Killer Deal

by Sheryl J. Anderson

“I’m sorry,” I said, aware I was apologizing again but not getting any resistance this time. “It’s my boyfriend.”

  “What is?” Detective Hernandez turned to me sharply, like I’d suddenly switched languages on her.

  “The one-nine. He’s a homicide detective over there and someone must have called him about my being here and he wanted to check on me because,” I said, gesturing to the man walking in the door, “that’s not him at all.”

  Detectives Hernandez and Guthrie exchanged one of those partner looks that smacks of “we’re the only sane people in the room” as I frowned at the tall blond walking toward me with a knowing smile. He diverted his glance to Detective Hernandez long enough to shake her hand and introduce himself as Wally Donovan, then offered his hand to me. I shook it automatically, still adjusting to his not being Kyle.

  “Hope you don’t mind, but I’m working the Garth Henderson murder and when I heard things had gotten a little dramatic over here this morning, I thought I’d come over and check out any overlap.”

  Detective Hernandez quickly brought him up to speed on the events of the morning, based on the interviews she’d done, while I studied him as surreptitiously as possible. So this was the difficult detective Kyle had wanted to keep me away from. I’d assumed that he was an older detective, someone who’d object to me as an interloper or see me as a distraction in Kyle’s life. Maybe some of that stemmed from guilt. I’d also pictured him as small, dark, and antisocial and that probably stemmed from many Humphrey Bogart and John Garfield movies. He was, in fact, tall, blazingly blond, and almost gregarious. The suit was rather high end for a detective and as he pulled out his notebook, light bounced off his nails. A detective who got manicures. New one on me.

  “So, Ms. Forrester, how do you think the events here this morning relate to your probe into Mr. Henderson’s death?” Detective Donovan asked. I didn’t need to see the expressions on the other two detectives, I could fill those in for myself.

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Peter Mulcahey led me to believe otherwise.”

  I held back the laugh and the sigh. “What’s a nice detective like you doing with a guy like that?”

  “He and I go way back.”

  “He and I go not so way back and my question stands.”

  “If we’re going to start judging each other by the company we keep, let’s talk about Kyle Edwards.”

  “Let’s just talk about all the reasons that talking about that’s a bad idea. It’s much simpler.”

  “I got a question,” Detective Hernandez interjected. “Why don’t you two go buy each other a drink and let me work my case?”

  “You’re not matchmaking, are you, Detective Hernandez?” He grinned at her, but she didn’t so much as think of smiling back. Behind him, Detective Guthrie rolled his eyes.

  I didn’t stop to consider any other possibilities why Kyle didn’t want me around this guy, I leapt at an opportunity to get more information on the murder. Not unlike the way I’d leapt at Jack Douglass—without thinking where I’d land. “Nevertheless, a good idea. What say we visit the scene of the crime. Bemelman’s Bar in the Carlyle at six o’clock, Detective Donovan? We can continue our conversation then.” I scrawled my cell number on a business card and held it out to him.

  He pocketed it. “Do they serve dinner there?”

  “We don’t have that much to talk about.” I stood, turning to Detective Hernandez. “May I go now?”

  “Please do.”

  She stood, too, so Detective Donovan was the only one in the room sitting. In fact, he leaned back in his chair. “Detective Hernandez, I’d like to talk to Mr. Douglass. His actions this morning put his relationship with my victim in a whole new light.”

  “Why, when they’re actions he took after your vic was already dead?”

  “From what I’ve gathered, he’s not too happy with the agency. Maybe he’s been feeling that way for a while.”

  Detective Guthrie gave Detective Hernandez another one of those partner looks and she nodded. “You can talk to him when we’re done with him. He’s getting his skull glued back together. You can ride along to the hospital with us if you want.”

  “Who cracked his skull?”

  I made a beeline for the door, not eager to have that conversation again or to give either Detective Donovan or me a chance to change our minds about meeting up later. “Thank you, nice to meet all of you.”

