Fic: Pickled Red Herring (1/?)
Title: Pickled Red Herring (Part I 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: 2252
Summary: It wasn't every day you found a corpse pickling in a wine barrel.
NB: Written for gileonnen, who correctly guessed two of my Yuletide fics and asked for a modern AU Richard III. Any mistakes regarding police procedure or Wall Street investments are my responsibility, as I know little to nothing about either. Also, yes, Elizabeth the younger is listening to Lady Gaga. Don't judge me.
It wasn't every day you found a corpse pickling in a wine barrel.
"And thank God for that," Meg Stanley said aloud, holding her nose as she peered into just such a barrel, even though Forensics had walked off with the corpse in question. "Where the hell do you find wine barrels in Manhattan?"
"Fuck if I know," Bill Hastings, Chief of Police, lit his eighth cigarette of the day and coughed heavily. "Someone went to a lot of trouble on this. Of course," he gestured toward the corpse, "not too many people will miss that one."
The corpse's name was George York. He'd spent the past two years in and out of the Enquirer's back pages; he wasn't nearly enough of a celebrity to merit the front page. Four trips in and out of rehab, arrested using any kind of drug you could imagine, and weaselling out because his family owned Broome Investments and had more money than God. Not to mention his younger brother, possibly the hottest defence attorney in New York.
Well, as long as you weren't actually looking at him. He'd been born with a twisted spine, the sort of thing that, if he'd been conceived a few years later, someone might have been able to fix. How juries could stand the sight of him, Meg had never been able to figure out.
Meg sighed again. "Have we got anything? Witnesses? An angry sommelier?" Hastings looked at her blankly. "Wine expert. It was a joke."
"Heh." He grinned. "You're a funny one, Meggie. Why don't you let me take you to dinner sometime?"
"So not going there, Bill. Professional integrity and all that." A cry went up from the corner Forensics had claimed. Meg hurried over, Chief Hastings following close behind. "What's up?"
"Cause of death: multiple stab wounds." Dr Urswick the pathologist was prodding at the cold, discoloured chest. "Not to mention that I'm pretty sure we'll find a full-on drug buffet in his system. I have no idea what killed George York. But I'm damn sure he didn't drown."
"Well. That helps." Chief Hastings looked fairly green around the gills. "Actually, it doesn't. But we work with what we have. Right, we've got a few leads. Where did this wine barrel come from? Trace it. Who last saw George York? Where? When? Do we have a cellphone? Move it, people!" Turning back to Meg, he dropped the finished cigarette and ground it beneath his heel. "Anything?"
"Does his family know?" Hastings made an eloquent gesture, prompting Meg to shake her head with a grin. "I'm on it. Call me if you hear anything interesting."
Edward York, George's older brother and CEO of Broome Investments, lived in a townhouse on East 68th Street that cost more than Meg would make in several lifetimes. It wasn't the first time Meg had been here; Edward was a well-known supporter of the Department, and if certain people were more inclined to look the other way whenever his brother was found in possession of something he wasn't legally permitted to have, so much the better. Although she didn't agree with this in principle, George York hadn't actually harmed anybody--no drunk driving, no hookers in the closet, just lots and lots of drugs, usually indulged in the privacy of his multi-million-dollar apartment in the Village.
The housekeeper who had let her in had disappeared, presumably to find whoever was home, and Meg took the opportunity to look around. The last time she'd been here, the place had been full of politicians and Wall Street types. Not the best time to get a good look at anything, really. Above the massive ornamental fireplace was an old-fashioned portrait of a woman she recognised from the cover of a recent issue of Vogue. Edward York's wife, five years older than him but you'd never have guessed from seeing them together. Either the woman was hiding the Fountain of Youth in her bathroom or she'd found the best plastic surgeon in the country.
The tinny, unmistakeable sound of iPod headphones caught her attention and Meg glanced up to see a girl of maybe fifteen in the uniform of one of the fancy Upper East Side prep schools paused on the mezzanine level, hips gyrating madly.
"You and me could write a baaaad romaaaaance!"
She had to work very hard not to laugh.
"Elizabeth Jacqueline York, do you think Roland is waiting for you because he thinks it's fun?" The strident tones boomed from several floors up, echoing impressively. "You'll be late for school."
"Yes, Mom." Sullenly, the girl plucked the headphones from her ears and finally caught sight of Meg. Her eyes widened. "Mom, why are there police here?"
"Police?" Meg could hear the click of stiletto heels on marble as a woman who could only be Elizabeth Woodville descended the stairs. She looked every inch the Upper East Side society queen, from the perfectly styled ice-blonde hair to the Christian Louboutin pumps. "Detective Stanley, this is a surprise. Is something wrong?"
