The Brownstone Murder

She had been beautiful in life, and Detective Sergeant Roy Yadav thought she made a fine-looking corpse. The small, precise bullet wound made a red bindi on her forehead. The dark blood pooling around her pale blond hair, lustrous in the harsh crime scene lights, gave the body an angelic aura.

“What do we have, Jackie? Yadav asked his partner, Detective Jackie Cortez.

“Emma Hamilton. Thirty-three. Married. Two kids. This is her house. Roy.” She replied. Staccato. Wasting no time. “The gunshot has to be the COD.”

That stood to reason. The amount of blood indicated the victim had been alive when shot. The spatter of bone and fluids on the sofa behind the body indicated she had been standing when the bullet struck. The cause of death was unlikely to have been natural. Yadav knew when they turned the body over, there would be little skull left.

Crime technicians worked the scene, taking photos and collecting evidence. The coroner released the corpse. Peace descended in the house. Several cops canvassed the neighborhood.

A search revealed no one else in the home. It was likely Mrs. Hamilton had been alone with her killer. Yadav knew it was a homicide. Women rarely shoot themselves, and there was no gun found at the scene.

“Do we have a location on the husband, Jackie?”

“Best guess he’s in the Hamptons with the children.”

“How do you know.”

“The husband is Frank Hamilton.”

“The tech guy?”

“Yeah, the tech guy who just dropped $60 million on a place in East Hampton.”

Roy nodded. That tracked. It was a sweltering Saturday night. No Manhattanite with money stayed in the city on summer weekends. Especially one who kept a helicopter ready for flights to the beach. As Frank Hamilton did.

“Do we know why she was she was here alone, Jackie? Do you think they were having problems?

It’s a cliché that the husband did it. It was a cliché because it's true. Women are murdered more often by husbands and partners than by strangers. Procedure required the detectives to establish Hamilton’s whereabouts.

“The husband’s on his way back,” Jackie announced.

While they waited, the two detectives split up and searched the house. They started with the bedrooms. That’s where people keep their secrets. The Hamiltons slept apart. Frank looked through Frank’s understated but masculine room. Cortez searched Emma’s softer retreat. Both Hamiltons were neat people. Everything was where it should be. And neither detective reported anything out of place.

The rest of the house was equally unenlightening. Although the artwork alone could have stocked a boutique museum.

Ninety minutes later, Hamilton walked into his home. Roy introduced himself and Jackie. They were an odd couple. He was short, with a fast-food physique and too bright clothing. She was tall, makeup-free, dressed in black, with only an usually wide hammered silver bracelet to break the monotony.

“My name is Sgt. Yadav, Mr. Hamilton. This is my partner, Detective Cortez. I am sorry for your loss. Thank you for coming so promptly. You made good time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t know you could get from East Hampton to the city in under three hours, even with a helicopter.” Since 9/11, even the wealthy had to wait for flight approvals.

“I wasn’t in the Hamptons. I was in Locust Valley.”

“Where?”

“Oyster Bay, Sergeant.”

“Sorry, we assumed you had gone to your summer place.”

“I was there, Sergeant. My children still are. They had friends over. You know how it is. It was getting loud. I went to see an old friend."

“What’s his name, Mr Hamilton?"

“Her name is Yvette Billington. And it is not what you think. Yvette and I have known each other since childhood. She’s the sister I wish I had.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything, Mr. Hamilton. But we’ll have to check on that.” Yadav wondered why he was so quick to deny a romantic relationship. Guilty conscience?

“I know you do, detective," Hamilton replied, admitting that the police had a job to do. "Here’s her number. I’ll text you her address if you like.”

“Do you mind writing it down, Mr Hamilton?” Cortez spoke for the first time. “My partner is old-fashioned.”

Yadav was anything but a technophobe. However, handwriting reveals many secrets - so who knows?

Hamilton spoke in a soft monotone. “Of course.” He had to go to his office for a pen and paper. In his absence, Yadav looked quizzically at Cortez. She shrugged in response. Neither was getting a good read on the husband.

Hamilton returned. He held out a piece of paper, which Cortez took.

“Why wasn't your wife with you?” Yadav asked.

