The first tell of a lie.
Most assumed if a person refused to make eye contact, or if they appeared nervous in any way, that meant they were lying, but in Karina’s experience, it had always been the ones who were most careful about the way they held themselves that weren’t being entirely truthful.
He was concentrating too much.
“As you’re probably aware,” he said with a pointed nod at the lanyard around her neck, “I’m not permitted to discuss open cases. Especially with members of the press. If you would—”
He trailed off when she made no move to stand as if he’d fully expected her to leave on her own.
He was an older man with white hair clipped low on the sides and completely bald on top. Bombarding him with questions would only make him hunker down. She needed to be patient.
Because something was niggling at the back of her mind—something that reminded her too much of the last time she had been stumped on a story she was working.
Just like in that one, the details hadn’t all made sense, and she had wondered if that had been done on purpose.
Whether there was someone out there who excelled at formulating misleading information.
“Miss Ashworth—”
“Karina, please. We’re on the same side here, I promise,” she said with an acquiescing nod. “We both want justice for the young woman who lost her life too soon … if it’s warranted, of course.”
It’s always about applying just the right amount of pressure.
She could almost hear her mother’s voice as those words flitted through her mind.
“Of course,” he responded glibly. “It just happens that in this particular case, an autopsy wasn’t—”
Distract him. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you very well,” she said, making it a point to shift forward in her chair. “What were you saying about an autopsy?”
“There was no …” He cleared his throat, red suffusing his cheeks. “An autopsy wasn’t needed.”
“Is that common?”
“Sorry?”
She smiled. Still calm. Still pleasant. Playing the part. “Is it common practice for a medical examiner not to perform an autopsy on a woman who allegedly jumped from a building that she had no prior connection to when the building beside it was of a greater height?”
The question silenced him. His throat worked as he attempted to swallow, his gaze darting past her for the first time since she sat down.
“But perhaps that’s for the detectives to determine. Have you made your final ruling?”
“I—”
“Has the case been closed?” she asked before he could answer.
“I-I don’t … why are you asking?”
“If you’ve determined without any evidence that Miranda committed suicide, shouldn’t the case be closed by now?”
She saw it then, like a light flickering on and off in his eyes.
That flicker that said he knew more than he was telling.
“Well, I haven’t made a final decision.”
“Why not?”
“I do have other cases, Miss Ashworth. The woman in question—”
“But you told me she committed suicide as soon as I said her name.”
His mouth opened and closed as he stumbled for an answer. “I haven’t had—”
“Or is there another reason you haven’t made a final decision?” she inquired, her tone curious.
“I wouldn’t know what you mean.”
“No one has asked that you hold off, have they?”
The detectives might have if either of them thought something had happened to her and they didn’t want a suicide ruling to jeopardize their investigation so early on, but that flash of guilt on his face was too strong for it to have been either of them.
“Anyone?” she stressed.
His face paled as he pulled at the collar of his shirt. “I think it’s time you leave, Miss Ashworth. As I said, I can’t discuss open cases.”
“Thank you so much for your time,” she said as she stood, having everything she needed. “This has been a very enlightening meeting.”
More so than he might have realized.
“I haven’t said anything,” he said as he stood after her as though he wanted to stop her from leaving but wanting her gone as quickly as possible.
“You didn’t,” she agreed with a nod, “but what you didn’t say was enough.”
4
Decisions
Samantha sat back, folding her arms across her chest as she looked at her expectantly. “What’s on your mind?”
Tossing her pen on the desk, Karina considered her next words carefully because even though she had been running through the possibilities in her head all afternoon, she still wasn’t sure why she still felt so unsettled.
A feeling that had yet to go away even though it has been a couple of days since her visit to the medical examiner.
It was almost as if the answer was dangling right there in front of her, but no matter how she reached for it, she couldn’t quite grasp what she was looking for.
She needed a new theory.
“They believe she was an escort. A high-end one, considering her clothes.”
After a more thorough look at the police file, she’d learned that not only had the girl had expensive taste in lingerie, but she also liked to shop at a high-end boutique in Chelsea that specialized in cocktail dresses. One phone call and thirty minutes later, she had learned that this particular boutique was a favorite for one of Manhattan’s elite madams.
The girl she had been speaking to, who’d spoken in a hushed but excited tone, had been all too keen to share what made their boutique interesting, though she hadn’t known she was spilling the store’s secrets to a journalist rather than a potential customer.
“I haven’t gotten confirmation on that just yet, though,” she continued, pulling the tie from her hair and running her fingers through the strands until the tension eased at her scalp. “But it would make sense all the same.”
It wouldn’t be the first time a dead escort showed up in the early hours of the morning. Par for the course, she imagined.
But it was the first time she was the one looking into it.
