Fic: Pickled Red Herring (2/?)
Title: Pickled Red Herring (Part II of ??)
Author: lareinenoire
Play: Richard III
Characters / Pairings: Stanley, Hastings, Elizabeth, Richard, and the corpse that was formerly George
Rating: M
Warnings: Violence, profanity, references to drug use, references to prostitution descriptions of murder scenes, shady economics, infidelity, bad life choices, Epic Legal Fail, POV Minor Character, genderswap, unfortunate nicknames, bad jokes, dodgy references to people's sex lives
Wordcount: 2264 (Part II only)
Summary: It wasn't every day you found a corpse pickling in a wine barrel.
NB: Yes, there's more. The plotbunny has bit me well and good. Many thanks to angevin2 and rosamund for beta-reading!
Part I is here.
"I ask you some simple questions about George York, and this is what I get in response?" Hastings had turned the colour of a ripe tomato. "Two bodies?"
"It was a heart attack," Meg said softly. "Nobody could have predicted that."
"Edward York had a triple bypass last year." It was then that she noticed that her boss's eyes were red-rimmed. "I didn't think I needed to tell you to be careful about breaking the news."
"It wasn't me!" protested Meg, colour rising in her cheeks. "You're the one who got Tricky Dick involved."
Hastings blinked. "Do people really call him that?"
"Everyone in the prosecutor's office. That really shouldn't surprise you. But that's not the point, Bill. He's the one who told Edward York, and I had no idea he even knew. Look," she took a deep breath, steeling herself, "I don't want to point fingers, but you've got him close to both men when things went haywire."
"Are you accusing Richard York of killing his brothers?" All the colour drained from Hastings' face within seconds, an impressive display to say the least. "You'd better have a damn good reason for this, Stanley."
Meg sighed. "Dammit, Bill, I don't know why. I just...I've got this feeling. I can't pin it down, but it's something about the way he looks at people. Like they're toys. Chess pieces. I bet he loves chess," she added savagely.
"Regional champion, actually. Edward told me about it once. Said he'd teased Richard all the time about it until Richard kicked his ass. First time he did it. Caught Edward by surprise, that's for damn sure." Tears sprang to his eyes. "Fuck, Stanley, why'd he have to go that way? He's younger than me."
"Well, I'd bet you anything he didn't follow the doctor's orders after that bypass." Even as Meg said it, she slung her arm around Hastings' shoulders. "I'm sorry. I know you were close to him."
"He saved my life in Kuwait." He rubbed at his eyes. "I told you about that, right? Eighteen goddamn years old, joined up because he wanted to make his dad proud and pay for college in the bargain. Well, he did."
"You're saying something at the funeral, right?" Meg asked. "He'd have wanted that."
Hastings grimaced, wiping his nose. "If I'm lucky and that wife of his lets me through the door. Widow, I guess. She'll have her brother make one of those damn speeches that nobody understands except the reporters from the Times and they'll write their fucking editorials about how it was such a moving occasion and all Edward would have wanted was for everyone to get drunk off their asses and have a great time on his dollar."
"Oh, Bill. Let me buy you a drink. Or twelve." Normally, Meg wouldn't have come within a mile of making this kind of offer, but she couldn't restrain herself. "You said it's what he would have wanted."
In retrospect, maybe it wasn't the greatest idea. She ended up buying at least a bottle's worth of Jameson's, to the point that the bartender had just handed the entire thing to her. Hastings had at least stopped crying and had progressed to the maudlin nostalgia stage of Post-Mortem Drunkenness. She'd heard a fair amount about Edward York over the years, but Hastings seemed to be pulling out all the ones he'd kept to himself, and not without reason. Meg would never have pegged her boss for the experimental type, but apparently he was when a certain cocktail of substances and a woman referred to only as Jane were involved.
Although Meg would have liked to run her various theories about Richard York past him, Hastings was clearly in no state for rational analysis. He was slurring his way through 'Stairway to Heaven' as Meg practically dragged him out of the subway in Brooklyn.
