His Little Black Book

by Thea Devine

  Nothing—until someone knocks on your door.

  All she could do was watch the endless loop of Harold-Thane’s life playing over and over, a train wreck about to happen.

  Breaking news…

  The autopsy results crawling across the screen of a dozen news stations—Thane Bohansson, death by asphyxiation, signs of strangulation—homicide.

  “Shit shit shit! My life isn’t enough of a mess, I have to get effing buried in Thane Bohansson’s murder?” Nick Galligan popped an antacid pill and glared at his captain. “Crap. I thought this was going to be a nice cut-and-dried heart attack.”

  “Cute touch, leaving the body as a present under the tree,” Tom Farris said. “Somebody thought that was funny or symbolic or something. And the A-list of somebodies was right on the scene.”

  “Crap. A year’s salary says they’ve all got A-list alibis.” Nick stalked out of the station house.

  He didn’t want to go back to the Bohansson house, with the robot family going through the robot motions of pretending grief and loss. No one would know anything, everyone would lie, and he’d have to untangle everyone’s self-interests to get anywhere near what really happened.

  Forensics hadn’t found anything that wasn’t expected: The whole family, the chef, and a maid had all been in the room at one time or another over the past week and Christmas morning.

  Bohansson had spent time in his bedroom and in the guest bedroom but had conclusively been strangled—to immobilize him—and killed in the family room. There were signs of a struggle, which indicated that whoever had attacked him had been as strong, or stronger. Probably two males, because one had immobilized him while the other had smothered him.

  No blood, no trauma except for the marks around his neck.

  It was too clean. Too neat. Bloodless—like them.

  Nick didn’t like it, and he didn’t like the family. They were too helpful, too reasonable. They weren’t as shaken up as they ought to be—though he’d bet that come Friday, they’d be dissolved in tears as the TV cameras rolled.

  He felt itchy. There was something deep beneath the skin here, and he was going to have to scratch hard to make it bleed.

  The elegant and composed Rae Bohansson brought him into her husband’s large office, pretending confusion at his presence since they’d been questioned in depth the morning the body was discovered.

  “But now we have a murder to investigate,” Nick said, watching her expression. Not a twitch. “Now we’re talking about all those things you see on TV: motivation, alibis, and where were you at two that morning?”

  Her eyelids flickered.

  “So, where were you at two in the morning?”

  “Sleeping, Detective. Weren’t you?”

  “And I’ll bet this house is so well built and so well insulated, you couldn’t hear an explosion if it happened—am I right?”

  “Something like that,” Rae said. “I told you everything I know, Detective Galligan. I was up a little after eight. I had given staff previous instructions to set up our traditional Christmas breakfast before seven, to start the music, to light the tree. I knocked on everyone’s door, came downstairs, and then I walked into the small family room and saw Thane lying there dead.”

  “You assumed he was dead before even checking to see if he were alive?”

  “He was heaped up under the tree at a very odd angle, Detective.”

  Nick made a sound. “You don’t sleep together.”

  “We do share a bedroom. But he’d gone out, so I assumed he’d slept in the guest room so as not to disturb me when he returned.”

  “And where might he have been that night, that he wasn’t home and wouldn’t have wanted to disturb you?”

  Her gaze slewed away from his. “Thane was always having meetings at all kinds of crazy hours. He could have jetted off to Europe or he could have been working in this very office, and I wouldn’t have known which.”

  “But he wasn’t here. So, where?”

  Her lips thinned slightly. “I don’t know.”

  She knew.

  But he got nowhere with her, or Egan and Alaina. They knew, too, his gut was certain. But they were as tight-lipped as their mother.

  Nor could Egan be terrorized by the threat of Nick poking around in the business books or his father’s personal life.

  “I’ll tell you what you’ll find, Detective.”

  “Really—that you’ll tell me?” God protect him from lawyers, especially rich ones, ready to eviscerate whoever got in their way.

