Chapter 2 - Blood in the Pool
At the Mercer estate in Oakridge, the smell of burnt mesquite charcoal still hung over the flagstone terrace.
The guests had cleared out with the frantic, uncomfortable haste of wealthy people who realized they had witnessed a crime that couldn't be smoothed over with a bottle of vintage Pinot Noir. Paper napkins skittered across the lawn in the evening breeze. A half-eaten platter of sliders sat on the marble outdoor counter, covered in flies.
Patrick Mercer paced the perimeter of the swimming pool, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. His polo shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a chest flushed deep crimson from too much bourbon and too much adrenaline.
"She slipped," Patrick muttered, kicking an empty plastic cup into the water. The cup bobbed near the deep end, right above the faint, dark cloud of blood that hadn't yet been completely scrubbed out by the filtration system. "You saw her, Mom. The deck was wet. She was wearing those stupid flat sandals. A kid runs on wet stone, she goes down. It happens every day."
Gloria Mercer sat on the wrought-iron chaise lounge, smoothing the folds of her white trousers. Her silver hair was shellacked into an immovable helmet, her diamond rings clicking rhythmically against the stem of her fresh glass.
"Of course she slipped," Gloria said, her voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. "Charlotte has always been an incompetent mother. Raising that girl to be insolent, talking back to adults as if she were an equal. Daniel spoiled them both rotten. If Daniel had spent half as much time managing his family as he did building the business, we wouldn't be dealing with this melodramatic little circus."
"Charlotte looked at me crazy, Mom," Patrick said, stopping his pacing. His hands were shaking slightly, so he shoved them deep into his pockets. "She looked at me like she wanted to kill me. She said I was going to regret this."
Gloria let out a dry, rattling laugh. "Regret it? With what? Charlotte doesn't have a nickel that doesn't flow through Daniel’s residual allowance. She lives in that quaint little suburban colonial Daniel bought her, drives a five-year-old Volvo, and scrapes by on the monthly stipend we generously approve from the estate account. She has no family. No influence. No money for a high-powered lawyer."
"What about that lawyer friend of Daniel's? Judith Vance?"
Gloria waved a dismissive hand, the ice in her glass chiming. "Judith Vance is a glorified corporate secretary. She handled Daniel’s paperwork because he felt sorry for her father. Besides, Patrick, you are the Chief Executive Officer of Mercer Hospitality. You hold the family name. The board consists of your father's old golfing buddies. Are they going to take the word of an hysterical, penniless widow over the man who brought the downtown hotel project to seventy percent completion?"
"Damn right," Patrick breathed, trying to convince himself. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and spat onto the grass. "Still... I don't like those cameras on the roof."
"Those old things?" Gloria scoffed. "Daniel put those up five years ago. Half of them don't even have the power lights on. But if you’re so terrified, go into the study, pull the hard drive from the recorder, and toss it in the incinerator. Tell them the system broke during the thunderstorm last Thursday."
"Yeah," Patrick nodded, his eyes brightening with ugly relief. "Yeah, good idea. Electrical surge. Happens all the time."
He turned toward the glass patio doors, but before his hand could touch the handle, a sharp chime echoed from the front courtyard.
Then came the heavy, unmistakable crunch of tires on gravel. Not one car. Several.
Patrick froze. He exchanged a glance with his mother.
"Are the caterers back for the rental chairs?" Gloria asked, frowning. "I told them six o'clock."
Patrick didn't answer. He walked through the outdoor breezeway, rounding the ivy-covered brick wall that separated the pool terrace from the sweeping front driveway.
Two black-and-white cruisers from the Oakridge Police Department sat idling on the circular drive, their light bars flashing in silent, mesmerizing patterns of red and blue across the front columns of the mansion. Behind them was an unmarked black sedan.
The door of the sedan opened, and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal suit stepped out. He didn't look like a standard patrol officer. He had the weathered, observant face of a man who had spent twenty years pulling bodies out of rivers and putting predators behind bars.
Detective Marcus Vance.
"What is the meaning of this?" Gloria’s voice rang out, sharp and imperious as she marched past Patrick onto the front portico. "Officer, this is private property! Turn those ridiculous lights off immediately! Our neighbors are prominent members of the country club!"
Detective Vance didn't turn off the lights. He didn't even adjust his posture. He walked up the stone steps, his badge clipped to his belt, followed by two uniformed officers with their hands resting casually near their utility belts.
