"New York, usually, with his wife, but a few months ago, he was in Boston and then he came to Montgomery. He rented an apartment here. I think he and his wife are, I mean, were, having some problems."
"Why do you say that?"
"He said their marriage wasn't working out. Poor boy. He was always getting chased by unsuitable women, so when he settled down, it was wonderful. Their wedding was small and chic and they both seemed happy even though Olivia was always traveling or shopping or spending time with friends. Such a shame about his choices..." Cynthia trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
"His choices?" I prompted, wondering if Cynthia knew about the business arrangement that she referred to as her son's marriage. She didn't appear to and I suspected it might be part of the deception, just in case immigration looked more closely into their living situation.
"Let's just say Olivia was Anthony's choice, not mine. He needed someone simpler, and sweeter. Someone like you."
I didn’t know whether that was a compliment or an insult so I ignored it and pressed on, "And Olivia isn't like that?"
"She has a her own way of doing things and I don't think she likes me at all."
"I can't imagine why not," I said, thinking of several reasons why a wife might not like an overbearing mother-in-law who encouraged her son in all the wrong ways. I doubted it helped an already dubious marriage. I wondered if Olivia ever loved Anthony, or married him for more reasons than just a green card, before she quickly realized her mistake?
"I thought about reporting her to immigration," said Cynthia with a carefree toss of her head. Somehow, I didn't imagine she would care too much about what became of Olivia so long as Anthony made out okay. That reminded me of the time I visited her, after I returned from boot camp, clutching angry letters about Anthony’s endless debts in my hand. After taking one look at them, she pointed to my name as the addressee and asked what it had to do with her son? Then she made a very pointed comment about how unladylike I looked in fatigues.
"At least Anthony could have finally been rid of her for good," she continued. "Olivia won't get a thing in the divorce. He practically made that woman who she is today. Without him, she'd be nothing."
"Is that so?"
"Sure, she was just a struggling model doing swimsuit catalogs."
I wondered if Cynthia knew that Sports Illustrated and the other glossy covers Olivia once graced were pretty big deals, or if she considered the whole modeling gig “vulgar.” Did she know about Olivia’s family castle? Somehow, Anthony managed to convince Cynthia he was elevating Olivia in the world, and not the other way round. "What was Anthony doing for work?" I asked.
"Oh, this and that. He was still finding his way in the world and dabbling in events planning. I told him that was no job for a man but he said it was a lot of fun."
"Events? As in party planning? As in birthdays and showers?"
"Oh, no!" Cynthia looked appalled. "Bigger events than that. Corporate events, he said."
"And who were his clients?"
"He said his business was very hush-hush and he couldn't tell me."
I made a note in my pad to check for any mention of event planning, knowing Anthony had told his mother a lie. I found barely a trace of him online, besides the article about his mother and the snippet reporting his wedding to Olivia. What kind of events planner doesn't have a website or any famous clients to boast about? "Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to hurt him?"
"My Anthony? No. He is... he was a lovable rogue and people are just so quick to make snap judgments these days rather than giving him a chance. Like the time he was fired from his job on Wall Street just because he lost money on a trade... Obviously, it was a learning curve! He didn't intend to lose all those people’s pensions and the people got so mean about it." I clenched my teeth to keep my mouth shut and my comments inside, as Cynthia continued. "And when he started the luxury dog walking service, he could hardly have been responsible when the dogs got kidnapped. He just left them outside for a moment while he ran into Nordstrom! There was a sale for Pete’s sake! And once, he and some friends invested in a fabulous scheme but as it turned out, the higher-ups were crooked. At least Anthony got his investment back but most of his friends lost their life savings!"
The list of people wanting to kill Anthony was growing much longer than I initially thought. Garrett would be delighted when I told him, and it would keep Detectives Turner and Grant busy for months, trying to interview everyone connected to a con he pulled.
Cynthia continued, "Thankfully, he moved to Boston after that."