“Okay … what makes her interesting to you?” she asked.
Sometimes, there was no story to tell—no elaborate puzzle that needed to be pieced together and solved. Sometimes, people just killed people for any number of reasons.
But this didn’t feel like one of those times.
“Besides the fact that she was found outside William Paxton’s office? At the very least, that’s saying something, especially since there’s no known connection between her and that building.”
Everyone checked out, apparently.
From the maintenance workers to the men who made up the top offices, everyone was ridiculously squeaky clean.
Karina still wasn’t buying it.
“So if we’re going with the argument that she didn’t commit suicide, though that hasn’t been ruled out yet,” she added pointedly, always willing to play the devil’s advocate. “Why there? Why Paxton’s building?”
“Could have been a competitor upset about the upcoming merger.”
“That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? I doubt corporate heads are murdering people just to mess up a merger.”
Samantha shrugged. “That’s where I’d look anyway.”
Because it was the most probable choice.
If not the workings of someone in the building, it had to have been someone with a grudge against Paxton. Someone who wanted to hurt him badly enough to tarnish his reputation by proxy. In this particular business, bad press wasn’t still good press.
Bad press could ruin a person, and with the news channels all reporting on the death, along with a bright clear image of Paxton’s building, Paxton was getting a lot of it.
Or … was that what it was meant to look like?
Was it supposed to look as if someone was framing Paxton?
And what were the odds, she wondered, that Paxton would find the body himself before anyone else?
There were groundskeepers. Security who monitored video footage. And just other people in general.
Anyone could have found her, yet he had.
Unless … it had always been meant for him to find the body.
Because maybe Miranda had been more than an escort, she thought.
Maybe she was a message.
One that came from someone capable of manipulating appearances. Of paying off officials who had taken an oath.
Someone whose name she still didn’t know ...
The thought hit her so suddenly, Karina dropped her chair back down to the ground, the jolt only making her heart beat faster.
“What?” Samantha asked, her brows shooting up. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Yet. I think I’ll go talk to Miranda’s mother and see if I can learn more about her.”
“I don’t know if this one is worth all the trouble,” Samantha added with a slight shake of her head, turning back to her computer screen.
Fortunately, it didn’t matter whether anyone else thought it was worth it for now.
Because she did.
And if she was right, this could be her chance to face the man without a name …
Miranda’s mother’s home was a modest, all brick affair, complete with a red painted door and a broken white picket fence.
Karina glanced down at the dangling clasp that should have held the gate closed before slipping past it and walking up the front steps to the door. She pressed her finger to the doorbell, hearing the soft chime echo inside before she heard the excited bark of what sounded like a really big dog.
Before the door even came open, she was smiling.
As a girl, she hadn’t had the chance to have a pet. Though she had always promised her mother she would look after her companion without help from anyone, “animals in the house” was something Katherine wouldn’t bend on.
And after moving out on her own, with all the time she spent working, there just hadn’t been any reason when she wouldn’t be able to take care of them properly.
Karina didn’t have to wait long before she heard shuffling footsteps, then a lock coming undone, and as the wooden door creaked open, it revealed a woman with graying blond hair with a black Lab excitedly trying to get out.
“Macy, move over,” the woman said in an exasperated tone that said she did this often.
But Macy merely tried to squeeze her way through with a toy bone in her mouth, looking up with eyes that said she had never been petted a day in her life.
“I’m sorry about her,” Miranda’s mother, Nicole, said apologetically. “She gets excited for guests.”
“Oh, it’s no problem at all,” Karina replied, and while her attention should have been on her, she was too busy reaching to pat Macy’s head to pay her very much attention.
Though she rubbed the top of her head and scratched a bit behind her ears, it didn’t quell the heavy thump of her tail against the back of the door.
“Come on in.”
Nicole stepped to the side, pulling on Macy’s collar just enough to give Karina room to actually walk into the house.
While it was certainly small inside, no more than three bedrooms and one bathroom that she could see, she rather liked it all the same. It had a warm sort of feeling. Inviting.
Cozy, rather than cramped.
Hardwood floors drifted throughout the house, an area rug separating the living room from the dining. Pictures of Miranda over the years lined the mantel above the fireplace while trophies from various sporting events, and awards, lined the bookshelf opposite it.
“You can make yourself right at home. I’ll grab some tea.”
As Karina moved over to sit on one of the armchairs facing the couch, the woman disappeared into the kitchen, Macy dutifully trotting along behind her.
Not for the first time, Karina wondered about the life Miranda had led before she wound up in that field of poppies.
She wondered about the story rather than the tragedy.