  Out in the reception area, I hesitated, not quite clear on the layout of the offices. I needed to hunt down Gwen and get a reaction from her, but stopped at the sight of Lindsay sobbing in the arms of a handsome young man on one of the stone benches. Unsure whether something else had happened after the police separated us to take our statements, I approached cautiously. “Lindsay?”

  They both looked up. He had a lean face dominated by big brown eyes and unruly eyebrows that were drawn together tightly at the moment. Tapping him on the chest, she sniffed and said, “My husband Daniel. This is Molly Forrester.”

  “So you’re the other heroine,” he said, making the last word sound as much like “idiot” as he possibly could.

  His anger was understandable. “I owe you both an apology. It was a stupid thing to do and I shouldn’t have dragged you along with me, Lindsay.”

  “I was going to do it with or without you,” she said quietly.

  “Lindsay,” he said, sounding more like an impatient tutor than a distressed husband.

  She dabbed at her eyes with the last dry spot on the tissue in her hand and I noticed her cuff drooping oddly; she’d ripped her blouse in the melee. “Your blouse, what a shame,” I said.

  Daniel inspected the tear and shook his head. “One down, four to go.”

  Lindsay managed a small smile. “I have this blouse in five different colors. I couldn’t resist.”

  “It looks great on you, I can see why.” Maybe it was some foxhole-bonding thing, but I was liking Lindsay. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me down on the bench next to her. “Do you think Jack Douglass had something to do with Garth’s death?” Now I was liking her even more.

  “Lindsay,” Daniel repeated.

  “Why, do you think he did?” I asked, causing Daniel’s brow to furrow even more deeply.

  “After the ad launch, he was furious about his political friends backing off, even angrier than he was today. Garth told him all that mattered were his sales figures and how the ad was tracking.”

  “Typical,” Daniel interjected.

  “Jack went off about how wrong that was, how Garth had ruined his life, his reputation,” Lindsay continued. “Garth said he’d calm down eventually.”

  “When was this?”

  “Right before Garth died. A week, maybe.”

  “Did you tell the police about it?”

  “Sort of. They asked us about disgruntled employees, business rivals—”

  “Like Ronnie Willis?”

  Lindsay’s eyes widened. I’d mentioned him as a rival, but Lindsay was zooming off in a whole different direction. “Oh. Ronnie said Garth’s death was only the beginning. I didn’t believe him, but …”

  So Ronnie was flinging the paranoia around more freely than I’d realized. On some level, he’d probably be pleased rather than threatened by Douglass’ meltdown, seeing it as vindication of his theory. But I didn’t buy it. How careless was it for Douglass to blast in and do this if, in fact, he had killed Garth? Hiding in plain sight was one thing, renting a billboard was another.

  Ronnie’s theory rang especially hollow as I watched Gwen enter the reception area, flanked by another detective and Wendy. She was masterfully poised for a businesswoman who had just encountered a gun-wielding client. Not that I expected her to be a quivering mass of nerves, but she could at least look a little rumpled. Actually, what she looked like was a woman who had exactly what she wanted. The question was, how had she gotten it?

  “How did we not see this?” she asked expansively, not being clear who th
e “we” encompassed. “All the finger-pointing that’s been going on and it never occurred to me.”

  “To point the finger at Jack Douglass?” I asked, not to be difficult but to be sure I understood her train of thought.

  “To suspect him in the least. He’s such a gentleman and this is not the way you’d expect a gentleman to settle his grievances.”

  I nodded, thinking of Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton, but not wanting to send her down that path.

  “You weren’t here for his fudgsicle meltdown or you might think differently,” Wendy said.

  “You think Jack shot Garth?” Lindsay asked.

  Wendy pursed her lips, then quickly pressed them together again, automatically fixing her lipstick. “I don’t know about that, but he was practically foaming at the mouth.” She tossed a glance at me. “He’s the one who called us sluts.”

  “I still think it’s quite fertile ground for the police to explore while the rest of us get back to work,” Gwen declared, sweeping us all with an imperious look that ended on Daniel. “Do you work here?”