"Well..." Meg paused. "I guess you could say that, Mrs Woodville." She'd kept her maiden name despite marrying Wall Street's surprisingly long-lasting wunderkind some sixteen years earlier. "Do you mind if we talk alone?"
"Of course." A war of gazes ensued with her daughter that she, inevitably, won, although Meg smiled encouragingly at the girl as she made her way toward the door. After it had clanged shut behind her, Meg turned back to find the mother regarding her curiously. "Teenagers," she finally said, with the smoothest helpless shrug Meg had ever seen. "Do you have any children?"
"One, but he's older than your girl." Henry had just started his first year at Langley, training for the FBI, but there was no reason to bring that up. "I'm afraid I really need to speak to your husband, Mrs Woodville."
"He's..." she fished a BlackBerry out of her pocket, "in the air, I'm afraid. His flight left Dubai and is supposed to land at JFK in about three hours." Pressing her fingers to her temples, she frowned. "And there's a charity gala tonight at the Whitney. I'll pass on the news, whatever it is. I hope it's not something too bad."
"I hope you'll excuse me, Mrs Woodville, but I think it's something I should talk to him about directly."
The frown lingered between her brows but she nodded. "I understand. Perhaps if you came back around six this evening? We should have a little while before we're due to leave."
Like clockwork, Meg knocked on the door at 6PM sharp. Instead of the housekeeper she'd met earlier that day, she found herself facing Richard York, immaculate in black tie, who gestured with his cane for her to enter.
"Detective Stanley, lovely to see you."
"Mr York." She nodded unsmilingly. "Is your brother here, by any chance?"
He waved the cane at the staircase vaguely. "Upstairs. One doesn't like to intrude on alone time between husband and wife, know what I mean." The smile he flashed at her made Meg tempted to slap him, but she resisted valiantly.
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. You're supposed to be a qualified legal practitioner."
"Oh, Meggie, my colleagues get up to far worse. And so do yours." He leant on the cane, eyes alight with laughter. "You're just sore about that prostitution ring."
"Chief Hastings had nothing to do with--"
"You and I both know that. But La Woodville," he shook his head, teeth clicking, "she sees only prostitutes, handcuffs, and half a bag of cocaine, and her husband in a very compromising position."
Meg crossed her arms and glared at him, but before she could say anything, footsteps sounded on the staircase, and the booming laughter associated with Edward York, darling of Wall Street and, according to some, a man who could read the global financial markets the way other guys read the morning paper.
"Detective Stanley, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He stepped forward and wrapped her in an unexpected bear hug. "I'd grab you a ticket for the gala, but they're fresh out."
"Not a problem, Mr York. I just..." she glanced warily at Richard, "I need to tell you something."
"It's George, isn't it?" At Meg's horrified stare, he turned back to his brother and sighed. "He was found dead this morning."
"How do you know that?" demanded Meg.
"Hastings. He had some questions for me. Turns out I was the last person to see poor George alive, that we know of." He shook his head. "What a fucking mess. I guess we should've seen it coming."
Edward's face had turned paler than the marble floor. "What the hell are you talking about? George can't be dead. I left him in LA last week. He was fine."
"I'm afraid, sir," Meg ventured, "we found him this morning in a warehouse on Staten Island. Multiple stab wounds. Fair amount of coke in his system, but not enough to kill him."
"Fucking hell." Edward turned away, one hand muffling his words. "Richard, can you believe this?"
"Mr York, I'm so very sorry to have to ask this, but is there anyone you can think of who might have had a grudge against your brother?"
"Every coke dealer from here to New Brunswick, maybe?" Richard let out a bark of bitter laughter. "George wasn't a subtle guy."
"He told me he was clean, Richard, he promised me he was clean!"
"Guess that's how much you can trust him." Richard stared at the floor before looking back at Meg. "Any chance you can keep this quiet for tonight, Detective? Wouldn't want to ruin the party if we can help it."
"Are you absolutely sure?" Meg ignored Richard, keeping her eyes fixed on his elder brother. "I'm not saying a coke dealer is out of the question, but we could use a bit of help here."
Edward swiped one hand across his eyes. "Fuck, I don't know. George...well, Richard's right. He isn't--wasn't--a subtle guy. We tried to keep him out of trouble, but it just wouldn't work."
"Hey, hey," Richard reached out and clasped his brother's shoulder. "It's not your fault. I loved George, don't get me wrong, but he was fucking unreliable on the best of days." The past tense slipped so easily from his mouth that Meg narrowed her eyes. Just because she didn't like the guy didn't mean she should consider him a suspect on reflex, but all the same...