She knew all too well how looks could be deceiving. That everything she was seeing now (a home of a girl who was well loved and appreciated), could just be a façade. This could have all been manufactured to make her think one thing, but when she thought of the woman who had greeted her at the door—her eyes a little sad, and her clothes a touch bigger as if she hadn’t been eating properly—she couldn’t help but think she wasn’t that sort of person.
“Here we are,” Nicole announced as she came back in the room carrying a tray.
Karina, having heard “tea,” expected to see a teapot resting on the tray with a couple of mugs and saucers, but instead was greeted to the sight of a pitcher and tall glasses, each filled with an abundance of ice and a lemon slice in each.
Georgia, she remembered from Miranda’s driver’s license. She had been from Georgia.
Maybe understanding where her thoughts had gone, or perhaps she was just attempting to fill the silence, Nicole said, “We moved from the South five years ago when Miranda’s father got offered a new position at the company he works for.”
“New York must have seemed so different,” Karina said, remembering the day she herself had stepped off the plane from Heathrow into the cool, busy JFK airport. It still felt like yesterday that she’d stared out the window of her taxi at the towering buildings and bustling streets wondering whether this was really her life.
“Felt like a completely different world,” she answered wistfully.
Times, Karina could imagine, were certainly different back then.
As she picked up her glass, happily accepting the drink the woman poured, she said, “I just want to say thank you for meeting with me. I know this must be incredibly difficult.”
Her daughter’s face was plastered on dozens of newspapers, featured in numerous news reports, and she could only imagine where else, considering the way Miranda had died. And as it had unfortunately happened outside of William Paxton’s building, that had only made it bigger news.
“It’s … well, it has … yes,” she finally settled on saying, her tone a little sad. “It’s been very difficult. Sometimes I wake up and wish it were all a dream, but then I’ll leave my room and look out the window, and there’ll be a reporter standing out there. It always comes back to me then.”
Her expression fell a little as she sat, holding her own glass between her hands. Her gaze was distant as she continued. “You’re the only person who called her by her name. Fifty calls in three days and you were the only one who actually said her name. As if she were a person,” she finished bitterly, “and not just a title on a screen.”
Journalists could be relentless in their hunt for a story. And in their quest for notoriety, they could also forget what they were writing about in the first place.
People.
“That’s why I’m here,” Karina said. “I want to learn more about Miranda. What was she like?”
Nicole’s gaze grew reminiscent. “She’s always been such a sweet girl. Never gave her father or me any trouble.”
She told her about their life in Georgia, the small town they had lived in before their big move. It sounded, at least to her, as if things had been different when they lived in the southern United States.
New York, Karina knew, was a different sort of animal.
She didn’t dare interrupt as Nicole weaved her tale, telling her about the girl Miranda had been and comparing her to the woman she was at the time of her death.
One thing that also became abundantly clear over the course of their conversation was that Nicole didn’t know what her daughter had done for a living when she was still alive. She didn’t know about the websites or the dates, or even the expensive dresses and baubles she had earned over the years.
Karina wouldn’t be the one to tell her.
And if it had been up to her, Miranda’s occupation
wouldn’t have been mentioned at all. It wasn’t important.
It didn’t matter in the end.
At least not to her.
As far as Karina could see, it had nothing to do with the way she died.
“She was seeing someone,” Nicole said after sipping her drink. “She never told me his name—she’d always been cagey about him—but she said she’d tell me everything soon … a couple of days before she …”
She trailed off. Karina didn’t blame her.
“I’ll do everything I can,” she promised.
Karina wanted to stay longer and talk more, but the first article on the mysterious woman who was found dead outside of Paxton’s building was due for publication. She still needed to go over it one last time before she submitted it.
Nicole caught her hand as she turned to leave, her expression falling a little. “I just want the truth,” she said, tears flooding her eyes. “I just want to know what happened to my little girl.”
The least she could do was try.
Time slipped by without her noticing as Karina sat cross-legged on her couch, her laptop resting on her thighs as she typed.
From the moment she’d made it back home after talking with Miranda’s mother, she’d sat in this very spot and opened up a Word document, watching the blinking cursor a moment before she set in, her fingers flying over the keys.
The first lines were always the most difficult. Trying to find the right words to convey exactly what she wanted the reader to feel. To make sure they paid attention for longer than a few seconds.
She wasn’t sure how long she had been working—something that tended to happen often when she was too absorbed in her work to pay attention to anything else—but as she blinked, coming back to reality for a moment, she realized the sun had long since gone down, and she could see the glint of moonlight reflecting off the glass coffee table in front of her.
A break wouldn’t hurt.
But even as she wanted to stand and stretch her legs to get the blood running back through her limbs, she could still hear Nicole’s voice in her head. The soft, wistful tone of it. A woman bogged down by grief, though she was making a valiant effort to keep up a good front.
White Rabbit: The Rise (The Kingmaker Saga Book 1) Page 4
