delicate art of pizza oven installation,” Vivian said. Her fingers traced the drill bits that accompanied it, recognizing the type instantly. Two of them stood out; their spirals and serrated edges mirrored those she had used in the past to dismantle the stubborn locks of older European galleries.
“Bit overkill for hanging drywall, isn’t it?” Sterling quipped, peering over her shoulder.
“Definitely not your average DIY equipment,” Vivian agreed, her mind racing. She held one of the bits up to the scant light filtering through the draped windows, noting the minute scratches along its surface. This wasn’t just any tool—it was the kind you used when you wanted to leave no trace, when you needed to bypass barriers silently and swiftly.
“What do you think?” Sterling asked.
“I think these drill bits are heavy-duty…as is the drill itself.” She held one of the bits up; it was the thickness of a pencil but had significant weight. The spirals around its body were tight and narrow. “This one will go through concrete like butter. It’s also great for busting open the seams in iron and other metals. I’ve used it in the past to crack open safes. The drill…it’s not quite as good as ones I’ve used, but it’s close. And even if he is ex-security, I don’t know why someone like Marcus Belmont would have it.”
“Marcus has some explaining to do,” Sterling said, his tone hardening.
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if this drill had danced its way through more than just wood and brick,” Vivian replied, a cold knot forming in her stomach. She placed the bit back, every detail etched into her memory. “And I think we need to go bother Belmont again. Just…a little less conversation this time.”
As they stepped through the back door again, Vivian still felt that stirring of excitement, of being on a chase. But she also couldn’t shake the feeling that they were on the cusp of uncovering something far darker than petty theft—something so dark that she feared she may not be prepared for it.
***
Vivian’s fingers itched for Emily Turner’s file as soon as they were back in Sterling’s car. “You mind if I have a look at Emily’s file?” she asked.
“Not at all,” Sterling said, reaching into the back of the car and retrieving the file from a sleek binder.
Vivian flipped it open, bypassing the glossy photos and notes about Emily Turner. Instead, she zeroed in on the heist notes. The text was succinct and to the point, which she liked. She didn’t like to be overwhelmed with the details. According to the report, the antiques store across from the murder scene had been hit hard; its back door compromised, the heavy safe inside cracked open like a walnut.
“I don’t suppose you have any idea what model safe was hit in that antiques store across from the park, do you?”
“I don’t. I know it was a heavy beast, though.”
She looked more closely at the pictures, and though she wasn’t sure what make and model it was, she knew it was heavy duty. And for it to have been cracked so easily…well, not only had it been done by a pro, but by a pro with very precise tools.
“That drill back at the pizzeria…that could easily have done this.”
“But not any other drill?”
“No. This sort of safe…even a decent industrial drill bit would have bent and cracked.”
“You’re certain?”
“I am. I even wonder if you’d find trace amounts of the same metal the safe was made out of encrusted into the drill bit.”
“It’s a good thought,” Sterling said. “And something we’ll pursue if we need to.”
The ride to Marcus Belmont’s place was a silent one, each lost in their own thoughts. Vivian’s mind worked through scenarios, angles, questions. She was now starting to truly see and appreciate why Director Garnett had seen fit to bring a thief into the mix on this case.
They arrived at Belmont’s apartment for the second time, only now with a bit more knowledge in their arsenal. This time, they were fortunate enough to arrive at the door as another resident was leaving. They entered the building easily enough and hurried back up the stairs. Vivian rapped sharply on Belmont’s door.
“Marcus Belmont, open up. It’s Interpol.” She shivered at how odd it sounded coming out of her mouth. She also chose to ignore the brazen look that Sterling shot her way.
Belmont was quicker to answer the door this time and now his eyes looked wide and alarmed. His eyes darted between Vivian and Sterling, seeking some clue to their sudden reappearance.
“Mr. Belmont,” Sterling began, his voice firm, “you’re under arrest on suspicion of murder and involvement in a series of high-profile thefts.”
Belmont’s mouth opened, then closed. His composure slipped just enough for Vivian to catch a glimpse of something raw and fearful flickering behind his eyes.
“We just went through this!” Belmont yelled. “I’m no killer!”
“If you’re not a killer,” Vivian said, “maybe you know a thing or two about robberies? Breaking and entering? How to crack a safe? That’s a really nice drill you left down at your buddy’s pizzeria.”
This comment seemed to register in a whole new way. He shook his head defiantly, and his lips drew tight. “I did not kill anyone!”
“Save it for the interrogation room,” Sterling interjected as he snapped a set of handcuffs in place around Belmont’s wrists. As Sterling read him his rights, Vivian took one last look around the apartment. It was clean, organized, nothing out of place. Nothing that screamed “killer.” Yet the evidence was mounting, piece by piece.