"Mrs. Mercer," Marcus said, his tone flat and unbothered. "Patrick Mercer?"
Patrick swallowed hard, stepping forward while trying to puff out his chest. "I’m Patrick Mercer. What’s this about, Vance? If this is about the little accident by the pool earlier, my niece took a tumble. We called the medics. Everything was handled. My sister-in-law is prone to hysteria."
"An accident," Marcus repeated. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inner suit pocket. "That’s interesting, Mr. Mercer. Because St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital filed a mandatory non-accidental trauma report approximately thirty minutes ago. Severe skull fracture, subdural hematoma, secondary near-drowning."
Gloria gasped, her hand flying to her chest in theatrical outrage. "A non-accidental report? How dare they! That little girl was running on wet tile! Patrick was twenty feet away by the barbecue!"
Marcus looked at Gloria for a long, quiet second. It was the kind of look that made guilty people start sweating through their collars.
"That’s a very specific statement, Mrs. Mercer," Marcus said. "Especially considering the video we have in our possession shows your son standing approximately eighteen inches from Olivia Mercer when he applied two hands to her chest and launched her backward."
Patrick’s face drained of all color. The red flush of bourbon collapsed into a sickening, curdled gray. "Video? What video? There is no video!"
"Daniel Mercer had exceptional foresight," Marcus said coolly. "He installed a fiber-optic closed-circuit relay directly into an off-site legal vault. High-definition, sixty frames per second, with audio capture calibrated to pick up a whisper across fifty feet."
Marcus stepped forward. The two uniformed officers moved in lockstep behind him.
"You can hear everything, Patrick," Marcus continued, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. "You can hear her say 'No, Uncle Patrick.' You can hear your hand strike her collarbone. You can hear her head crack against the stone coping. And you can hear you tell your mother that she was being disrespectful while Olivia was drowning at the bottom of ten feet of water."
"That’s illegal!" Patrick shrieked, backing away toward the heavy mahogany front doors. "That’s private surveillance on my property! You can't use that! You don't have a warrant!"
"This isn't your property, Mr. Mercer," Marcus said, unfolding the document in his hands. "This estate belongs to Mercer Holdings LLC. And the managing partner of Mercer Holdings LLC just authorized a full, uninhibited search and seizure of this premises, along with your immediate detention."
"Managing partner?" Gloria snarled, her voice climbing an octave into sheer panic. "I am the matriarch of this family! Patrick is the head of Mercer Holdings!"
"Check your corporate registry, ma'am," Marcus said. He turned to the officers. "Patrick Mercer, turn around and place your hands behind your back."
"No! Mom, do something!" Patrick yelled, lunging backward.
One of the uniformed officers was faster. He caught Patrick by the shoulder, spun him toward the brick siding, and slammed him against the wall with enough force to knock the breath out of him. The click of the steel cuffs was loud, final, and echoing across the manicured lawn.
"You’re making a mistake!" Patrick screamed, his cheek pressed flat against the rough red brick. "Do you know who my friends are? The District Attorney plays poker at my club! I’ll have your badge by breakfast, Vance! I’ll have you directing traffic in the industrial park!"
"Patrick Mercer, you are under arrest for aggravated assault of a minor, reckless endangerment, and attempted manslaughter," Marcus read, reciting the Miranda rights from memory while the second officer searched Patrick’s pockets, tossing his phone, his gold money clip, and his cigar lighter onto the porch table.
Gloria rushed forward, her painted nails clawing at Marcus’s sleeve. "Take your hands off my son! You take your hands off him right now! Charlotte is doing this! That miserable, gold-digging little parasite! She thinks she can tear this family apart? I’ll ruin her! I will strip her of every single dime! She won't have enough money to bury that child when she dies!"
Detective Marcus Vance stopped. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto Gloria Mercer with an intensity that made the older woman recoil half a step.
"I’d be very careful about making threats regarding money, Mrs. Mercer," Marcus said quietly. "Because Judith Vance isn't just my sister. She’s Daniel’s executor. And she told me to give you a message."
Gloria’s breath caught in her throat. "What message?"
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Marcus leaned in, his voice clear enough for the neighbors watching from the hedges to hear. "She said: *Check your bank balance. The locks will be changed by midnight.*"
***