"When was that?"
"Six months ago."
"And when did he return to Montgomery?"
"A month ago."
My appalled spirits lifted. That agreed with my timeline for the break-ins. "I'm going to need his current address. Do you have any keys to his apartment? I could take a look around."
"Yes, I have a spare set here somewhere for emergencies. Are you going to investigate after all? Will you find out who killed Anthony?"
"I'm following a lead," I replied. I didn't want to get her hopes up but I needed access to the apartment and by implying that I was offering my services, I hoped to ensure that. Strangely, she didn't seem to think my offer of assistance was unusual. Was she expecting it? Who was more important than her son? Not me! She probably thought I carried a torch for him still, like all the other nutcase women who chased after him. She was so very, very wrong but there was no need to protest it. She wouldn't believe any woman that didn’t want her son. "It would be useful to take a look at Anthony's apartment. I'd also like to speak with Sarah and Maris."
"Sarah returned to Chicago the same day we came to see you. I've been keeping her updated via the phone. Maris left for South America the morning after and is currently out of touch. She's traveling, and finding herself. She didn't find herself when she went to Europe for six months last year so I hope she'll find herself this time. If not, she might try Australia. She doesn't know what happened!"
"I'm sorry that you have to break the news to her."
"She will be devastated. Let me get the keys for you." Cynthia stood and exited the room, returning a few minutes later with a slim set of keys. Extracting a sheet of paper from her desk, she wrote down an address and handed it to me. "Lexi, you must promise me one thing," she started, looking so serious that I worried what she might ask.
"Such as?"
"Try not to get upset about the photos of his wife. Olivia is an exceptionally beautiful woman, despite her personality flaws, and it must be upsetting to know that she's living the life you, yourself, wanted."
"I will do my best," I said between clenched teeth. "I'm very happy with my life today."
Cynthia gave me a long look from head to toe. "Of course you are, dear."
After a few minutes of gripping the steering wheel and repeating several positive mantras, I felt calm enough to drive away. Cynthia and I always had a rocky relationship but I suspected that was partly because I lived in the real world and she lived on a fluffy, floating cloud above her own perfect planet where everyone was jealous of her little boy and no one could love him more than she did.
Yet one thing kept niggling at me as I drove to Anthony's rented apartment. For a woman who loved her son so desperately, what could be holding her together? Where were the red, tear-stained eyes? Why no display of crushing loss? Chloe nearly overflowed with tears. Brynn collapsed. Olivia looked pissed; but at least, it was an emotion. Cynthia Steadman looked like she was experiencing a minor hiccup, and not the devastating bereavement that would change her entire world.
Anthony's building was in the middle of the hipper part of town, close to the bars and restaurants, and his was one of the taller ones. Having passed it more times than I could count, I vaguely remembered it being built when I was a teenager. I circled the building several times before a space cleared a couple of blocks away.
Grabbing my cell phone and jacket, I tucked my
purse in the trunk of my car. I didn't need it. It would have been awkward searching an apartment while either carrying it or keeping track of where it was. As I walked towards the building, I created a plan so I could maximize my search time. Primarily, I wanted to see if there were any threatening notes or letters. I might even listen to his answer machine for menacing calls, especially from irate men with Brooklyn accents. Most of all, I wanted to find poker chips and cash to prove my developing theory that Anthony was running some kind of high roller gambling dens. That would definitely explain the angry man that visited Cynthia demanding such a huge payment. Recalling our fun poker nights, Anthony wasn't much of a gambler although I must concede that he might have found a budding talent for it. He must have attracted the kind of people who had that kind of money to play with somehow. He also must have panicked when he wound up losing two hundred thousand dollars. That alone would have been enough for him to go on the lam.
