Annie Seymour 01-Sacred Cows

by Karen E. Olson

  “And I proceeded to lose my breakfast on the curb over there. I wasn’t exactly in a state of mind to help the police at the moment. I’m here now.” I hadn’t come here to tell him about Allison, I wanted him to tell me what he knew about her death so I could write about it.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Allison Sanders. She works for that escort service, too. I met with her the other night. She and Melissa were Mark Torrey’s regulars.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  My thoughts exactly.

  “What else do you know about her?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Really. I was heading over to the school now to try to find someone to tell me about her.”

  “You can’t write about this,” he said.

  “Say what?”

  “If you write about this, people will think there’s some serial killer after Yalies. That wouldn’t be good.”

  “But you’ve got David Best for Melissa’s death. And Allison was killed so differently. They were both involved in a business that’s shady anyway, why would people think it’s a serial killer?” But even as I asked him that, I knew I was wrong. No one would care about the MO. They would only see “Yale” and “murder” and jump to their own conclusions, excuse the pun.

  “I have to write it, Tom. It’s my job.” That was the truth. Marty knew about it, we couldn’t sit on this. I couldn’t do it, not even for him. “Anyway, all those other reporters, do you really think Richard Wells doesn’t know who she is yet?”

  I almost felt sorry for him. His shoulders sagged even lower, his eyes glazing over. “I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have.” I can’t keep my mouth shut.

  He glared at me. “I have nothing else to say to you. Please leave the crime scene. We’ll notify you if there’s anything official to report.”

  I was dismissed. It felt only slightly less demeaning than when my mother dismissed me. When I was in my car, I remembered I forgot to tell him about my meeting with Torrey. But I was pissed at him and I knew he’d be pissed about that, too, so I just kept going.

  Dick was three steps ahead of me. I ran into him in Atticus. Okay, I wanted a cup of coffee and thought maybe I could re-create my uncanny luck of finding people who knew the victim while I was there. All I found was Dick, waiting in line for a cappuccino.

  “I thought you were at the accident.”

  “No biggie. A couple of graphs. But I got a picture of Allison Sanders.” He pulled a wallet-sized picture out of his breast pocket. It was Allison, all right. But how?

  “Her roommate was really nice.” Dick kept talking while I ordered my coffee. “Allison was from Michigan. Detroit. She was here on a scholarship.”

  I was too stunned that he’d actually gotten something to be upset about his stepping on my toes. God knows I hadn’t even gotten the girl’s last name when I’d met her. I figured just this once, I’d give Dick a pass.

  Dick and I actually managed to come up with a pretty damned good story in the end. The cops weren’t having a press conference until the next day, which meant they knew nothing, had nothing to tell. Didn’t bode well.

  IT WAS GETTING LATE and I needed to meet Torrey. I hadn’t had time to go home, and I’d eaten half a small pizza with Dick at my desk. All the pizza I was eating lately was sitting on my thighs. When I stepped outside, it was dark and the air was calm. I could smell the harbor, not a nice smell, a little fishy, a little rotten. I thought of the gun in my bedside table drawer and wished I’d brought it with me. The pepper spray in my purse would have to do.

  I maneuvered my car into a spot near the building, and as I approached, I wondered if Torrey had tried to reach me to cancel. The windows were dark, and I almost turned back to my car when I saw a light go on on the third floor. A silhouette of a man paced around the room, and I watched it for a minute, debating whether to go face him or run like hell.

  I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and dialed Tom’s number. Voice mail. I left a message, telling him where I was and who I was meeting. Just in case.

  And before my head could talk me out of this, my feet were up the stairs and I was pushing the heavy door open.

  “Miss Seymour?” The disembodied voice echoed through the stairwell.

  “Yes. Mark Torrey?”

  “Right up here.”

  I reached the top of the stairs and turned toward the light. “In here,” the voice directed.

  He sat behind a big mahogany desk, a small desk lamp emanating an orange glow. I had the feeling I was in some sort of Surrealist painting. He stared at me without saying anything. I recognized him from that party at my mother’s. He had curly brown hair and a very high forehead. His shoulders were broad, his neck thick, and I was willing to bet he’d played football in high school. He wasn’t what I considered good-looking, but he had the rich-boy arrogance oozing from every pore that some women find attractive.

  “I don’t think you’re here to talk finance,” he began.

  I sat in one of the big leather chairs in front of the desk without being asked. I don’t believe in protocol at clandestine meetings. “No, Mr. Torrey, I’d like to talk about Melissa Peabody.”

  He folded his hands in front of him, his elbows on the desk. “What can I tell you? She was a lovely girl. It was the most unfortunate accident.”

  I stifled a chuckle. “It was no accident. She was murdered. And you were there.”

  “For a while, I admit. But she was very much alive when I left.” He smiled then, a hypnotizing smile that caught me off guard, and I found myself leaning toward him, as if he had some sort of gravitational pull on me. In that second, I saw his charm, almost felt like I could trust the guy, it seemed so genuine, even though I knew he was a fraud. I took a deep breath, fighting it, sitting back in my chair again, farther away.