Something just didn't agree with her about him.
"You know what, there is someone that comes to mind." Richard's voice dragged Meg out of her reverie and she nodded at him to continue. He'd stepped away from his shocked brother, voice lowered conspiratorially. "My lovely sister-in-law hated him on sight. And she's got connections in all sorts of places if you know what I mean."
Annoyingly, he was right. Elizabeth Woodville was a former model, which had given her friends in a number of unexpected circles. "You don't honestly think she'd kill him, though?"
Richard shrugged expansively. "Nothing about her would surprise me. She puts up with Edward's infidelities when any other woman would have divorced him for half his millions and moved to the Caymans."
"You don't seem to like her much, yourself."
"I'm afraid she started that. Between you and me," he glanced toward his brother, who had since been joined by the lady in question, "I think she's uncomfortable around people who are..." he cleared his throat, "different."
"That is a serious accusation, Mr York. Tell me you've got some kind of evidence to back this up."
"Detective Stanley, as you yourself pointed out, I am a qualified legal practitioner. I know very well what it means to make an accusation of murder. Or at least manslaughter. I don't know if she's got what it takes to kill someone deliberately. She's more likely to rob them blind."
Meg gritted her teeth. "If you've got any actual evidence, tell me." Though she might have said more, a great deal more, she was interrupted by a choked breath from the other side of the foyer.
"Oh, my God! Call 911 for God's sake!" Elizabeth had staggered back as her husband sank to the floor, his face growing bright red. Mechanically, Meg dialled the number and heard herself, as if from a great distance, explaining that there was a man going into cardiac arrest and that he needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible.
As she lowered the phone from her ear, she caught sight of Richard watching her, his expression perfectly unreadable. It was only some hours later, after she'd made her report back at the station, that Meg recalled why that had worried her so horribly--he hadn't even looked at his brother once. All his attention had been focused on her reaction. Almost as if he'd planned for it.
Almost as if...
But it didn't make any sense.
She typed Richard York's name into Google and clicked on his law firm's website. There wasn't anything she hadn't already known. Graduated from Harvard Law summa cum laude and had taken a job at a giant firm, where, in just three years, he'd become the darling of their criminal defence group. And, considering the scum he'd defended, it was maybe not that surprising that he'd stoop to trying to kill his own brothers.
The question was why.
And that, Meg could not answer.
Part II
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: 2252
Summary: It wasn't every day you found a corpse pickling in a wine barrel.
NB: Written for gileonnen, who correctly guessed two of my Yuletide fics and asked for a modern AU Richard III. Any mistakes regarding police procedure or Wall Street investments are my responsibility, as I know little to nothing about either. Also, yes, Elizabeth the younger is listening to Lady Gaga. Don't judge me.
It wasn't every day you found a corpse pickling in a wine barrel.
"And thank God for that," Meg Stanley said aloud, holding her nose as she peered into just such a barrel, even though Forensics had walked off with the corpse in question. "Where the hell do you find wine barrels in Manhattan?"
"Fuck if I know," Bill Hastings, Chief of Police, lit his eighth cigarette of the day and coughed heavily. "Someone went to a lot of trouble on this. Of course," he gestured toward the corpse, "not too many people will miss that one."
The corpse's name was George York. He'd spent the past two years in and out of the Enquirer's back pages; he wasn't nearly enough of a celebrity to merit the front page. Four trips in and out of rehab, arrested using any kind of drug you could imagine, and weaselling out because his family owned Broome Investments and had more money than God. Not to mention his younger brother, possibly the hottest defence attorney in New York.
Well, as long as you weren't actually looking at him. He'd been born with a twisted spine, the sort of thing that, if he'd been conceived a few years later, someone might have been able to fix. How juries could stand the sight of him, Meg had never been able to figure out.
Meg sighed again. "Have we got anything? Witnesses? An angry sommelier?" Hastings looked at her blankly. "Wine expert. It was a joke."
"Heh." He grinned. "You're a funny one, Meggie. Why don't you let me take you to dinner sometime?"
"So not going there, Bill. Professional integrity and all that." A cry went up from the corner Forensics had claimed. Meg hurried over, Chief Hastings following close behind. "What's up?"
"Cause of death: multiple stab wounds." Dr Urswick the pathologist was prodding at the cold, discoloured chest. "Not to mention that I'm pretty sure we'll find a full-on drug buffet in his system. I have no idea what killed George York. But I'm damn sure he didn't drown."