The building had a plate glass door and a panel entry code. I pulled Cynthia's note from my pocket and found the six-digit code below the address. Punching it in, I waited for the door to unlock, then pulled it open and stepped into the air-conditioned lobby. The doorman looked up from behind his desk and nodded to me. I nodded back and walked over to the elevator like I belonged there, hoping I wouldn't get stopped. If I did, I would just say I was a visiting friend and flash my key.
I rode to the seventh floor and stepped out, looking for apartment D. Behind me, the elevator doors slid closed and the only sound in the corridor was of the car moving to another floor. With no time to waste, I moved quickly, keys in hand. Two keys unlocked the door and I stepped inside, my heart racing.
The apartment was neat with masculine decor, or someone's interpretation of it. Mostly leather and dark woods in a style that paid homage to the fifties. Very designer, very Mad Men. A square entryway contained a coat rack with one coat and a generic painting on the wall. It led to a living area, a bedroom, bathroom and cloak room. I searched the coat pockets and found nothing, so I moved to the living area first. I stopped at the kitchen that occupied one corner, which was only divided from the living area by a breakfast bar. After ten minutes of rifling through the cabinets, I was careful to return everything back in its place. That left me with nothing, not even a scrap of notepaper with a take out order. There wasn't any cash hidden in the cereal boxes, or poker chips in tins. It was actually disappointing.
"Where would you hide something you don't want found?" I asked the empty room as I glanced at the sofa and armchair as well as the coffee table and other furnishings. There didn't seem a lot of options for hiding places. I skirted the breakfast bar and started moving seat cushions, unzipping them and peeking inside, then opening drawers. Nothing. No magazines, or books, or notepads listing bets or debts. Not even a stray drinking glass. Not one single photo of Olivia. It was like no one lived here.
I stepped around the sofa, toward the broad, uncovered window, looking for any possible hiding place that Anthony could have stashed something. Yet there was nothing, large or small. No books with hollowed out pages. No false panels under the breakfast bar and no loose screws in the empty air vents.
That left the bedroom and bathroom. I checked the bathroom first, opening the small under-sink cabinet which contained toilet rolls and spare shower gel. The mirrored cabinet had a few personal items; a toothbrush, a razor and some shaving cream. Just enough to indicate someone had used the apartment recently. I pressed a finger against the toothbrush and found it dry. No one had brushed their teeth in the past day or two. I stooped to look under the sink and lifted the lid from the toilet tank Still nothing.
Unlike the living room, the bedroom was dark, and the curtains pulled closed. I ran my hand across the wall and flicked on the light before stepping inside. A divan base was topped with white bed linen and flanked by twin nightstands. A bench stood at the end, holding a folded blanket. I opened the drawers, but found nothing inside either. Even Solomon, the king of minimal, kept something in his nightstand. A quick check confirmed that the divan didn't contain any drawers. The mattress gave me a moment of struggle but at least, I could rule out wads of cash spread out underneath it.
I grasped the handle of the closet but before I could give it a tug, the doors crashed open. I jumped backwards, screaming at the large figure in dark clothing rushing towards me. A jacket was zipped to his chin, and a beanie pulled over his eyebrows but I saw the whites of his angry eyes. Grabbing my shoulders, he shoved me hard, his grip preventing me from raising my arms to defend myself. "Help!" I screamed as I lost my footing, hitting my head against the bench at the end of the bed. "Hey! Stop!" I yelled, but the bedroom door banged shut behind my assailant. Then it popped open again, giving me enough time to see a shadowy figure dart out of the apartment, and shove someone else who was approaching from the side. Someone yelped.
I blinked and reached for the bed, trying to pull myself up as dizziness sent my world spinning. I made it to my knees and stopped, breathless.
"Are you okay?" Someone rushed towards me. I blinked once, twice, and Olivia Steadman's face came swimming into focus. "Lexi, can you hear me?" She held my shoulders, propping me up as my lightheadedness receded.
"I banged my head," I said, shocked. Why hadn't I been more careful? Why didn't I think it strange to find the bedroom curtains closed? He must have heard me entering and hidden, but why?