  Jesus, he was like that goddamned wormhole on Star Trek that sucked in everything that came into its path.

  “Why haven’t you come forward to tell the police what you know if you weren’t involved?” I was back in the game.

  The smile disappeared, and he bit his lip. I don’t think he knew I could see that well in the dark. “I haven’t been ready to talk about it. I was very close to Melissa, as you probably have figured out by now.”

  Close in the biblical sense, sure. Any other way, well, I doubted it. “Why did you agree to speak with me tonight?”

  He stared straight into my eyes. I guess he was going to try to tell me what he perceived was the truth and try to get me to believe it because he was being “honest.” By doing that, he was proving to me that he was going to drop a big fat lie on me and expect me not to feel it.

  “My conscience was bothering me.”

  What an asshole this guy was. He could fool some Yale students who thought he was Mr. Wonderful, but he certainly wasn’t going to fool me, not now. My X-ray vision was seeing the rat underneath the nice suit.

  “Why not talk to the cops? Why to a reporter?”

  “You have connections. You’ll tell them.”

  Oh, Christ, even this guy knew about me and Tom. “What about Allison Sanders?”

  He frowned, and I could see he was genuinely puzzled. “What about her? Yes, I know her, but besides being a friend of Melissa’s, I see no reason why she should be involved in this.”

  Could he be that good an actor? The skeptic in me said yes. But I encouraged his charade and played along.

  “She’s dead, Mr. Torrey. Didn’t you hear? Someone stabbed her to death in a parking lot. She was found this morning.”

  I saw something cross his face that I couldn’t read. It pissed me off. “Why are girls you knew and had recent contact with dying?” I demanded. The sentence structure left something to be desired, but it got the point across.

  “I really don’t know about that.” But he was a little flustered. I could see that, even in the dim light.

  “Maybe you should come with me and talk to the cops.” I didn’t reall
y want to spend that much time with him, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was planning to disappear for good.

  “Maybe I should.” He was staring into my eyes again. Bad sign.

  I pulled my notebook out of my bag. This was probably the only chance I’d get to talk to this guy, and it was time to make it official. “Can you tell me everything that happened the night Melissa was killed?”

  “I met her at the apartment, we weren’t going anywhere that night. We’d done that before, it was mutual.”

  “But you paid for it.”

  “I never paid for it,” he said firmly, like it was true.

  But before I could press further, he continued, “When we were done, I had to get back to my place to get some sleep because I had an early meeting. She was getting dressed and said she’d lock up on her way out.”

  “Did you see David Best that night?”

  “The boyfriend? Oh, yes. He was yelling from the street for her to come out. We closed the sliding doors so we couldn’t hear him.”

  “Why did you call in to work the next day saying you were in California because of a death in the family?”

  “But I was in California. I did have a death in the family. There was a message on my machine when I got home. I just wasn’t there as long as I let on.”

  I wasn’t buying any of his shit, but I was writing it down. “Why is the address for McGee Corporation a Gap store?” While I was here, I figured I might as well go for the whole kit and kaboodle, as my grandmother used to say.

  “It was a typo.”

  “A typo?”

  “It was a mistake. We’re actually on the next block, but there was a screwup.”

  This guy was lying like a rug, but I had to admit he was smooth. He had a fucking answer for everything. “What’s the correct address?”

  “I don’t think that’s relevant to Melissa.”

  It was, but I figured I’d get back to that. I tried another tack. “Are you working on the redevelopment plans with Lundgren?”

  I could see the puzzlement in his face, but he answered me. “Some of the legal issues involved, yes. That’s part of my job as assistant corporation counsel.”

  “Legal issues like what?”

  “We may have to take some property over by eminent domain, and that’s always difficult.”

  Difficult because people didn’t want the city to take over their properties and homes and force them to move elsewhere just in the name of progress, but that wasn’t what I was here for.

  “But isn’t the fact that you used to work for Lundgren a conflict?”

  Torrey sat up a little straighter. “I’m just part of a team, doing routine legwork.”

  “How about funding? Is McGee helping with that?”

  He frowned. “McGee is separate from the city.”

  “What is it, then?”

  He sighed in that exasperated way people do when their knowledge isn’t common knowledge and they want people to feel stupid. “McGee is an investment firm I started three years ago when I got my stockbroker license. With my connections at City Hall, I have been able to establish a good client base.”

  “Who invests?”

  “Anyone who wants to make money.”

  “Like who, specifically?”

  “Private citizens who make private investments.” In other words, he wasn’t going to give up names to me.

  “If McGee is an investment firm, why don’t you have a public phone number, an office, something?”

  Again with the sigh. “We have a very private clientele.”

  “Why did Allison Sanders tell me you were expecting to make a lot of money because of the redevelopment project?”

  He paused for a moment, then laughed. “Haven’t you ever embellished on something to impress someone?”

  “But why would you mention Lundgren?”

  “I made some money working for them before my city job.”

  “Is Lundgren somehow involved with your investment company?” I asked.

  He straightened his back and sucked in some air. “I’m not going to reveal private business, Ms. Seymour. I thought I made that clear.”