"Well. That helps." Chief Hastings looked fairly green around the gills. "Actually, it doesn't. But we work with what we have. Right, we've got a few leads. Where did this wine barrel come from? Trace it. Who last saw George York? Where? When? Do we have a cellphone? Move it, people!" Turning back to Meg, he dropped the finished cigarette and ground it beneath his heel. "Anything?"
"Does his family know?" Hastings made an eloquent gesture, prompting Meg to shake her head with a grin. "I'm on it. Call me if you hear anything interesting."
Edward York, George's older brother and CEO of Broome Investments, lived in a townhouse on East 68th Street that cost more than Meg would make in several lifetimes. It wasn't the first time Meg had been here; Edward was a well-known supporter of the Department, and if certain people were more inclined to look the other way whenever his brother was found in possession of something he wasn't legally permitted to have, so much the better. Although she didn't agree with this in principle, George York hadn't actually harmed anybody--no drunk driving, no hookers in the closet, just lots and lots of drugs, usually indulged in the privacy of his multi-million-dollar apartment in the Village.
The housekeeper who had let her in had disappeared, presumably to find whoever was home, and Meg took the opportunity to look around. The last time she'd been here, the place had been full of politicians and Wall Street types. Not the best time to get a good look at anything, really. Above the massive ornamental fireplace was an old-fashioned portrait of a woman she recognised from the cover of a recent issue of Vogue. Edward York's wife, five years older than him but you'd never have guessed from seeing them together. Either the woman was hiding the Fountain of Youth in her bathroom or she'd found the best plastic surgeon in the country.
The tinny, unmistakeable sound of iPod headphones caught her attention and Meg glanced up to see a girl of maybe fifteen in the uniform of one of the fancy Upper East Side prep schools paused on the mezzanine level, hips gyrating madly.
"You and me could write a baaaad romaaaaance!"
She had to work very hard not to laugh.
"Elizabeth Jacqueline York, do you think Roland is waiting for you because he thinks it's fun?" The strident tones boomed from several floors up, echoing impressively. "You'll be late for school."
"Yes, Mom." Sullenly, the girl plucked the headphones from her ears and finally caught sight of Meg. Her eyes widened. "Mom, why are there police here?"
"Police?" Meg could hear the click of stiletto heels on marble as a woman who could only be Elizabeth Woodville descended the stairs. She looked every inch the Upper East Side society queen, from the perfectly styled ice-blonde hair to the Christian Louboutin pumps. "Detective Stanley, this is a surprise. Is something wrong?"
"Well..." Meg paused. "I guess you could say that, Mrs Woodville." She'd kept her maiden name despite marrying Wall Street's surprisingly long-lasting wunderkind some sixteen years earlier. "Do you mind if we talk alone?"
"Of course." A war of gazes ensued with her daughter that she, inevitably, won, although Meg smiled encouragingly at the girl as she made her way toward the door. After it had clanged shut behind her, Meg turned back to find the mother regarding her curiously. "Teenagers," she finally said, with the smoothest helpless shrug Meg had ever seen. "Do you have any children?"
"One, but he's older than your girl." Henry had just started his first year at Langley, training for the FBI, but there was no reason to bring that up. "I'm afraid I really need to speak to your husband, Mrs Woodville."
"He's..." she fished a BlackBerry out of her pocket, "in the air, I'm afraid. His flight left Dubai and is supposed to land at JFK in about three hours." Pressing her fingers to her temples, she frowned. "And there's a charity gala tonight at the Whitney. I'll pass on the news, whatever it is. I hope it's not something too bad."
"I hope you'll excuse me, Mrs Woodville, but I think it's something I should talk to him about directly."
The frown lingered between her brows but she nodded. "I understand. Perhaps if you came back around six this evening? We should have a little while before we're due to leave."
Like clockwork, Meg knocked on the door at 6PM sharp. Instead of the housekeeper she'd met earlier that day, she found herself facing Richard York, immaculate in black tie, who gestured with his cane for her to enter.
"Detective Stanley, lovely to see you."
"Mr York." She nodded unsmilingly. "Is your brother here, by any chance?"
He waved the cane at the staircase vaguely. "Upstairs. One doesn't like to intrude on alone time between husband and wife, know what I mean." The smile he flashed at her made Meg tempted to slap him, but she resisted valiantly.
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. You're supposed to be a qualified legal practitioner."
"Oh, Meggie, my colleagues get up to far worse. And so do yours." He leant on the cane, eyes alight with laughter. "You're just sore about that prostitution ring."
"Chief Hastings had nothing to do with--"
"You and I both know that. But La Woodville," he shook his head, teeth clicking, "she sees only prostitutes, handcuffs, and half a bag of cocaine, and her husband in a very compromising position."