“She stayed in town talking with her people about her calendar.”

“What was her business?”

“Charity.”

Yadav didn’t know that. Cortez did.

“She does the fundraisers for LGBTQ youth - right?” she said.

Yadav was no longer amazed that his partner, the only child of a single mother, an MTA bus driver from the Bronx, knew something he did not. Who needs Google, he thought.

Further inquiries established that the children were 22-year-old Constance and her younger brother, 20-year-old Francis Jr.

After thirty minutes, Yadav wrapped it up with Hamilton, saying they would see him the next day. He and Cortez left the house to chat with the cops from the canvass. The uniforms had found few people at home that August night.

They interviewed one elderly couple who had heard nothing. The wife, dripping jewels and slurring slightly, took the opportunity to complain that crime was running rampant. And no one was safe anymore - not even in their own house. And the mayor didn’t seem to care. And New York was going to the dogs. And what were the police going to do about it? While the husband stared into space as he had heard it all before.

They chatted with the skeleton staff in the neighbor’s houses who, speaking with a range of accents, admitted they were left behind to keep the dust off the furniture while their employers sunned themselves on exclusive beaches. None of them had seen or heard anything.

Even their interview with the man who had called the police was uninformative. He was a butler. He said he had been watching TV when a shot rang out. But he had nothing more to add as he had never met the Hamiltons. Who, unusually for the exclusive neighborhood, did not have live-in servants.

The street ran into Fifth Avenue, with its blocks of multimillion-dollar apartments overlooking Central Park. Yadav and Cortez approached the doormen on duty. One thought he had seen a man walking out of the Hamiltons’ street, soon after the butler had called the shot in. But he could offer no description beyond the fact that nothing about the guy stood out. The doorman had an impression the walker was thin and of middle height. But a baseball cap and raincoat hid the details. Besides, the pedestrian had turned away from him just as a chauffeur deposited a resident at the front door, and the doorman turned his back to usher the arrival in.

Returning to the station, the cops wrote up their preliminary reports. Then sleepless, they started their investigation. It would be a busy morning.

*

At 8 am, the next day, they met Frank Hamilton at The Pierre where he had checked in, not wanting to stay at the murder scene. He sat relaxed in a restaurant club chair, looking at them neutrally, drinking coffee, an untouched croissant in front of him. He was slim and tanned, with an athlete’s languor. Still vital, even though he was starting to show signs of age. His alert eyes gazed at them from an immobile face - neither friendly nor hostile. It was as if he was expecting a subordinate’s report on sales growth in Asia.

“Did your wife, or you, have any enemies, Mr Hamilton?”

As usual, this attempt at a shortcut was blocked. The dead are rarely known to have homicidal acquaintances - especially in the better parts of town.

“No”

“How can you be sure?”

“I can’t. I thought the ‘none that I know of’ was implied.” His irritation was the first emotion he had shown. “There are some business rivals who would like to see me dead. But they use lawyers, not guns.”

He stopped as if to contemplate that bloodless conflict. Then added, “Emma didn’t even have those kind of antagonists. There are a lot of egos in the charity world, Sergeant. But not many murderers.”

Yadav couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“How was your relationship with Mrs. Hamilton?” interjected Cortez.

The stereotype says that men are blunt and women soft-spoken. Cortez had not got the memo. Yadav sometimes wondered if she were on the spectrum - or just someone who hated to waste time.

Hamilton steepled his fingers and stared at the ceiling as if the answer was hidden in the chandelier.

“We have - had - been married for 10 years. I suppose you could say that the arc of our relationship had followed the typical trajectory.”

Yadav wondered who the fuck talked like that. Perhaps Hamilton was on the spectrum as well.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“The honeymoon was over, but we were friends.”

Yadav thought about his wife. He supposed they were friends. But that was not the first word he would have used to describe his passionate, sulky, coquettish, plate-throwing better half.

“So you would describe the relationship as amicable.”

Hamilton paused. Seconds ticked by.

“Yes.”

Two tall, good-looking, dark-haired young adults entered the dining room. The woman threw her arms around Hamilton’s shoulders and pressed her face into his cheek. He put one hand on her back in a gentle embrace.