It was a shock, therefore, that Hastings saw the woman on his doorstep first. Or maybe not such a shock since all of Meg's attention was focused on keeping a man twice her size from falling over her.
"Jane." At the word, Meg nearly stumbled, so shocked was she by the naked longing in Hastings' voice. "Is that really you?"
"Oh, Bill. Oh, God, Bill." She had the voice of a jazz singer. Meg supposed she couldn't blame Hastings that much. In a whiff of expensive perfume, Jane flung her arms around Hastings. "I can't believe he's dead, I just can't!"
"Oh, sweetie," he whispered, clinging to her as Meg disentangled herself from what was distinctly too awkward for her tastes. "Dammit, Jane, if I'd known where you were, I'd have told you myself."
Meg took that opportunity to discreetly withdraw. "I'll see you tomorrow, Bill. Take care, okay?"
Much to her surprise, Bill looked her straight in the eye in spite of Jane sobbing hysterically into his shoulder. "Thanks, Meggie. You're a great friend."
When she got home, she fixed herself a cup of coffee and stared blankly at the television, where every channel was running some sort of retrospective on Edward York and speculating on what would happen to Broome now that its golden boy's heart had given out at thirty-eight years old. He had kids, but they were all far too young---
Meg's heart twisted, remembering the girl on the stairs. Ellie York, apple of her father's eye according to Hastings. She'd stop by, she told herself, before the funeral. Bill had insisted on a police escort for the family; two deaths within twenty-four hours, even if one was natural, merited some security.
"...he'd even talked about going into politics and rumour has it there might have been a spot for him in the Treasury Department next year. Edward York will be sorely missed." On the screen, the newscaster sighed visibly. "There will be a memorial service at St John the Divine on Thursday for people to pay their respects."
Meg clicked off the television and reached for the steno pad lying on the side table beside the empty coffee cup. Two words were written at the top of an otherwise empty page: Cui bono?
Whose benefit? Who would want both Edward and his brother dead? Follow the money, Meggie. Ninety-nine percent of the time, you'll find your answer there. But she wasn't finding any answers, at least not yet. Hastings, being one of Edward's close friends and, apparently, a beneficiary, was supposed to attend the reading of the will after the funeral on Wednesday and Meg had already arranged to meet him afterward.
She nearly dropped the pad.
"Follow the money. Shit." Grabbing the phone, she hit the speed-dial for Hastings. In response to the unintelligible groan, she burst out, "What was Edward leaving you, Hastings? Do you know?"
"Meggie, what t'fuck?"
"Is he leaving you shares, Bill? Shares in the company? Do you know?"
"I don't know, Meggie." In the background, she could hear the murmur of a woman's voice. "My retirement account is at Broome. I don't know what happens except that I put money into it every two weeks and someday I might be lucky enough to use it. Now, why the hell are you calling me at 4AM?"
"I'm sorry, Bill. But..." she sighed. "We have two bodies. Brothers, shareholders in one of the biggest investment firms in the city, dead within twenty-four hours. Doesn't that seem at least a bit weird to you?"
"What are you talking about?" Hastings finally said, after several seconds of crackling. "George wasn't a shareholder. Not anymore, anyway. He sold all his shares, split them between his brothers. Edward said George was hard up for cash but he was sick of just handing it to him, so they came up with a compromise."
Meg swore under her breath. "So it can't have been for the money, I guess."
"Not George, no. Although Catesby was chasing up a few leads that sounded promising. He said he'd meet me at the station before the funeral and let me know what he'd found. You interested?"
"Of course I'm interested. Sorry for waking you up."
"Wasn't actually asleep."
"You're a filthy man, Bill Hastings." Laughing, she hung up.
Lieutenant Walter Catesby was thirty-five years old, balding, and wore Coke-bottle glasses ironically. He was also Hastings' right-hand man and had been for more than ten years now, turning down at least three different jobs in New Jersey to stay in his cramped apartment in the Bronx.
"Detective Stanley, good to see you as always." He shook her hand. "I assume Bill's brought you up to speed."