Meg crossed her arms and glared at him, but before she could say anything, footsteps sounded on the staircase, and the booming laughter associated with Edward York, darling of Wall Street and, according to some, a man who could read the global financial markets the way other guys read the morning paper.
"Detective Stanley, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He stepped forward and wrapped her in an unexpected bear hug. "I'd grab you a ticket for the gala, but they're fresh out."
"Not a problem, Mr York. I just..." she glanced warily at Richard, "I need to tell you something."
"It's George, isn't it?" At Meg's horrified stare, he turned back to his brother and sighed. "He was found dead this morning."
"How do you know that?" demanded Meg.
"Hastings. He had some questions for me. Turns out I was the last person to see poor George alive, that we know of." He shook his head. "What a fucking mess. I guess we should've seen it coming."
Edward's face had turned paler than the marble floor. "What the hell are you talking about? George can't be dead. I left him in LA last week. He was fine."
"I'm afraid, sir," Meg ventured, "we found him this morning in a warehouse on Staten Island. Multiple stab wounds. Fair amount of coke in his system, but not enough to kill him."
"Fucking hell." Edward turned away, one hand muffling his words. "Richard, can you believe this?"
"Mr York, I'm so very sorry to have to ask this, but is there anyone you can think of who might have had a grudge against your brother?"
"Every coke dealer from here to New Brunswick, maybe?" Richard let out a bark of bitter laughter. "George wasn't a subtle guy."
"He told me he was clean, Richard, he promised me he was clean!"
"Guess that's how much you can trust him." Richard stared at the floor before looking back at Meg. "Any chance you can keep this quiet for tonight, Detective? Wouldn't want to ruin the party if we can help it."
"Are you absolutely sure?" Meg ignored Richard, keeping her eyes fixed on his elder brother. "I'm not saying a coke dealer is out of the question, but we could use a bit of help here."
Edward swiped one hand across his eyes. "Fuck, I don't know. George...well, Richard's right. He isn't--wasn't--a subtle guy. We tried to keep him out of trouble, but it just wouldn't work."
"Hey, hey," Richard reached out and clasped his brother's shoulder. "It's not your fault. I loved George, don't get me wrong, but he was fucking unreliable on the best of days." The past tense slipped so easily from his mouth that Meg narrowed her eyes. Just because she didn't like the guy didn't mean she should consider him a suspect on reflex, but all the same...
Something just didn't agree with her about him.
"You know what, there is someone that comes to mind." Richard's voice dragged Meg out of her reverie and she nodded at him to continue. He'd stepped away from his shocked brother, voice lowered conspiratorially. "My lovely sister-in-law hated him on sight. And she's got connections in all sorts of places if you know what I mean."
Annoyingly, he was right. Elizabeth Woodville was a former model, which had given her friends in a number of unexpected circles. "You don't honestly think she'd kill him, though?"
Richard shrugged expansively. "Nothing about her would surprise me. She puts up with Edward's infidelities when any other woman would have divorced him for half his millions and moved to the Caymans."
"You don't seem to like her much, yourself."
"I'm afraid she started that. Between you and me," he glanced toward his brother, who had since been joined by the lady in question, "I think she's uncomfortable around people who are..." he cleared his throat, "different."
"That is a serious accusation, Mr York. Tell me you've got some kind of evidence to back this up."
"Detective Stanley, as you yourself pointed out, I am a qualified legal practitioner. I know very well what it means to make an accusation of murder. Or at least manslaughter. I don't know if she's got what it takes to kill someone deliberately. She's more likely to rob them blind."
Meg gritted her teeth. "If you've got any actual evidence, tell me." Though she might have said more, a great deal more, she was interrupted by a choked breath from the other side of the foyer.
"Oh, my God! Call 911 for God's sake!" Elizabeth had staggered back as her husband sank to the floor, his face growing bright red. Mechanically, Meg dialled the number and heard herself, as if from a great distance, explaining that there was a man going into cardiac arrest and that he needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible.
As she lowered the phone from her ear, she caught sight of Richard watching her, his expression perfectly unreadable. It was only some hours later, after she'd made her report back at the station, that Meg recalled why that had worried her so horribly--he hadn't even looked at his brother once. All his attention had been focused on her reaction. Almost as if he'd planned for it.
Almost as if...
But it didn't make any sense.
She typed Richard York's name into Google and clicked on his law firm's website. There wasn't anything she hadn't already known. Graduated from Harvard Law summa cum laude and had taken a job at a giant firm, where, in just three years, he'd become the darling of their criminal defence group. And, considering the scum he'd defended, it was maybe not that surprising that he'd stoop to trying to kill his own brothers.
The question was why.
And that, Meg could not answer.
Part II