"I can see. You're bleeding. Here." Olivia pressed a tissue against my temple and I winced. "Now do you believe me?"
I blinked. Did I miss something? "Believe you?"
"That was Anthony! He's still alive!"
Chapter Fourteen
"Thanks," I replied. Olivia finished patching up my head and handed me an ice pack. We sat in the lobby on a very uncomfortable upholstered bench while the doorman hovered nearby.
"What were you doing in Anthony's apartment?" she asked, sitting back and assessing her handiwork.
I touched the Band-Aid stuck to my forehead. The cut was small but I could already feel a bruise spreading into my hairline. It symbolized my damaged pride. How could I allow someone to jump me unaware? I gave myself a mental kick for being so unprepared. Feeling so sure I would find something, it never even occurred to me that someone else might be in there searching too. I remembered what I said earlier in the day, when I assured Taylor we would only be inside empty houses and no one would be hiding there to surprise us. Now I would soon be sleeping with the lights on while cautiously inspecting every closet for assailants.
"Looking around," I said. "His mother gave me the keys."
Olivia gave a little, unimpressed huff but I wasn't sure if it was for my snooping or because Cynthia gave me Anthony’s keys. "Looking for what?" she continued.
"My turn for questions," I said, wincing as a headache rapidly began to manifest. "What were you doing there?"
"He's my husband," pointed out Olivia. "I have every right to be in my own husband's apartment."
"But what were you doing there?"
"Looking for him. I was semi successful. I found him and then lost him again. I can't believe he hit you!"
"He didn't. He pushed me and I hit my head. What makes you think it was him? His face was mostly covered. It could have been anyone."
"It was Anthony! You saw him!"
"I didn't. I saw someone but..." I strained to recall the hazy image of the man bursting from the closet and knocking me down. It all happened too quickly for me to pick apart the details. The only thing I could be sure of was: the man was taller than me. "I just don't know if it was Anthony."
"It was! I would have run after him but I thought you were dead." Olivia huffed again and I decided not to ask if she were disappointed that I survived or because she lost my attacker.
I lowered the ice pack, and my stomach recoiled at the sight of a thin streak of my blood. "I need to go," I told her. "I have lots of stuff to do."
"I'll take you in my car."
"I have a car parked outsid
e."
"I don't think you should drive."
I opened my mouth to protest but I knew she was right. A knock to the head was never a good thing; if I fainted, I didn't want to be in the driver's seat. "Let's go," I said, wobbling to my feet.
"I think they want to speak to us first." Olivia jabbed her index finger at the air behind me. I turned and groaned. All three of my brothers had entered the building, their faces unreadable as stone.
"Why did you call them?" I asked Olivia.
"Who? The police? You were attacked and Anthony needs to be caught. Who else was I going to call?"
"Me!"
"You were already here!"
No argument there; she was right. Begrudgingly, I turned to face my brothers as their barrage of questions began. Halfway through, I sat down again and hid my face in my hands, a wave of dizziness washing over me. A big arm wrapped around my shoulders. "Don't cry," said Daniel.
"I'm not crying. I'm just dizzy."
"Garrett is taking your friend's statement."
"She's not my friend. She's Anthony's wife."
Daniel paused, then leaned in, saying in a low voice, "She seems normal."
"She doesn't like Anthony."
"That explains it. What happened?"
"I was searching his apartment and someone jumped out of the closet and surprised me. He pushed me down and I fell and knocked my head against a bench."
"I heard Mrs. Steadman say it was Anthony. You know that's not possible, right?"
"That's what I said; but she insists that it's him."
"Garrett put a rush on the blood and the DNA came back as Anthony's. He had to have suffered massive blood loss. He couldn't have survived."
"So it couldn't have been him. Then why is Olivia insisting it is?"
A Few Good Women (Lexi Graves Mysteries, 9) Page 15
