“How can you write that column and be so wrong about something so basic?”
Before I could say anything, his hand was behind my neck and he was kissing me with startling vigor. I was literally gasping when he let me go.
I didn’t appreciate Peter playing around like this, but experience told me that coolness made more of an impact on him than anything else, so I was careful not to overreact. I went for a Scarlett O’Hara response, fanning myself with a coaster from the bar. “Oh, now that changes everything. Want to take me home right now?”
He frowned. “You don’t kiss the same way anymore.”
I snuck a quick lick of my bottom lip, trying to tell if I had any lipstick left at all. What was he up to? This was taking the game a bit far, even for him. “It has been awhile, Peter.”
“Have you thought about me at all?”
“Of course.” I smiled. “You and the weather and politics and the cop.”
He laughed as sincerely as Peter ever laughs at anything. He’s more of a grinner, more apt to say “That’s funny” than to actually chuckle.
“Please don’t try to cloud my judgment when you brought me here to answer questions,” I said, trying again to move the conversation into professional waters. “How’d you know what I was working on?”
“I have a friend in Ronnie Willis’ office and she mentioned you interviewed him.”
She. The assistant or Paula? “What else did your friend tell you?”
“Nothing.”
The assistant. “So what makes you think there’s anything I can tell you?”
“Because I know how your mind works. I want to know who you think killed Garth Henderson.”
God bless the bartender, who appeared at that moment with my Scotch mist. I slid it quickly toward me so I could look at something other than Peter for a moment. “That’s not what my article’s about,” I said.
“Bullshit.”
“I’m doing a profile of Gwen Lincoln.” I took a sip and looked him in the eye while I could.
“Because she’s a murder suspect.”
“Because she’s a role model for our target demographic.”
“And the murder?”
“An unfortunate loss she’s coping with as best she can while she moves forward with her new business ventures.”
“C’mon, Moll, you can’t even say it with a straight face.”
“I am hoping to make it sound a little less movie-of-the-week when I actually write the thing.” I put the glass down in case my hands got unsteady when I asked him the next question. “So you’re doing an article on the murder?”
“Yeah.”
“Why the switch? I didn’t see your byline on any of the articles I read.”
“No, the switch is bigger than that. I left the Times.”
I tried to play down my surprise. “Really?”
His eyebrows drew together. “You don’t keep as close an eye on me as I do on you.”
One surprise after another. “So where are you?”
“It may turn out to be a hugely stupid move, but I signed on with Quinn Harriman’s start-up.”
“Need to Know? Congratulations.” Quinn Harriman was an investment banker turned publisher. His first effort, a magazine for gourmands, was growing nicely and his newest venture was being touted as a magazine for “the good guys.” While it was being surmised that this was some sort of anti-lad mag comment, what precisely made one a good guy hadn’t been spelled out too clearly in the promotional material. But if Peter was one of them, it was bound to be interesting. And open to debate.
He shrugged. “It’s a risk, but I didn’t like the paper as much as I’d thought I would, so I’m eager to dive into the next thing.”
I’d never seen it before, so I didn’t recognize it right away. Peter was being humble. What could have happened at the Times to cause this? When I was dating him, his definition of humility had been acknowledging that there might be one or two men in the city more fascinating than he was, but only one or two. Peter’s irresistible force must have finally encountered an immovable object. There was another story to investigate. But this one first. “So you’re doing an article on the murder itself.”
“Premiere issue, setting the tone, no pressure. Quinn thinks it has all the ingredients for a great cover story—money, power, sex—”
“Sex?” I asked innocently, prodding for his theory.
“The killer vaporized his nuts, Molly. Sex figures into this somewhere.”
“I agree. What’s your deadline?”
“Two weeks.”
I raised my glass in a sympathetic toast. “See you on the newsstands.” I tried to picture his cover story next to my cover story and wondered what Eileen would say—or shriek—when she found out. I’d sprint across that burning bridge when I came to it.
After we’d both had a sip or two, I decided to count on his newfound humility not having reduced his ego by too much and ask, “So, in your story, who killed Garth?”
He’d been waiting for me to ask. Ego intact. “Your girl.”
“Excuse me?”
“Doesn’t everyone suspect Gwen Lincoln?”
“Do they?” But looking straight into his twinkling eyes, I wasn’t completely sure if he was presenting his real theory to get my reaction or if he was giving me a cover theory so I wouldn’t know what path he was actually following.
“You don’t agree.”
Maybe it was worth offering up a piece of my truth to elicit something from him. “Why would she bother?”
“Crime of passion.”
“Old news, they were already getting a divorce. Besides, she was equally unfaithful.”
“So?”
“Killing over a trespass you’re committing yourself strikes me as a very male thing to do.”
“Harsh.”
It was my turn to shrug. “And a stake in the agency isn’t worth killing for. Let the divorce lawyers work that one out.”
“Then who did kill him?”
I immediately thought of Ronnie Willis’ desperate song and dance, but I wasn’t about to say so—in part because I wasn’t completely sure, but mainly because I was too competitive. “Guess I’ll have to read your article to find out.”
“Because that’s not what your article’s about.”
“Right.”