  “I’m Lindsay’s husband, Daniel,” he said, offering his hand. “Lindsay called me and I ran over to make sure she was okay.”

  Gwen blinked slowly. “Weren’t we just talking about gentlemen? And here’s one in our midst.” She patted his hand before releasing it, then gave Lindsay a smile. “You’re a lucky girl, Lindsay. And how fortunate you’re in a position to drop everything and race over here, Daniel,” she said, packing an impressive dose of condescension into a short statement.

  “Daniel’s director of development for Rising Angels,” Lindsay explained with a touch of defensiveness. Rising Angels is a terrific nonprofit that works with children whose parents are in prison, getting them mentors and tutors and taking them to educational and cultural events. Really noble work. “He’s only a couple of blocks from here.”

  “This is an expensive neighborhood for a nonprofit,” Gwen observed.

  “Our offices are over at St. Aidan’s, they donate the space, it’s the only way we can swing it,” Daniel explained. He gave Lindsay a quick peck on the cheek. “I do have to get back. Take it easy.” He nodded to the rest of us and hurried out.

  “He doesn’t like to talk about work that much, he feels like people think every conversation is a request for donations,” Lindsay said with an odd mixture of apology and pride.

  “Why is it the guys who are working hardest to make the world a better place are the ones who don’t like to talk about work?” I asked.

  “You married to a do-gooder, too?” Wendy asked.

  “I date a police detective.”

  They all reacted to that, Gwen more sharply than the others. I was hoping she’d say something that would hint at how uncomfortable and/or guilty that made her feel, but instead she leaned in with a startling intimacy. “Then work your magic to find out where they are with Jack Douglass and why they hadn’t questioned him before.”

  I knew the answer to the second part: because you look so much more guilty than he does. But my answer was, “He’s not on this case.”

  “Still. Cops talk to each other, don’t they?” I didn’t answer, not about to tell her that if I ever was going to summon up the nerve to lean on Kyle for information, it would be for my article about her, not to provide her with the inside scoop on where she was ranked on the suspect list. My silence didn’t sit well with her. “Have I gone too far? God knows, the last thing I need right now is an aggrieved journalist evening the score in a major publication. If an apology is what you seek, consider one offered.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I must have a cigarette. Who will descend with me?”

  “I will,” Wendy offered promptly.

  “Wait here,” Gwen commanded and strode back toward her office, either to get her cigarettes or to smack a few more people around before taking her break.

  Lindsay tugged at Wendy’s sleeve. “What do you think happened with Jack?” I realized they hadn’t had a chance to talk since the to-do, so I hung back quietly, eager to hear their take.

  Wendy glanced at me, hesitated more for show than for conscience, then answered with a grim smile. “Gwen happened. She called him this morning and told him she wasn’t going to honor the discount Garth had offered him when he got so upset about the fudgsicle campaign. She said the agency had delivered on its promise and any collateral damage was his problem, not hers.”

  Lindsay gasped, while I envisioned Gwen in a chef’s coat and hat, stirring a great big stewpot with a roaring fire underneath it. Lindsay voiced my question. “Are you saying she provoked him?”

  “I’m saying she’s trouble and we have to be careful. I’m beginning to think we have no idea what she’s capable of. And if you print a word of that,” Wendy said, looking daggers at me, “I will deny it and drag you through courts until you cry for mercy.”

  “Wendy,” I said gently, “you’re going to do really well in business once you learn to speak your mind.”

  “I think the fact that people are showing up in my workplace with weapons gives me the right to speak frankly, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure I see a direct correlation, but I’m not a constitutional scholar.”

  “Wendy, what should we do?” Lindsay asked, but Wendy didn’t have a chance to answer because Gwen was striding back to us, a cigarette already in her hand.

  “Here’s a question for you all. How do I break this to Ronnie?” Gwen stopped beside us, tapping her cigarette against a beautiful sterling case. “He needs to know what happened, but I’m worried his fantasy coming true might be a bit much for him.”

  “It’s not his fantasy, it’s his fear. And it looks like it might be well-grounded,” Wendy protested.

