Jerry shook his head, and turned back to his vegetables. “That doesn’t make any sense. To start with, how’d she know that I’d agree to go upstairs with her? And then how’d she be so sure that I’d try to keep her out of it?”
“Well…” I looked at Jerry uncertainly, but I could see the doubt creeping into his eyes too. “What’s her name?”
“Anita. Anita Lowe.”
“Ok.” I nodded. “That’s a start.”
“No, it’s not,” Jerry said desperately. “That’s no place to start. She’s not going to be any help and you’ll just waste your time with her.”
“Ok,” I said. “I’ll talk to her later on. After…” I frowned. “Who else do I need to talk to? Hang on, wait here.”
I disappeared into my bedroom and returned with a pen and a pack of index cards.
“What’re those?” Jerry said, as I settled down and started making notes. “Your Nancy Drew case notes?”
I finished writing down what Jerry’d told me so far, and sighed. “You’re not meant to be making fun of me. You’re supposed to be eternally grateful that I’m looking into this for you.”
Before Jerry could come up with some smart-alec retort, I said, “So. You were saying. You thought you heard footsteps.”
“Yeah – so I motioned to Anita, and we both froze.”
“And?”
“Well, someone was in the room. At least two people. They were having a conversation, but they were talking really softly. I could tell that one of them was a woman, but I wasn’t sure about the other. So Anita and I just stood there, waiting for them to leave.”
“But they didn’t.”
“No. And then, I heard a soft bang. And then another two.”
“And after that?”
“Well, I waited a few more minutes, then cracked open the closet door.”
“But did you hear anything else?”
Jerry shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. After the bangs, it was silent for a while. We figured whoever came in must’ve left.”
“But you didn’t hear windows opening, or anything like that?”
Jerry shook his head, and looked at his chopped-up vegetables, satisfied. While we’d talked, he’d cut them into tiny slivers. “No, no windows opening.”
“So whoever killed Esme walked into the room with her, and then walked out.”
“Yeah,”
“So it was someone she knew.”
Jerry shrugged. “I suppose so. You guys didn’t see anyone suspicious downstairs?”
“No. We didn’t really hear anything, either.”
“Well, there was music, and a whole bunch of people talking.”
“No.” I shook my head. “Whoever killed Esme must’ve used a silencer. There would’ve been a lot of noise from the gun otherwise.”
Jerry put a big wok on the stove, and started heating it up.
“That means,” I said slowly, “whoever killed Esme planned it out. They were going to kill her at the party. They had an alibi – and they did the whole thing so fast that nobody saw them disappear.”
It was a worrying thought. If it had been an act of passion or a sudden thing, maybe I could’ve outsmarted the killer. But this killer had obviously put a lot of thought into the crime.
It was my first murder investigation, and I was up against a pro.
Chapter Twelve
As Jerry stir-fried the vegetables, I wrote down the extra details he’d told me, and asked him about Anita.
“She’s just this woman,” he said. “We’d only really said hello, and then she offered to give me a tour of the place.”
“Do you know anything about her, apart from her name? And the fact that she’s married to some rich guy with a pre-nup?”
Jerry shook his head. “Not really.”
I dragged my laptop into the kitchen and fired it up. A quick Google search revealed that there was, indeed, an Anita Lowe, and I showed her photo to Jerry. “Is this her?”
“He-ey!” he said, grinning broadly. “That’s her!”
I turned the screen back to me, and tried to dig up online dirt on her. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much dirt. She was married to a Larry Lowe – I could find quite a few business-y type articles about the company he owned, but not him personally – and she went to fancy parties once in a while. She didn’t seem to have much presence online, and it was clear that she appreciated the benefits of privacy and secrecy.
Jerry was probably right. This woman would be no help in the investigation. Still, I wrote up two index cards about her – just in case I wound up talking to her. As Jerry served the finished vegetables, I tried to find information about Esme online – but once again, there wasn’t much.
“Did you want any rice with that?” Jerry asked, as he handed me a plate with a grilled honey-soy drumstick and a generous helping of vegetables.
I shook my head, no, and we dug in. Between mouthfuls, I said, “Tell me about Esme.”
“There’s not much to tell, really.” I watched as Jerry stuffed his face full of chicken, chewed hurriedly, and swallowed far too soon. “I met her a couple of months ago, and then we ran into each other again. We hung out sometimes, since we know some people in common.”
“Where’d she live? What did she do? Did she have any enemies?”
“No, nothing like that. She was – I think she told me she was a lawyer? Or maybe an accountant? I forget, something boring like that. But smart – she worked hard. And… I don’t really know where she lived.”
“What about friends and enemies?”
Jerry shook his head. “We had some friends in common, and she was really well-liked. She was so nice, I can’t imagine her having enemies.”
“And family? Did she grow up in Manhattan, like you?”
“Yeah, she did, actually. I remember her saying something about a dad who lived on Park Avenue.”
I nodded slowly. I should probably start with him. “Any idea what his first name was? Or what he did?”
Jerry shook his head. “No, but how many Park Avenue Mr. Lindls could there be?”