  “You’ll find everything in tip-top shape, is what you’ll find.” He said it gently but with a smug certainty Nick wanted to choke out of him.

  He took a shot from the ongoing rumors. “What about the mistresses?”

  There was just a flicker of something in Egan’s eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective.”

  “I expect the books will do the talking—those hidden expenses for jewelry, clothes, furs, apartments, the usual tawdry stuff.”

  Egan shrugged, his expression…attentive. “Get your warrant and send in your clowns.”

  The good son, protecting the father, the secrets, and the lies.

  So be it. Nick called Farris the minute he left the house. “Get the paperwork now, and our best guys onto those corporate books immediately—screw the holidays.”

  Nick was looking forward to the eleven AM funeral service on Friday at a Park Avenue church. Seeing the people who attended the funerals of the powerful and famous told you a lot about them, and about the deceased. Family, friends, business associates, satellites, hangers-on, status seekers, the slime and the sirens—they’d all be there.

  As he predicted, it was mayhem. The press jamming the stone steps of the church, talking to the CEOs, CFOs, and COOs of every major corporation and media conglomerate in the world who expressed their condolences to the TV cameras. The family swathed in black, the limousines, the lines, the pissed and the predatory, the insiders and the ignored.

  Nick roamed the fringes of the crowd, listening to snippets of conversation. He brushed against an elegant black-haired woman dressed in a black couture suit who was so striking that everyone’s eyes were on her. He watched as the TV cameras followed her, looking for pay dirt, or just dirt.

  Watched her rebuff a nicely rounded blonde and turn away from another woman, a tall, slim redhead. All beauties among three dozen or more beauties scattered among the six-deep crowd of people who couldn’t fit into the church.

  “Hey, Nick!”

  Crap. It was Dev McDevitt, ace reporter, dressed like an ad in Men’s Vogue, trolling for gold-plated gossip.

  “What do you know?” Dev asked casually, joining him.

  “No comment.”

  “Huh. Did you know they’re taking bets in Vegas on whether Egan Bohansson has the cojones to juggle the shadow corps and manage the legit operation?”

  “Trust me, he’s got his daddy’s balls. But off the record, our boys are trained in CPA ninjutsu.”

  “Really? Can I anonymous-source that?”

  “Hell no. You’ll need CPR if I catch a whiff of it.”

  “Okay. Here’s another quid pro quo: I found out about the mistresses.”

  Nick went very still. Dev could be bluffing. “What mistresses?”

  “I knew something was up,” Dev said with that little gotcha lilt in his voice. “Nick, you’ve got to let me in on this. Everyone’s digging, and since I found out Bohansson was knee-deep in mistresses, they’re all going to be on my tail.”

  “Dev, you write for the Post,” Nick said. “Page Six is but a slip of the tongue into deep shit, and I don’t have my waders on today.”

  “Let me tag along, then.”

  “Not happening.”

  Dev’s gaze skimmed the crowd and settled on the stunning woman in black whom Nick had noticed earlier. “Lots of ladies in mourning today.” He cocked an eye at Nick. “I guess I’ll start with those mythical mistresses.”

&nb
sp; “Go chase the mouse in the maze, my friend. I’ve got a murder to investigate.”

  The eulogy, sonorously piped through a loudspeaker to the crowd outside, extolled the scrupulous and brilliant businessman, beloved father, husband, community leader, and revered church elder, to the point there wasn’t a dry eye anywhere. Still, there wasn’t a soul there who wasn’t reckoning the net worth of his estate at the closing bell.

  Egan Bohansson threw up his hands. “You win. He had lots of extracurricular…activity, shall we say?”

  It was the day after the funeral, and Galligan’s crack team of accountants had gone through the books like wildfire. The real books—the ones they stashed in hidden vaults.

  “How much is lots?” Nick asked.

  “Over the years, or currently?” Egan asked with a touch of sarcasm.

  Nick gave him a skewering look.