“Are you all right, Daddy? I can’t believe it. What happened? Do they know who did it?”

She squeezed him tightly. Then broke away, as he said, “We’re trying to figure that out.”

He waved his free hand in the cops’ direction.

“This is Sergeant Yadav and Detective Cortez. This is my daughter, Connie - Constance.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant.” She shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Detective.” She turned to Cortez.

“And that is my son, Francis.”

Frank Jr. shook the cops’ hands.

Yadav was struck by how well-mannered the two children were.

“Do you know who killed Emma, Sergeant?” asked the young man.

Yadav had already done the math and figured that Emma was the stepmother without Cortez telling him.

“Not yet.”

“Who the hell would have wanted to kill my stepmother?” he added, confirming the relationship. Cortez interjected, “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to see your stepmother dead?”

“No. Everybody loved her.” Frank Jr. said. With more vehemence than Yadav thought warranted. Cortez turned to Constance,

“No,” Connie agreed. “Although anyone supporting LGBTQ rights today is bound to rile up some cranks.”

Did you ever see anyone like that? Perhaps making a scene at an event?” Cortez asked.

“No. I never went to those. Nothing put pompous old people.”

Yadav had nothing else. Cortez stayed silent. The detectives left the family to deal with its grief.

*

They had ruled Frank Jr. out for now. Overnight inquiries and a liaison with the Southampton police department had turned up many house guest witnesses to the stepson being where he said he was. But the same witnesses were vaguer about Connie’s whereabouts. People had seen her with another woman. But then they had disappeared.

When Hamilton had called early in the morning to ask to speak to his children, Connie had just returned - alone.

They had also been in contact with Yvette Billington. She confirmed Hamilton’s story. Yadav did not place much faith in that. You could call him old-fashioned, but he was not sold on the idea that a married man would drive 70 miles to stay with a single female friend because his two children were having a rowdy party. Perhaps that was how the rich did it, he thought.

It was not something he would do. And Cortez wasn'y much help, as she'd never married. And never even talked about a boyfriend. Which didn’t surprise him. The laconic Latina was too direct and matter-of-fact for most men. If they wanted flattery, they were at the wrong address.

*

They drove out to see Ms. Billington. There was nothing like a face-to-face to shake a lie. She lived in an old-money house, whose outdated kitchen suggested that there wasn’t as much old money as there used to be.

Yvette was a slim woman, tall with dark hair and an unexpectedly bubbly nature. She was trying hard to maintain a suitable decorum in the face of tragedy. But it was not in her makeup. She bustled around asking if they wanted coffee or some thing stronger. Yadav though she resembled a butterfly on speed.

She was younger than they had expected. Yadav asked her if it was true that she was a childhood friend of Mr Hamilton.

“My childhood, maybe,” she replied. “I met Frank when he was 28 and I was 14. I had a big crush on him. He was always kind to me. But nothing ever came of it.”

Yadav wondered if that were true. He was bemused by these compulsively honest people. It was rare in his experience. Most people get uptight around cops. Or become loose-lipped motor mouths offering gushes of irrelevant detail.

Yvette seemed happy to see them. And was outspoken in her sadness that Emma had met such a tragic end. She confirmed that Hamilton had been at her house when he said he had been.

She also said that she was familiar with the dead woman. And had seen her a few months back at a charity event in the city. But she hadn’t talked to her.

“So you knew Mrs. Hamilton,”

“I wouldn’t say ‘know’,” Sergeant. “Frank invited me to their wedding. And I have seen her a few times since at various events. She was always polite. But not exactly warm.”

Yadav asked Cortez if she could think of anything, but his normally inquisitive, if monosyllabic, partner asked nothing.

As they drove away, he asked Cortez what she thought. In her blunt way, she declared it was a dead end. She didn’t think anyone could be a good enough actor to appear as flighty as Yvette and lie. Yadav agreed. He had done enough interviews to know when someone was making stuff up. He did not read the chatterbox as a liar.

They got back to the city and called it a day. After being up for 33 hours, their productivity was sputtering.

*

On Monday morning, Cortez and Yadav scanned the internet. For the umpteenth time, he thanked God for saving him the shoe leather and hours of dialing cops had to do in his rookie days. Emma had been a personality. There was little about her public and even private life he did not now know. And nothing to suggest she had done anything to deserve her fate.