"More or less," Meg said. "You found anything new?"
"Well, it looks like Edward York's two boys and their uncle should be on the first train in from Boston today." With a small sigh, Catesby looked at the ground. "Poor kids. Elizabeth Woodville was planning to hire her own security detail to make sure the press didn't come swooping in, but it sounds like her brother-in-law managed to convince her they should just keep things as quiet as possible."
"Are we sure that's a good idea?" Meg frowned. "The paparazzi are all over this Edward York story. Two adorable fatherless boys in uniforms may be more than they can resist."
"If they have any common decency--"
"It's the press, Walter. They wouldn't know decency if it kicked them in the face and stole their camera."
She heard Hastings' snort of laughter from the doorway. "No love for the trashy tabloids, Meggie?"
"They're vultures, Bill, and you know it." But the words emerged with little force, so distracted was Meg by the expression on the police chief's face. He looked better-rested than he had in weeks, a look of lazy contentment in his eyes and in spite of the stiff black suit and tie he wore. Whoever Jane was, she clearly knew what she was doing. "I guess we should get going if we want to get in before all the crowds."
Meg couldn't help but glance at the newsstand as Hastings wedged the police car into a truly unlikely parking spot. One of three shots of Edward York--twenty years old, in the full dress uniform of the United States Air Force and looking uncannily like a young Robert Redford; beside the stunning Elizabeth at Milan's Fashion Week ten years ago; caught stepping out of a limo in Grand Cayman with a redhead in oversized sunglasses that, after the other night, looked very familiar to Meg--spilled across the front pages of the Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Post, each framed by more text than she had time to read. But all seemed to be asking the same thing: What of Broome Investments? All of Wall Street had come to a standstill, according to the Journal, waiting with bated breath for what Ted York, the world's youngest billionaire at fourteen years old, would do.
At the sound of Hastings' yell, Meg gave in to temptation and bought a copy of the Times. As she reached his side, however, she was frowning at a tiny story on page three. "Hey, Bill, check this out."
"Prominent Harvard professor arrested on charges of child molestation?" Hastings rolled his eyes. "Meg, really--"
"Look at his name, Bill!" Meg jabbed her finger at the text. "Anthony Woodville. That's Edward York's brother-in-law."
She and Hastings stared at each other for several seconds. "No way. I don't believe it. If Woodville's gotten any action that wasn't his own hand and a bottle of lotion in the past fifteen years, I'd eat that paper."
"Something is really wrong here, Bill. It's like someone is systematically taking down everyone associated with Broome Investments."
"A rival company?" Catesby suggested from Meg's other side. When they both looked at him, he shrugged. "People do all kinds of crazy things for money. Especially this kind of money."
"It's got to be someone with a lot of influence, though. Or this has been in the works for years..." Meg took the paper back and scanned the article. Nothing remotely useful, all anonymous sources and conjectures, and Woodville didn't even get a statement. Clearly his attorney was sleeping on the job---
Meg flipped back to the front page, unsure of exactly what she was searching for until she found it. "'Edward York named his younger brother Richard, an attorney with a prominent Midtown law firm, as primary legal executor of his will.' That makes him acting president of Broome Investments, Bill."
"Meggie, I know you don't like the guy--"
"I don't trust him. Liking has nothing to do with it." Meg sighed. "He's got everything to gain."
"He doesn't need anything, Meggie. For fuck's sake, the guy's in line to get his name on that damn law firm's building before his fortieth birthday." Hastings straightened his tie as they reached the massive doors of the cathedral. "Righto. Let's get this dog and monkey show over with."
But before they could open the doors, a high-pitched shriek echoed from within. Meg's hand immediately went to her shoulder holster as the door clanged open and Elizabeth Woodville stumbled onto the steps, one hand pressed to her mouth. For what had to be the first time in the more than fifteen years Meg had known her, Edward York's wife looked like a mess, hair falling loose from a chignon and mascara streaked across her face.
"God help us all, Detective Stanley," she whispered, blue-grey eyes alive with horror. "I knew it was only a matter of time. I'm never going to see my boys again."