  “But Ronnie was nowhere in sight and I didn’t hear Jack Douglass ask for him once. Do you think that will hurt Ronnie’s feelings?”

  It was Wendy who looked like she was hurt. Why would Gwen’s riffing on Ronnie bother her? Then again, she wasn’t taking it all with the same grain of salt I was, that most of this cavalier attitude about Ronnie was to cover up how close Gwen and Ronnie really were. It didn’t bother me to hear her mock Ronnie’s conspiracy theory because I didn’t think Ronnie really believed it himself. Had Wendy bought in? Then again, Wendy wasn’t exceptionally fond of Gwen, so perhaps she was throwing in with Ronnie to stake out territory as the new regime took form. There are women who prefer to work for men. With the past few female bosses I’ve had, I’m ready to give it another try.

  “Molly, my dear,” Gwen said, “what must you think of us now?”

  “It’s been an interesting morning,” I agreed. “And I wasn’t quite finished with the interview when Mr. Douglass arrived.”

  “I am so sorry.” Gwen glanced at her watch. “Do you need everyone and when do you need them?”

  “I could sit with you, see what I can fill in if that might be easier,” Lindsay offered.

  “Lovely. You two kindred spirits work it out and let me know how it goes.” Gwen caught Wendy by the arm and swept her off to the elevator.

  “I don’t mean to butt in,” Lindsay said quickly in their wake, “but I would be happy to help.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Maybe we could do drinks after work or something.”

  Why is it that you can go for great stretches of time and no one wants to see you, then suddenly everyone wants to see you at the same time? “I might have something then already, but let me call you later in the day and we’ll figure it out. Thanks for this morning. It was memorable.”

  Lindsay grinned and gave me a quick hug, startling but sincere. “Pretty amazing, that’s for sure.”

  I clacked across the stone floor and rang for the elevator. Lindsay gave me a quick wave and headed back to her office. There was such a fascinating array of personalities in the Harem, I could understand Ronnie’s fascination with them, looks and talents aside. But killing to control them seemed extreme for Ronnie. If he was involved in this,
there had to be some other motive.

  I was trying to imagine the conversation as Gwen told Ronnie about Douglass when my phone rang. “Hey, you,” I said, seeing that it was Kyle.

  “Can you talk?”

  “Sure. How are you?”

  “Fine. How’s your day going?”

  “Pretty wild, actually.”

  “Can’t wait to hear about it. Wanna have drinks after work? Say, six o’clock at Bemelman’s?”

  No matter what I said, it was going to be the wrong thing. Gwen was right: Cops talk to each other. And men pick all the wrong times to share.

  Eight

  AS I MAY HAVE MENTIONED, watching the man you love walk up to you is a thrilling, wonderful thing. Unless he’s angry. Then it’s a thing that makes you contemplate a convent, assumed identities, maybe even celibacy.

  On the phone with Kyle, I’d asked if I could call him back from the office. When he hung up without answering, I’d taken that as a yes. His fuming presence on the sidewalk outside my office building contradicted that.

  “I can explain,” I said as he approached, immediately kicking myself for not having a stronger starting position.

  “Don’t doubt it. I’ve never known you to be without an explanation.” His eyes, normally breathtakingly warm, were hard and cold. I’ve seen Kyle mad before, but it’s generally been in defense of me. Being on the receiving end was tough.

  “He sought me out,” I persisted.

  “He holding someone you love hostage and forcing you to meet him?”

  That took me by surprise. Hyperbole doesn’t come naturally to Kyle, so it was an indication of his anger that he was going for the grand. “He’s not forcing me to do anything.”

  “Jack Douglass needed five stitches and might have a cracked vertebra in his neck,” Kyle countered, switching tracks on me.

  “That all happened before Donovan even showed up. He had nothing to do with it.”

  “Except if he’d closed his case, Jack Douglass wouldn’t be running around with a damn gun.”

  “You don’t know that Jack Douglass killed Garth Henderson.”

  “And you don’t know that he didn’t!”