Mrs. Hamilton had been born into wealth. Yadav had turned up no bad boyfriends lurking in her past or recent flirtations to make her husband jealous. Frank did not need her money. The few telephone conversations Yadav made with the contacts in her phone revealed no news, or even rumors, of anything beyond the typical disputes of married couples.

Then he stopped and stared at his screen. He was reading a piece in Manhattan Life, the online glossy devoted to the goings-on of New York’s VIPs. It was a puff biography of Emma Hamilton with pictures of the dead woman as a child, as a young woman, of her marriage to Frank, and more recent photographs of her at various charity events. He peered at one of them. It was a picture of Emma talking to a willowy brunette. All Yadav could see was her back. But he knew who she was.

*

Yadav told Cortez he needed a couple of hours to clear his head. He found walking helped him think. Cortez grunted her assent. She was used to his habits.

He returned and told Cortez they should head back over to the house and take another look. Perhaps they had missed something. Even the most experienced cops screw up. And sometimes what had seemed innocent before, took on new meaning if you considered it from a different angle.

They went back to the brownstone.

Yadav suggested they search together this time. They started in Emma’s room. He walked directly to the bedside stand and opened the bottom drawer. Turning to Cortez, he asked, “Why didn’t you mention these?”

He was pointing to a collection of intimate toys and other sex paraphernalia. He knew they were there as he had already come back to search the house when he was supposedly clearing his mind.

“I didn’t think it was relevant. Obviously, the spark in their marriage wasn’t extinguished. So what? It gives him less motive to kill her.”

“Jackie,” he said, picking up one of the objects. “This is not something you use on a guy.” He was holding a double-ended dildo. “Think about it. There is no evidence of previous boyfriends. The only man we have found in her life is her husband. She has no children of her own. And she is passionate about LGBTQ issues. I admit it’s hardly conclusive. But we have to consider the possibility that she was gay.”

“Ok. What if she was?” asked Cortez.

Yadav looked at his partner appraisingly.

“Don’t you think that opens the door to a new set of possibilities? We should consider the doer was a woman.”

“Maybe. But shooting isn’t typically a woman’s MO.”

“It is if she’s a cop.”

“Where do you get that from?” Cortex looked at him quizzically.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew the victim?” He replied.

Cortez was silent.

“I saw a picture of you talking to her at one of her events. Your bracelet is unmistakable.”

Yadav saw profound emotion in his partner’s eyes. “I didn’t kill her. I loved her,” she said.

He believed her.

*

Cortez told him the whole truth. She was gay and was active in the LGBT community. She had grown up in a strict Catholic Puerto Rican household. Her parents thought that homosexuals were hell-bound sinners. And she felt the pain of so many others who loved as she did.

Emma Hamilton was one. Cortez had met her a year ago at one of her fund-raisers. The two had talked. Their mutual attraction was undeniable. Emma had just broken up with another lover she cursed as oppressively possessive. The end had been ugly. The other woman had threatened violence.

“Do you know who she was?” Yadav asked.

“Emma never said,” Cortez replied. He noticed the tenderness in her voice.

It seemed they were back to square one.

*

The investigation continued. But they were at a dead end. Until two days later, the butler who had alerted the police to the gunshot called. He said he wanted to send them a video file they might find interesting.

A few minutes later, Yadav and Cortez were looking at a screen. It showed a recording from the ring camera of the butler’s brownstone. In the picture, walking determinedly, was a slim figure wearing a ball cap and a long raincoat. As the person walked past the door, heading toward the Hamilton house, they looked up at the camera.

The two detectives stared back at Yvette Billington.

*

They drove back out to Oyster Bay. The bubbly brunette was unusually quiet. It was as if she knew why they were there.

It did not take long. Yvette seemed relieved to speak. Her voice tightened. The once pleasant woman tensed with molten rage. Her muscles were taught, and her face flushed. No trace remained of the ditzy but engaging conversationalist. She was a woman scorned. And hell was paid.

As she confessed, the two detectives stared into the black eyes of an implacable murderer.