Author: lareinenoire
Play: Richard III
Characters / Pairings: Stanley, Hastings, Elizabeth, Richard, and the corpse that was formerly George
Rating: M
Warnings: Violence, profanity, references to drug use, references to prostitution descriptions of murder scenes, shady economics, infidelity, bad life choices, Epic Legal Fail, POV Minor Character, genderswap, unfortunate nicknames, bad jokes, dodgy references to people's sex lives
Wordcount: 2264 (Part II only)
Summary: It wasn't every day you found a corpse pickling in a wine barrel.
NB: Yes, there's more. The plotbunny has bit me well and good. Many thanks to angevin2 and rosamund for beta-reading!
Part I is here.
"I ask you some simple questions about George York, and this is what I get in response?" Hastings had turned the colour of a ripe tomato. "Two bodies?"
"It was a heart attack," Meg said softly. "Nobody could have predicted that."
"Edward York had a triple bypass last year." It was then that she noticed that her boss's eyes were red-rimmed. "I didn't think I needed to tell you to be careful about breaking the news."
"It wasn't me!" protested Meg, colour rising in her cheeks. "You're the one who got Tricky Dick involved."
Hastings blinked. "Do people really call him that?"
"Everyone in the prosecutor's office. That really shouldn't surprise you. But that's not the point, Bill. He's the one who told Edward York, and I had no idea he even knew. Look," she took a deep breath, steeling herself, "I don't want to point fingers, but you've got him close to both men when things went haywire."
"Are you accusing Richard York of killing his brothers?" All the colour drained from Hastings' face within seconds, an impressive display to say the least. "You'd better have a damn good reason for this, Stanley."
Meg sighed. "Dammit, Bill, I don't know why. I just...I've got this feeling. I can't pin it down, but it's something about the way he looks at people. Like they're toys. Chess pieces. I bet he loves chess," she added savagely.
"Regional champion, actually. Edward told me about it once. Said he'd teased Richard all the time about it until Richard kicked his ass. First time he did it. Caught Edward by surprise, that's for damn sure." Tears sprang to his eyes. "Fuck, Stanley, why'd he have to go that way? He's younger than me."
"Well, I'd bet you anything he didn't follow the doctor's orders after that bypass." Even as Meg said it, she slung her arm around Hastings' shoulders. "I'm sorry. I know you were close to him."
"He saved my life in Kuwait." He rubbed at his eyes. "I told you about that, right? Eighteen goddamn years old, joined up because he wanted to make his dad proud and pay for college in the bargain. Well, he did."
"You're saying something at the funeral, right?" Meg asked. "He'd have wanted that."
Hastings grimaced, wiping his nose. "If I'm lucky and that wife of his lets me through the door. Widow, I guess. She'll have her brother make one of those damn speeches that nobody understands except the reporters from the Times and they'll write their fucking editorials about how it was such a moving occasion and all Edward would have wanted was for everyone to get drunk off their asses and have a great time on his dollar."
"Oh, Bill. Let me buy you a drink. Or twelve." Normally, Meg wouldn't have come within a mile of making this kind of offer, but she couldn't restrain herself. "You said it's what he would have wanted."
In retrospect, maybe it wasn't the greatest idea. She ended up buying at least a bottle's worth of Jameson's, to the point that the bartender had just handed the entire thing to her. Hastings had at least stopped crying and had progressed to the maudlin nostalgia stage of Post-Mortem Drunkenness. She'd heard a fair amount about Edward York over the years, but Hastings seemed to be pulling out all the ones he'd kept to himself, and not without reason. Meg would never have pegged her boss for the experimental type, but apparently he was when a certain cocktail of substances and a woman referred to only as Jane were involved.
Although Meg would have liked to run her various theories about Richard York past him, Hastings was clearly in no state for rational analysis. He was slurring his way through 'Stairway to Heaven' as Meg practically dragged him out of the subway in Brooklyn.