  “Lots. He liked them young, a little experienced so they knew which way was up, but not so much that he’d be taken to the cleaners.”

  “And so you buried it all in the expense account under cleaning bills—and tailoring. Tailored to his needs apparently: apartments, checking accounts, clothing allowances. Let’s get to the current concubines.”

  Eagan said resignedly, “Currently there are three. God knows how, but…there are three.”

  Christ, three? He’d been servicing three young sex-hungry mistresses, and the guy was sixty-something? Where had he found the time, the stamina? This guy should be in the Guinness Book of World Records.

  “Who are they and where are they?”

  Egan started scribbling addresses on an index card. “I don’t know them. I’m evicting them all today.” He tossed the card to Nick. “I hope you beat me to the door.”

  Brooke was in the throes of packing when the buzzer sounded and the dreaded words came through the intercom. Detective. Police. Pelham.

  She dropped the receiver. Don’t panic! You can’t pretend you’re not here, since you answered the intercom. Think.

  See him. Be reticent: Less is more. You did nothing wrong. You have nothing to hide. Get it over with—and then run.

  She took the receiver. “Send him up.”

  What would he be like? Rough, tough, grizzled, skeptical…Oh, God, what am I going to do?

  There was a brisk knock at the door.

  She wet her lips, swallowed hard, and looked at herself in the mirror. She wore Juicy Couture jeans, an oversized white shirt, and sneakers, with no makeup and her long, dark hair bundled into an untidy topknot. She hadn’t been expecting anyone this morning; she’d just been planning to get herself out of the frying pan—now she was stepping into the fire.

  She opened the door. The detective was tall, with reddish brown hair and steely gray eyes. No uniform, slightly rumpled, as if he’d been up all night.

  And he looked familiar. Why?

  Nick said, “Mind if I come in?”

  Pull yourself together. “Please do, Detective…?”

  “Nick Galligan.”

  Right, the one giving the updates on TV. He flashed his badge and handed her his card, and wandered into the living room while she looked at it. “Nice place.”

  “Coffee?” This felt surreal, too like a social call. He wasn’t her nice neighbor next door; he was a piranha sniffing for blood.

  “Sure.” He looked into the closest bedroom. “Hmmm…”

  Hmmms were not good. She poured the coffee, and set out accompaniments on the pass-through counter.

  He was in the back bedroom now, where all her clothes were strewn around and her suitcases were very much in evidence.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked politely as he came back to the kitchen and picked up his coffee, which he took black. Of course.

  There was something about him that rankled her. The skeptical way he was looking at everything, the cynical way he was looking at her across the counter. The man who stood for truth, justice, and morality was judging her over a cup of coffee.

  “The gig’s over,” she said succinctly. “So ask your questions and let me get on with it.” Those eyes, that voice—they grated on her. She hated him. Hated Thane. Hated her fantasy that had become a nightmare.

  “So what’s your story?” He wasn’t browbeating her, he was being polite, and yet she felt pinned to the wall.

  Or maybe that was her own guilt.

  “I was Thane Bohansson’s mistress for six months. Now he’s dead and I have to move out and move on.”

  “And how did that all happen?” Nick asked. “I mean, a girl doesn’t come from—where are you from?—and just fall into the arms of someone like Bohansson.”

  Brooke took a deep breath. “It was a plan,” she said, deciding to omit any reference to her friends. “To come to New York and become a mistress to a big-bucks kind of guy who could afford to support me.”

  Nick put down his cup. “Christ.”

  He hated it, she could see. Older guys always hated stuff like this, and he had at least fifteen years on her. He was annoying and judgmental, and she wanted to annoy him as much as he was irritating her.

  “Why not? Women my age give it away, anyway. So I figured why not get something in return for my youth and looks? A business arrangement with no commitment, no regrets, no mess. When it’s over, a clean break and you walk away with your stash.”