“You don’t even have a casual theory?”
“I just got this assignment, Peter, I’m still meeting the players. In fact, I should go.”
“Have dinner with me.”
“Thank you, but no.” The fun of seeing him again was dissipating under the weight of his agenda, plus I now had extra homework to do. I slipped off my stool, but he stood even more quickly and stepped into my path.
“Because of the cop?”
“Because I think it’s the smart choice. Thanks for the drink.”
Peter stepped back, for the moment at least. “I did think since we might be crossing paths on this, it’d be a good idea to see each other, make sure everything was okay …”
Make sure I wasn’t ahead of him on the story, that sort of thing. “Wonderful idea. Great to see you.” I debated for a split second, then kissed him lightly on the cheek and turned to leave.
“One more question before you go.”
I stopped, waiting for the punchline. “One.”
“What do you make of Ronnie’s whole ‘working with the woman I love’ deal? I mean, even if you’re just doing a profile of Gwen, this must enter into it, right?”
I did not want to have to tell Peter Mulcahey that I didn’t know what he was talking about. But then again, I didn’t have to, because his smile told me that he knew. “Ronnie didn’t phrase it that way to me,” I said neutrally, half-expecting a trap.
“That’s okay, he didn’t say it to me either. But my source says he keeps saying it when he’s on the phone to her—”
“To Gwen?”
“Who else?”
“How good is your source?”
“Inside there pretty good, why?”
“There are other women at both agencies,” I said, remembering Ronnie’s enthusiasm for the Harem.
“Yeah, but they’re all gonna report to him. That’s not ‘working with the woman you love,’ that’s having a great fringe benefits package.” Peter grinned, enjoying his view of corporate relationships, but I was too distracted by the cascading dominos of thought he’d set in motion to be offended.
Could Ronnie have wanted Garth out of the way both as a business partner and as Gwen’s partner? But Gwen and Garth were getting divorced, so that was already taken care of. And the company was stronger with Garth at the helm. But those were both rational considerations and how often is murder a rational act? Still, thinking of Gwen’s expression when she talked about Ronnie and vice versa, these were not people in love. If Ronnie was proclaiming the glories of loving the one he worked with, he was either snowing somebody big time or in love with someone else. Could that relationship have enough meaning to provoke a homicidal confrontation? Was there a triangle at the heart of this merger? Had Garth been Ronnie’s rival in love as well as business?
It was time to visit the Harem.
Without tipping my hand to Peter.
“You’re ahead of me, Peter. I didn’t pick up on anything between Ronnie and Gwen. Maybe they both felt it wasn’t appropriate for the piece I’m doing. Or that it would be impolite to publicize their romance so soon after Garth’s death.”
“Impolitic is more like it. Neither one of them can afford to attract any more attention from the cops. But speaking of cops and attention, I should let you go, right?” He stepped out of my way, content to let me leave now that he had established that he was indeed ahead of me on the investigative path. The fact that he might be headed in the wrong direction hadn’t occurred to him, but then again, it rarely did. And if I tried to warn him, he was going to think I was jealous, so I could refrain from saying anything with a relatively clear conscience.
“I should be leaving,” I agreed. “But I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”
“I’m counting on it,” he said, scooping up my hand and kissing it again. He smiled, more genuinely than he had yet, and watched me as I walked out of the bar. I know, because I glanced back over my shoulder as I exited. Just out of curiosity. Honest.
Six
“YOU HAVE GOT TO STOP telling these people the truth.”
It actually pleased me that Tricia’s mood had improved enough for her to lecture me. When I’d called her after leaving the Flatiron Lounge, she hadn’t been very happy.
I’d stepped outside and told myself the need to take a deep breath was only about the change in temperature from inside and had nothing to do with Peter Mulcahey. The city was trying to release the heat it had gathered during the day and I needed to do the same. Absorbing so much information and suppressed emotion in one day had left me a little light-headed and the Scotch mist with no dinner had nudged that along nicely. I wanted to track down Tricia and Cassady, see if they’d eaten yet, and sort out the day’s events and facts. I thought about calling Kyle, but he was never done with work this early and, besides, I needed to talk to someone about Peter. Kyle was not the ideal candidate.
But as I took my phone out of my bag, I felt like a coward for coming up with a reason not to call Kyle. I had nothing to hide: I’d met Peter for professional reasons and anything else that had happened had been Peter’s doing, not mine. If I told the story right, Kyle might even be amused. Or not.
The call went straight to voice mail and I tried not to feel relieved. I left a cheery message to say that I was meeting Cassady and Tricia and hoped he’d call me when he was done. After hanging up, I went through the automatic review process my brain initiates every time I leave a message: How dorky did I sound? Did I say everything I needed to? Did I say more than I needed to? Did I remember to say good-bye?
To shut my brain up, I called Cassady. Her phone went straight to voice mail, too. My batting average was terrific tonight. I left her a message about it not being even close to eight o’clock and how could she have given up on me so soon, and then, before the review process could even start, tried Tricia. Her phone rang at least and I decided that, if I got voice mail from her, too, that it would be a divine sign to go home, get into my pajamas, eat Frosted Flakes for dinner, and either reevaluate my life or watch Sullivan’s Travels on DVD.