It was a shock, therefore, that Hastings saw the woman on his doorstep first. Or maybe not such a shock since all of Meg's attention was focused on keeping a man twice her size from falling over her.
"Jane." At the word, Meg nearly stumbled, so shocked was she by the naked longing in Hastings' voice. "Is that really you?"
"Oh, Bill. Oh, God, Bill." She had the voice of a jazz singer. Meg supposed she couldn't blame Hastings that much. In a whiff of expensive perfume, Jane flung her arms around Hastings. "I can't believe he's dead, I just can't!"
"Oh, sweetie," he whispered, clinging to her as Meg disentangled herself from what was distinctly too awkward for her tastes. "Dammit, Jane, if I'd known where you were, I'd have told you myself."
Meg took that opportunity to discreetly withdraw. "I'll see you tomorrow, Bill. Take care, okay?"
Much to her surprise, Bill looked her straight in the eye in spite of Jane sobbing hysterically into his shoulder. "Thanks, Meggie. You're a great friend."
When she got home, she fixed herself a cup of coffee and stared blankly at the television, where every channel was running some sort of retrospective on Edward York and speculating on what would happen to Broome now that its golden boy's heart had given out at thirty-eight years old. He had kids, but they were all far too young---
Meg's heart twisted, remembering the girl on the stairs. Ellie York, apple of her father's eye according to Hastings. She'd stop by, she told herself, before the funeral. Bill had insisted on a police escort for the family; two deaths within twenty-four hours, even if one was natural, merited some security.
"...he'd even talked about going into politics and rumour has it there might have been a spot for him in the Treasury Department next year. Edward York will be sorely missed." On the screen, the newscaster sighed visibly. "There will be a memorial service at St John the Divine on Thursday for people to pay their respects."
Meg clicked off the television and reached for the steno pad lying on the side table beside the empty coffee cup. Two words were written at the top of an otherwise empty page: Cui bono?
Whose benefit? Who would want both Edward and his brother dead? Follow the money, Meggie. Ninety-nine percent of the time, you'll find your answer there. But she wasn't finding any answers, at least not yet. Hastings, being one of Edward's close friends and, apparently, a beneficiary, was supposed to attend the reading of the will after the funeral on Wednesday and Meg had already arranged to meet him afterward.
She nearly dropped the pad.
"Follow the money. Shit." Grabbing the phone, she hit the speed-dial for Hastings. In response to the unintelligible groan, she burst out, "What was Edward leaving you, Hastings? Do you know?"
"Meggie, what t'fuck?"
"Is he leaving you shares, Bill? Shares in the company? Do you know?"
"I don't know, Meggie." In the background, she could hear the murmur of a woman's voice. "My retirement account is at Broome. I don't know what happens except that I put money into it every two weeks and someday I might be lucky enough to use it. Now, why the hell are you calling me at 4AM?"
"I'm sorry, Bill. But..." she sighed. "We have two bodies. Brothers, shareholders in one of the biggest investment firms in the city, dead within twenty-four hours. Doesn't that seem at least a bit weird to you?"
"What are you talking about?" Hastings finally said, after several seconds of crackling. "George wasn't a shareholder. Not anymore, anyway. He sold all his shares, split them between his brothers. Edward said George was hard up for cash but he was sick of just handing it to him, so they came up with a compromise."
Meg swore under her breath. "So it can't have been for the money, I guess."
"Not George, no. Although Catesby was chasing up a few leads that sounded promising. He said he'd meet me at the station before the funeral and let me know what he'd found. You interested?"
"Of course I'm interested. Sorry for waking you up."
"Wasn't actually asleep."
"You're a filthy man, Bill Hastings." Laughing, she hung up.
Lieutenant Walter Catesby was thirty-five years old, balding, and wore Coke-bottle glasses ironically. He was also Hastings' right-hand man and had been for more than ten years now, turning down at least three different jobs in New Jersey to stay in his cramped apartment in the Bronx.
"Detective Stanley, good to see you as always." He shook her hand. "I assume Bill's brought you up to speed."
"More or less," Meg said. "You found anything new?"