  “Crap,” Nick said succinctly. “Because you’re in a mess now, lady. And you’re not walking away from it cleanly or with any kind of stash.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t think the guy would die.”

  “And just where were you, Christmas Eve?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes flashing. His gaze was steady, his expression impassive.

  “Here,” she said.

  “Alone?”

  She didn’t want to tell him. But the doorman might have seen Thane, or a neighbor…“No, he was with me for a couple of hours late that night.”

  “Were you aware there were other mistresses?”

  Her heart took a flying leap. Now what? She felt cornered; she felt like he’d been waiting to spring that on her, but she couldn’t tell how much he knew or if he was just fishing. And he just sat there with his coffee and that steely gray gaze, watching and waiting.

  “Not at first,” she whispered finally.

  He nodded. Waited a beat. “Do you know them?”

  “Do you?”

  “I have their names right here.” He tapped his jacket pocket. “Delia Parry. MJ Branden.” She made a strangled sound. “Did you say something?”

  “I said I don’t want to answer any more questions,” she said.

  His eyes never wavered. “About them, you mean?”

  “About anything,” she said tartly. “Without a lawyer.” Oh, God, where would she get the money for one?

  “I don’t blame you. But—well, let’s see where we are. You came to New York with the express intention of hooking up with some rich guy who’d support you in return for sex. You’d been with Bohansson for six months, were with him Christmas Eve, and—do I have this right?—only recently found out that he was supporting two other mistresses?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s it. Oh—I don’t suppose Christmas Eve was the very moment you found out about the others?”

  “No.”

  “Of course, we only have your word for it.” He moved away from the counter. “I wonder what the other mistresses will say? I need your forwarding address, by the way.”

  “I don’t know yet,” Brooke said, crossing her fingers.

  “Oh, so you didn’t keep that apartment on the West Side?”

  Trapped again. She swallowed. “I did.”

  “Good. Then you’ll be there.”

  “Only if I have no other choice.”

  “Can’t go home to Mommy and Daddy, can you?”

  How much did the bastard know about her life?

  “Not now,” she said viciously.

  “Good. I’ll be in touch.”

  The door
closed behind him, leaving Brooke feeling terrified.

  She needed a lawyer. She had to warn Delia and MJ. What difference did it make now, that Thane had screwed them, too? What if the police manufactured a conspiracy among the three of them to murder Thane?

  After all, they were the easiest targets, the ones without the alibis, the ones without connections and family and support. She had been alone with him that very night, and maybe Delia and MJ had been, too. The police wouldn’t even look for any other suspects with that on the table.

  She had to do something. She’d gotten them into this, and she couldn’t let them take the fall.

  This was starting out to be a very bad morning for Delia.

  There was a sneak alleging he was a reporter on her doorstep, and the expected but unpleasant eviction notice. She had to be out that day, taking only her personal possessions. She wondered how Egan Bohansson’s lawyers defined personal possessions and if he’d be waiting right outside the door.

  Her cell rang. She flipped it open and read the ID. “Brooke!”

  “Yeah. Listen, we’re in deep shit here. I just got a visit from the detective on the case.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “They know a lot. They know too much—about me, the fact there were three mistresses—”

  “Yeah, I know. I just got an eviction notice.”

  “Oh, Jeez…me, too. Look, Delia—you and MJ have to get over to my old apartment as soon as you can. I don’t care about all that Thane shit anymore. One of us could be arrested for murder! And the media is going to fry us if we don’t stick together.”

  “I know. A reporter’s outside my door right now.”

  “Get rid of him and get hold of MJ. We have to talk.”

  Delia punched in MJ’s number as she threw things into a suitcase.

  MJ, answer the damn phone!

  MJ picked up on the third ring. “I don’t—”

  “Don’t you hang up on me, hear?” Delia barreled over her protest. “Forget all your Harold shit. We’ve got bigger problems to deal with, like the police and press. Brooke wants us at her old apartment as soon as possible. Did you get your eviction notice?”