Tricia answered on the third ring. “How’d it go?”
“Peter was just feeling me out.”
“Did you say ‘out’ or ‘up’?”
“Give me some credit.”
“Just asking.”
“Where are you guys? Please tell me you haven’t eaten yet.”
“Well, I can only speak for myself, but I am at Lotus and I am starving.”
“Where’s Cassady?”
“She left me.”
“To go to the bathroom?”
“To meet the physicist.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I were. I haven’t been abandoned so blithely since Doug Crandall, sophomore year of college.”
“I hear he’s bald and bitter now.”
“Thank you, but the fact remains, I’ve been tossed aside. Let’s meet somewhere for dinner and make a voodoo doll of the physicist with our breadsticks while we’re waiting.”
This was highly irregular for Cassady. There was a line between canceling out on girlfriends because you got a competing offer from a man and leaving a girlfriend midevening to go to a man. A true girlfriend didn’t cross it without a very good reason. Cassady hadn’t offered a reason at all, simply left. And then there was the fact that, “She just had lunch with him.”
“Compounds the crime, doesn’t it.”
Hidden agendas abounded—Cassady, Peter, Ronnie Willis. I needed to sit down and ingest something fortifying before I attempted to make sense of them all. “I’ll be right there.”
“No, I want a change of scene. And dinner.”
“Where should we meet?”
“On the blasted heath around a cauldron.”
“Not with just two of us.”
“Then, we should at least go to the Village. Employees Only in twenty minutes.”
“Make it thirty.”
“You’re closer than I am.”
“You’re not making allowances for my lousy cab karma.” Cassady can stop a cab with less effort than it takes to blink. She barely gets her arm above her waist and they’re queuing up. Tricia has a more forceful but not much less successful approach. She flings her hand out like she’s starting a Matrix shockwave and a cab stops. Me—I raise, I fling, I lunge, I walk a lot. Cassady says I need to develop a more Zen approach. I was afraid that meant imagining myself as large, yellow, and peeling at the edges, but she said I didn’t have to picture myself as the cab, I had to project an aura of being worthy of a cab.
But here’s one of my big problems in life—worthy worry. I worry I’m not worthy—of cabs, cool boyfriends, great jobs. Which makes me try harder at all of the above, but also to fret pretty consistently about what’s poised to go wrong. At least it gives me a heightened awareness of where and why things can explode in relationships, which figures heavily in the column and in my investigations.
Now if I can just find some non-Freudian explanation for my dislike of the subway.
“That one’s not pathological, it’s practical,” Tricia assured me as I finally took my seat next to her—thirty-three minutes later. Naturally, she’d had no transportation trouble and had arrived well before me. “Now tell me about Peter and the interviews.”
“First things first. What’s up with Cassady?”
“Hormones,” Tricia sniffed. “It borders on the unseemly.”
“My father once told me never to play pool with a physics major, but he never said anything about having sex with one.”
“Which would be unseemly times two.”
“The sex?”
“Your father talking to you about such things. And I’m not implying that Cassady has already leapt into bed with the Unknown Scientist, I’m coming right out and saying she’s being adolescent.”
“Really? What did she say?”
“Nothing.” Tricia paused, eyes widening as she watched me absorb this information. “Not a word.”
This was huge. When Cassady met a new man, we got a complete dossier that would put the CIA to shame at the first debriefing. A physical, psychological, and romantic assessment from a woman with a ruthless sense of what she likes and does not like in all areas, especially men. But for her to offer no information, no opinion was completely out of character. “Maybe she just doesn’t have a sense of him yet,” I attempted.
Tricia’s nose twitched with derision. “And that’s why she abandoned me. She needed to go get a sense of him. Perhaps we need to get a sense of him and figure out why he’s making our dear girl do things that are so unlike her.”
I paused with my glass halfway to my mouth. Things that are so unlike her. I knew Tricia was talking about Cassady and, while I shared her concern, I found myself suddenly picturing Gwen Lincoln in all her lemony composure. When I’d interviewed her, I’d been painting a picture already framed by all the research I’d done: capable businesswoman, perfect hostess, always in control. But what if she’d gotten into a relationship that had changed all that—especially if she’d gotten into it on the rebound from a relationship that had gone hugely sour, so she was looking to feel something completely different, be something completely different. What if Gwen Lincoln and Ronnie Willis were an item? What if they’d killed Garth to form a more perfect union, if our founding fathers would pardon the turn of phrase—a merger on every possible level?
I set my glass back down and Tricia gasped, a not fully unhappy sound. “What is it? What did you just figure out?”
I filled her in on my interviews with Gwen and Ronnie, and then on Peter’s parting shot. She wanted to go back and talk more about Peter, but I insisted that could wait. The day’s final tally had been that I wasn’t impressed by the possibility of Gwen killing Garth by herself or Ronnie doing it by himself. But the two of them together was an equation I hadn’t run yet. I still needed to get into GHInc. and talk to the Harem to get a sense not just of their worth to Ronnie, but what they thought of him—or more specifically, him with Gwen.
Killer Deal Page 8