"Well, it looks like Edward York's two boys and their uncle should be on the first train in from Boston today." With a small sigh, Catesby looked at the ground. "Poor kids. Elizabeth Woodville was planning to hire her own security detail to make sure the press didn't come swooping in, but it sounds like her brother-in-law managed to convince her they should just keep things as quiet as possible."
"Are we sure that's a good idea?" Meg frowned. "The paparazzi are all over this Edward York story. Two adorable fatherless boys in uniforms may be more than they can resist."
"If they have any common decency--"
"It's the press, Walter. They wouldn't know decency if it kicked them in the face and stole their camera."
She heard Hastings' snort of laughter from the doorway. "No love for the trashy tabloids, Meggie?"
"They're vultures, Bill, and you know it." But the words emerged with little force, so distracted was Meg by the expression on the police chief's face. He looked better-rested than he had in weeks, a look of lazy contentment in his eyes and in spite of the stiff black suit and tie he wore. Whoever Jane was, she clearly knew what she was doing. "I guess we should get going if we want to get in before all the crowds."
Meg couldn't help but glance at the newsstand as Hastings wedged the police car into a truly unlikely parking spot. One of three shots of Edward York--twenty years old, in the full dress uniform of the United States Air Force and looking uncannily like a young Robert Redford; beside the stunning Elizabeth at Milan's Fashion Week ten years ago; caught stepping out of a limo in Grand Cayman with a redhead in oversized sunglasses that, after the other night, looked very familiar to Meg--spilled across the front pages of the Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Post, each framed by more text than she had time to read. But all seemed to be asking the same thing: What of Broome Investments? All of Wall Street had come to a standstill, according to the Journal, waiting with bated breath for what Ted York, the world's youngest billionaire at fourteen years old, would do.
At the sound of Hastings' yell, Meg gave in to temptation and bought a copy of the Times. As she reached his side, however, she was frowning at a tiny story on page three. "Hey, Bill, check this out."
"Prominent Harvard professor arrested on charges of child molestation?" Hastings rolled his eyes. "Meg, really--"
"Look at his name, Bill!" Meg jabbed her finger at the text. "Anthony Woodville. That's Edward York's brother-in-law."
She and Hastings stared at each other for several seconds. "No way. I don't believe it. If Woodville's gotten any action that wasn't his own hand and a bottle of lotion in the past fifteen years, I'd eat that paper."
"Something is really wrong here, Bill. It's like someone is systematically taking down everyone associated with Broome Investments."
"A rival company?" Catesby suggested from Meg's other side. When they both looked at him, he shrugged. "People do all kinds of crazy things for money. Especially this kind of money."
"It's got to be someone with a lot of influence, though. Or this has been in the works for years..." Meg took the paper back and scanned the article. Nothing remotely useful, all anonymous sources and conjectures, and Woodville didn't even get a statement. Clearly his attorney was sleeping on the job---
Meg flipped back to the front page, unsure of exactly what she was searching for until she found it. "'Edward York named his younger brother Richard, an attorney with a prominent Midtown law firm, as primary legal executor of his will.' That makes him acting president of Broome Investments, Bill."
"Meggie, I know you don't like the guy--"
"I don't trust him. Liking has nothing to do with it." Meg sighed. "He's got everything to gain."
"He doesn't need anything, Meggie. For fuck's sake, the guy's in line to get his name on that damn law firm's building before his fortieth birthday." Hastings straightened his tie as they reached the massive doors of the cathedral. "Righto. Let's get this dog and monkey show over with."
But before they could open the doors, a high-pitched shriek echoed from within. Meg's hand immediately went to her shoulder holster as the door clanged open and Elizabeth Woodville stumbled onto the steps, one hand pressed to her mouth. For what had to be the first time in the more than fifteen years Meg had known her, Edward York's wife looked like a mess, hair falling loose from a chignon and mascara streaked across her face.
"God help us all, Detective Stanley," she whispered, blue-grey eyes alive with horror. "I knew it was only a matter of time. I'm never going to see my boys again."