I thought back to an article I’d read on one of those gossip sites about Esme’s death. It didn’t have any information about her, or how she’d died, but it had mentioned that she’d been killed at a fancy Hamptons party, and that her dad – Laurence? Leo? Lewis? Something Lindl– was a prominent human rights’ activist and a major stakeholder in some company or the other.
I rushed through my lunch, eating almost as quickly as Jerry, and then I went back to my laptop, scrolling through my history until I found the article I was looking for. Laurence Lindl was Esme’s dad, and his real estate company seemed to own half of Manhattan.
Jerry, in the meantime, had cleaned up the kitchen, packed the leftovers away into Tupperware boxes, and disappeared into his bedroom.
I was jotting down Laurence Lindl’s name when Jerry burst out of his bedroom. “Laurence Lindl!” he yelled.
I looked at him blankly.
“That’s Esme’s dad,” he said proudly. “I found it out.”
“Good for you.” I held up my index card with “Laurence Lindl” written on it.
“Whoa…. How’d you do that? I didn’t even see you write anything down.”
I smiled to myself. “I found it online, silly. Did you find out anything else?”
“Yeah, his phone number. I called up some friends of mine who also know Esme, and one of them knows her dad, too.”
“Great.”
I grabbed the phone number from Jerry, found the handset, and took a deep breath. It had to be done.
A man’s gruff voice answered after three rings. When I asked to speak to Laurence Lindl, he said, “This is he.”
“Mr. Lindl. I’m so sorry to bother you. My name’s Valerie Inkerman and I’m a detective investigating Esme’s death.” I felt terrible as soon as the words were out. I’d given him the impression – not by directly lying of course, but by my way of saying things – that
I was with the NYPD.
“Yes?”
“I wonder if I could stop by and ask you a few questions?”
“Sure. I’m home for the rest of the day.”
I managed to thank him and we hung up politely, and then I felt the air leave my body. I couldn’t keep pretending that I was with the NYPD. It was a ridiculous level of dishonesty, and I couldn’t do that to a man who’d just lost his daughter.
Of course, the moment he found out that I was a PI, he’d slam the door in my face. But I couldn’t see a way out – I would just have to put on my brave face and see it through.
I slipped into my nicest pair of dark blue jeans, the formal black heels I used to wear to work, a cream silk top and a black blazer. I figured that an NYPD detective might dress like this and it wouldn’t hurt to keep up the charade, at least until I got in through the front door.
Once I was in, I could decide what to do.
Chapter Thirteen
Laurence Lindl’s apartment was a massive granite block in a leafy part of Park Avenue. It was exactly the kind of place ambitious gold-diggers hoped to land by marrying their kind of guy, and when I stepped into the marble foyer and spoke to the uniformed doorman, I could almost understand why.
Laurence opened the door himself; a tall, wrinkled man who was clearly trying to hold his emotions in check and be polite.
I followed him into a formally decorated living area. The room was stuffy and old-fashioned, with a maroon Persian rug, oil paintings cluttering up the walls, dark leather sofas and fabric covered tub chairs. The coffee tables were crowded with tiny marble figurines, no doubt picked up during Laurence’s travels through France and Italy, and a trio of authentic-looking African masks hung near a massive potted palm.
I sat down awkwardly on a red velvet tub chair opposite Laurence.
He eyed me warily, and I stared at the floor, took a deep breath, and reached into my handbag to find my private investigator’s badge. I handed it over to him, wordless, and he flicked his watery grey eyes over it.
He handed it back to me. “What’s that mean?”
His voice was raspy and impatient, and I said, “I’m really very sorry. I couldn’t explain over the phone. I’m a private investigator, I’m looking into Esme’s death.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t the NYPD have enough cops on the force?”
“They do.” I took a deep breath. “I’m an independent PI. I’ve been hired by someone who’s been wrongly accused of being a suspect.”
Laurence’s grey eyes lit up with an angry fire. “You have some nerve!” he said softly. “You come into my house, to talk to me about my daughter, and you’re working for the man who might’ve killed her.”
“But he didn’t,” I said quickly. “He’s innocent. The police aren’t looking any more, but I’m still looking for whoever really did this.”
“That’s bullshit! You’re looking for evidence to cast reasonable doubt on this murderer, and I’m damned if I’ll help!” I tried to say something, but Laurence cut me off. “Did you seriously think I’d help my daughter’s murderer get away with it?”
I waited a few seconds, hoping Laurence would calm down. This was terrible. I felt like a heel, intruding on an old man’s sorrow. And for all he knew, I was scum, trying to help a murderer get off scot-free.
“This man’s innocent,” I said softly. “If I don’t investigate, we’d be sending an innocent man to Death Row.”
Laurence shook his head. “Can you imagine what it’s like to have to bury your child? I’m an old man – she should’ve buried me! And you – now you say that…” His words trailed off, and he stared at me angrily.
I wanted to just pick up my bag and leave, but I needed to give this one more shot. “Jerry’s dad hired me,” I said. “No father wants to see his son go to prison unnecessarily. Kyle Spilatro told me to–”
“Hang on – what did you say?”
“Uh. Jerry’s dad hired me.”