  I was pissing him off, which probably wasn’t a good idea. I wondered where Tom was.

  “I’m not sure how we got from Melissa’s unfortunate death to this. I’m afraid I have another appointment and will have to end this interview.” He stood up, the momentary anger gone, and I didn’t sense any urgency in his voice. I had to admit that I admired Mark Torrey for his control, which was probably why he was as successful as he was. “My business with McGee and Melissa have nothing in common. I hope you’ll keep that in mind when you’re writing your story.” He seemed so sure they didn’t, and I was so sure they did.

  “Fine.” I could lie along with the best of them. I was a reporter, after all. “How did you get my phone number?”

  He smiled. It was a patronizing smile, with something in it that I didn’t quite understand. “Have a nice evening.”

  “If I have more questions, can I call you?”

  The smile was back, and again I steeled myself against it. What the hell was it about this guy?

  “No. This is the end of our interview. You’ll get nothing else from me.”

  I shrugged. Maybe not from him, but I’d find someone else who wanted to talk. There’s always someone at the bottom who’s getting screwed who wants to spill the beans. And I was certain there were a lot of beans teetering on the edge of this one.

  CHAPTER 10

  It wasn’t too late to write a story telling Torrey’s account of the night Melissa died, along with the scant stuff about McGee, since it was only 9:30 and deadline was at 10:15. I still hadn’t heard from Tom. I called the department and left a message with the dispatcher that Tom should get in touch with me as soon as possible.

  I knocked the story out in about twenty minutes, then headed for home, stopping for some takeout at Boston Market. I hunkered down in front of the television while I ate my chicken and mashed potatoes.

  I woke up a couple of times in the middle of the night with Allison’s image in front of my eyes. I moved my bathroom night-light to the bedroom, which served only to scare me more when I awoke to see odd shadows across the ceiling.

  I was happy when the sun poked its rays through my mini-blinds, but not happy when the phone rang during my coffee and toast.

  “You couldn’t call me?” Tom was pissed, more pissed than I expected.

  “I did. Didn’t you get my message? I left two, one on your cell phone and the other at the department.”

  I heard him fumbling with his phone. “Shit. Where is he?”

  I gave him the address. “I met him there last night.”

  “Alone?”

  “He’s not a suspect. You’ve arrested someone. Or am I mistaken?”

  “You’re going to get yourself into big trouble one of these days, pulling that kind of shit.”

  I already had a mother and was about to tell him that when I spotted something under my door. I walked over to it, ignoring Tom’s voice, and picked up a piece of paper: “Stop asking questions or else.”

  It was one of those notes that you always see in the movies, the ones that have all the letters cut out of magazines so handwriting analysts can’t be brought in to solve the crime.

  “Tom.” He was going on about how I should make sure my pepper spray was in working order. “Tom.”

  I think my voice was wavering just enough for him to stop. “What?”

  “I’ve gotten some sort of threat.” I described the note.

  “See? This is what I mean. I’ll be right there.”

  I didn’t like it that someone had gotten into my building and stuffed this under my door while I was home, unaware. A key to the front door was necessary to gain access to any of the three apartments in the brownstone.

  I don’t know my neighbors. I’m embarrassed to admit that, since I’ve lived here for five years. I like to keep to myself, and if I ev
er commit a heinous crime, my neighbors will be quoted as saying, “She was a quiet girl, kept to herself.” It was mostly that I enjoy being antisocial, and I felt if I knew my neighbors enough to become friends with them, all chance for privacy would be out the window. It would be like having a roommate, and after five roommates in three years of college, I knew I wasn’t exactly the roommate type. I could have blamed them for the trouble, but since I kept moving from room to room, it seemed I was developing a pattern that wasn’t conducive to living harmoniously with another human being. I didn’t even have a pet.

  But here I was, going upstairs to actually face one of my neighbors.

  “How did you get in the building? Never mind, I don’t want to buy whatever you’re selling.” His round face was scowling at me, and I felt I was face-to-face with a pit bull on two legs. Before I could say anything, he growled, “I bet it was that weirdo on the second floor who let you in. She has all sorts of riffraff coming in all the time.”

  Could he mean me? I’d never laid eyes on this guy before, so chances were good he’d never seen me, either. But riffraff? Could a member of the New Haven police department be riffraff? Tom would get a kick out of that.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir.” I put on my reporter attitude, which wasn’t much but it was the best I could do at this hour. “But I’m the woman who lives on the second floor. I was just wondering if you’d seen anyone wandering the stairwell.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me, obviously not believing me. “Who are you?”

  I held out my hand, although I was afraid he’d take a bite out of it. “Anne Seymour. I really do live downstairs.”

  “Why do you want to know if someone’s been in the stairwell?” He didn’t take my hand. I must really have gotten some sort of reputation around here I didn’t know about. It was a little disconcerting, because although I didn’t really give a shit, I still thought unless someone got to know me, he might think I was okay.

  “Someone pushed a note under my door, and I’m trying to find out who it was,” I explained.

  “Well, it wasn’t me.” He slammed the door in my face before I could say anything more.

  One down, one to go.