Martin was already on the phone, passing along the possible identification back to the medical examiner’s office. He hung up and turned to Martinelli, who gave a thumb’s up.
“Our first big break, eh, partner? That, plus our victim apparently wasn’t a party-goer.”
“Yup. This shouldn’t take long now.” The ID was confirmed within the hour, identified by the developer himself. The deceased was one Rusty Mangold, his nephew.
Kitty Doyle arrived downstairs over an hour after being asked and, at their invitation, sweetly sat down.
“Why ever do you want to talk to me?” She twanged. Considering that she would possibly soon have to improve her southern drawl for her new twirling position, she carried on, “Why, I haven’t the slightest idea of anything going on.”
“Miss Doyle, we are police detectives here investigating the death of the man found this morning, in the pool.” Martinelli placed the photo on the table.
“Recognize him?” Barely bothering to even glance at it, she dismissed the deceased with a slight wave.
“Who, him? Naw.”
“His name is Rusty Mangold. Did you ever know him at all?”
“I just said no, didn’t I?” Her tone sharpened, her drawl ended.
“Do you know who he is?”
“Look, I give presentations every week to hundreds of people I don’t know. If you’re trying to suggest that he knew me, well that just doesn’t work. I don’t know him, I don’t recognize him. Is there anything else?”
“Where were you last night?”
“Driving home from out-of-town, arriving sometime after nine. I parked my car in the garage, waited and waited for the stupid elevator and took it to the lobby where I collected my mail. I waited and waited for the stupid elevator again and took it up to my floor.”
“Did you see anyone? Talk with anyone?”
“Yes. Think his name’s Stoner, no wait, it’s Ben Stinner, something like that… he was waiting for the elevator in the lobby too, with a dog. We made small talk. He stayed on the elevator when I got off on my floor.”
“What did you chat about?”
“Nothing. It was just chat.”
“I understand that you’re a regular swimmer. When did you last use the pool?”
“Can’t recall. I’m a trained lifeguard, not a regular swimmer, not daily.”
“And do you store equipment in the cupboard on the deck?”
“No.”
“Or ever use equipment from there?”
“When I do go in the water, I just swim.”
“What do you know about the proposal for the building next door?”
“Not much. Don’t really care, though other people do. I’m going to be moving out soon, for a new job someplace else.”
“Was anyone in your unit while you were away?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Miss Doyle.” Kitty rose to leave.
Some condo buildings have dedicated rooms for meetings of the association or for the use of owners.
“By the way, this room is now the Social Networking Lounge, the SNL, not the meeting room. There are stone-age idiots living here who don’t know the difference. Some aren’t too bright around here.” She threw this back at them as she sauntered out past the ‘Meeting Room’ sign on the door. Martinelli avoided looking at Martin. Martin stood up and struck a pose, virtual mike in hand.
“Live from the POPS,” he announced, in his loudest stage whisper, “it’s SNL, the Social Networking Lounge!” to a suppressed snicker from his partner.
“Cut the comedy and sit down already. So, two swimmers heard from and still too many choices. Is this revenge? Drowning the nephew to get back at the uncle for something proposed for next door? Is that even possible? Could somebody bring him here and try to deliberately drown him because of that?”
“Or conversely, is it exactly because of the project’s controversy, that somebody didn’t want to be the one who found him here, already drowned?”
“That happens a lot. I mean, that people lie because they don’t want to be connected with whatever. But wouldn’t it be the swimmers who live here, the ones most likely to use the pool, who’d be most likely to bring a guest to swim here, or to come down for a swim themselves?”
“Or even to have seen this person last night, alive or dead, and deny it today?”
“Or while they were here, to have added all the props? Though any resident had the right to be in there, so can’t see that prints will be any use, if we do get any decent ones.”
“But getting back to the rope, if it wasn’t stupidity in attempting to use empty bottles for flotation, or suicide by deliberate weighting down, could it be murder?”
“Not if he’s already drowned by himself. Hell of a lot easier to do though, if the guy’s already floating face down. What do suppose has become of the bottle tops?”
“If they had prints on them, and we found them, that might help. Not turning up, though. Trash removal was early this morning, so that might put a cap on that line of inquiry anyway.” One up for Martin, in the pun tally. “Those would be real needles in the haystack now.”
“Aw, keep a lid on it, would ‘ya.”
The second commotion of the day, as the wailing of sirens re-commenced, occurred outside the building. Out on the street, police lights twitched, as yellow tape draped and stretched back towards the lake. A whole section of bluff had slipped, was slipping down. The path and drive below the slide was similarly cordoned off. Preliminary press reports were indicating the cause as the heavy rains of the last several days. Hovering, echoing, news helicopters ratcheted up the volume; photographers and press briefly shifted focus away from the events inside, at the Prospect.
Adding to the general din, an ambulance veered in, disgorging a team of rescue personnel. An agitated Wrested Development workman had inadvertently triggered another debris flow and was stuck, up to one knee, in the mud. Emergency procedures included maneuvering a series of planks across the bluff, as the team cautiously, gradually, worked its way towards him and began gently lifting the afflicted leg. Concern over the possibility of setting off another mudflow led to a discussion of whether to attempt a lift by helicopter. During their day-long, bluff side training exercises of the previous fall, there had been ample time for explanation, evaluation, and demonstration of rescue techniques. Faced with insecure footing in slippery mud, a dislodged, now re-oriented network of brush and tree limbs, and a distressed accident victim, here was an example, if ever there was one, of making decisions on the ground.
Lee Karon, drifting along on the way home from school, was put off-course slightly by these traffic digressions but she was still able to make her regularly scheduled stop at Max and Nate’s for her now favorite afternoon snack of Day Old Delights. Curiosity driven and munching as she went, she traversed the sidewalks that remained opened and followed the length of the yellow tape to gain a vantage point. There wasn’t that much to see from the road; all the action was apparently down closer to the water. She decided to make for home and check out the view from the solarium, instead.