“No, you said Kyle Spilatro hired you?”
I blinked. “Yes.”
“And the guy – the one who’s suspected – is Kyle’s son?”
“Yes.”
We were silent for a few minutes, and I was prepared to apologize and leave, when Laurence finally said, “I know Kyle from way back. He’s a good man.”
This was my chance! Maybe I could say something about how Kyle was only trying to do something good, and that I should ask a few questions. Or maybe I could ask about how they knew each other – but then again, maybe I should… After a few seconds went by and I couldn’t decide what the best thing to say would be, I just said, “Oh.”
“We worked together,” Laurence said. “And I suppose – I suppose he might be right. He wouldn’t hire you if he didn’t believe in this… being a mistake.”
I nodded, not daring to say anything.
“Well, what did you want to ask?”
“Uhm, aah…”
“I don’t have all day! Did I not mention that I’m old?” He cracked a wry smile.
“I really appreciate you talking to me.”
He flipped his hand through the air. “Don’t mention it. If Kyle thinks the cops might not’ve done their job properly – well, maybe they haven’t.”
I decided to jump straight in with my questions before he could change his mind. “Tell me about Esme – what was she like?”
Laurence looked at me seriously. “I wore my heart on my sleeve. That girl – she was perfect. I’ve got two other kids, mind you, but they’re nothing like her. Did you ever meet her?”
“I did – very briefly, at that party.”
Laurence’s face darkened and I quickly said, “What did she do? Career-wise, I mean?”
“She was a lawyer.” Laurence beamed with pride. “She went to Harvard Law and was top of her class. The smartest girl you’ve ever met. And hard-working, too. And friendly – she’d always have friends coming over and she was always going out to meet people.”
I nodded. In the brief time that I’d met her, she’d certainly seemed friendly enough.
The intercom buzzed, and Laurence got up to answer it. I heard him grunting into it, and then he walked over to the door.
“That’s my other daughter, Michelle,” he said, as he opened the door. “You might as well talk to her, too.”
I watched from my seat as Michelle gave Laurence a hug and a quick peck on the cheek. She looked nothing like Esme. Where Esme had short, dark hair, Michelle had shoulder-length, perfectly coiffed blonde hair. Her makeup was perfect, and her clothes screamed of expensive labels.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I saw Laurence indicate toward me, and then Michelle turned her head and our eyes met. She seemed surprised, but she covered her expression with a quick smile.
She and Laurence walked over, and he introduced us.
“I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about Esme,” I said to Michelle. “Anything at all – you never know what might be important.”
Michelle nodded, and exchanged a quick glance with her father. “I’m not sure if I can help much, though,” she said. “Esme was eleven years younger than me – twenty-six. Our lives were very different.”
“I see. So what do you do?”
“Oh, I’m very active on the boards of some important charities. So there’s lots of dinners I have to organize, and that takes up a lot of time. And then, of course, I do fund-raising work as well, and if you want to be good at fund-raising, you need to do lots of socializing.”
As she spoke, I noticed that her father was watching her through half-amused, half-disinterested eyes. I wondered how he felt, having a law superstar for one daughter and a vapid socialite for another. What had made them each grow up so differently?
I glanced at Michelle’s fingers – they were starkly devoid of any rings. “You’re not married?”
She shook her head. “I was – for a few months. I got divorced last year.”
“I’m sorry t
o hear that.”
“That’s ok. The guy was a jerk. Esme warned me, of course. But I was thirty-six and thought I’d be an old maid all my life. Well, now I can be a divorced old maid.”
Her tone was bitter, and I said, “Well, you know what they say – forty is the new twenty. Everyone’s just getting started with their lives at forty these days.”
“Really?” She glanced at me curiously, and then shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.”
I turned to Laurence. “You were telling me about Esme’s work – at the law firm?”
“Yes,” he said slowly, glancing at Michelle. “She was doing very well.”
Michelle laughed lightly. “Daddy was sure she’d make partner in a year.”
“Uh-huh.”
I wondered how often Laurence had bragged about Esme to his other children. I only had one younger sister, and since she’d chosen to stay in Madison and get married straight after high school, our parents never bothered comparing us. Still, Michelle must have had a hard time vying for Laurence’s attention.
There was an uncomfortable silence in the air, and I said, “What about her social life? Was she seeing anyone?”
Laurence and Michelle both shook their heads.
“Not that I know of,” said Laurence. “She’d tell me if she was.”
I wondered for a moment if they knew everything – after all, Esme had told Jerry that she was seeing someone. But she might have made that up as a polite excuse to rebuff him: her family would’ve known if she really was seeing someone.
“Yeah. Her career was too important to her,” said Michelle lightly, and I wondered if I was just imagining the sarcasm underneath her words. “She never had any time for dating.”
“She did,” added Laurence slowly. “She dated, but she was picky. As she should be,” he added proudly, before freezing for a split second and correcting himself. “Should’ve been.”
Michelle glanced at her dad and moved over to him, perching on the arm of his chair and giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. “Esme’s last boyfriend was Kevin,” she said. “They broke up almost a year ago, but maybe you’ll want to talk to him?”
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