“You too – good luck with the PI work.”
I smiled. “Bye, Sammy.”
He grunted in response, and I went over to the counter and paid for my coffee.
Sara had just confirmed what I’d suspected all along: the killer was someone who’d been involved in Esme’s life. Which meant that he or she needed to go to some trouble to erase themselves from the picture.
And perhaps – just perhaps – there was some part of the picture that they were still visible in. Maybe there was something they’d overlooked.
Chapter Sixteen
“You might’ve taken me with you,” Jerry whined, when I told him about my chat with Sara.
“Well, maybe next time,” I said unconvincingly, as I wrote up my notes for the visit.
“When’s next time?” Jerry said.
I gave him a look that I hoped said “please stop talking,” and then went back to my notes. I needed to focus. I needed a plan, a list of things I could do sequentially.
I didn’t have a list. And so far, I’d only talked to Esme’s family. I shuffled through my cards, hoping they’d help me come up with a to-do list.
“I think,” I said slowly, “there’s two ways I can do this. I can go through the guest list at the party and go through all the people who were there, investigating them–”
“But that’s over a hundred people,” Jerry interrupted before I could get to the second idea. “More, if you count the catering team.”
“Yeah. And I’m pretty sure the killer was someone who was in Esme’s life.”
“So first you’re going to talk to people who knew Esme?”
“I think so.”
I’d found an article on a business website that calculated Laurence Lindl’s net worth at almost $210 million. With Esme out of the way, Michelle would stand to inherit an extra $20 - $30 million dollars. Which certainly wasn’t chump change.
An annoying little voice reminded me that Darren stood to benefit from Esme’s death in exactly the same way. But I hadn’t talked to Darren yet. I decided that until tomorrow night, I would continue to think of him as the charming, good-looking man whom I’d barely talked to. Sure, people said he was a womanizer, but until I had dinner with him, I would withhold my judgment.
“Michelle told me she was out at The Chemistry Club on Friday night. And she mentioned the two friends she was out with, but I didn’t grab their last names or their phone numbers. She was kind of in a hurry to shove me out the door, and then…” I let my voice trail off, not really wanting to mention Darren. I felt weak just remembering his handsome, chiseled face. But if his plan was to get into my pants and then dump me the next morning, I would have to view his handsomeness through a filter of ugliness, or whatever the opposite of rose-tinted glasses was. Ugly-colored glasses.
“The Chemistry Club?”
Jerry’s voice brought me back to reality, and I blinked. “Yeah?”
“I know this guy who’s a club promoter. He could probably get us in. If Michelle was in the club, there’d be security tapes of her.”
I watched as Jerry whipped out his cellphone and made a few phone calls. The first was to his friend, the club promoter – and they spent a good five minutes catching up on each other’s lives, before Jerry asked how he could see the tapes for Friday night. He hung up and turned to me. “My friend’s gonna talk to the owner of the place. We should be able to get in.”
I nodded, impressed by his persuasiveness. Perhaps Jerry wasn’t as nonchalant about the whole murder case as he pretended to be.
His phone rang again after ten minutes, and a brief conversation later, Jerry turned to me. “We’re in. The club opens at ten tonight, so if we turn up at seven, we can watch the tapes for three hours.”
I nodded and glanced at the clock. “I guess we’ve got time for a quick dinner. Chinese takeout?”
Jerry shook his head. “Still trying to stay in shape. I think I’ll just have a protein shake.”
I made a face, and decided to reheat some leftovers from lunch for myself. As I ate, I looked over my notes again. At some point, I’d have to type them all up but, for now, the index cards would have to do.
By the time I’d finished my food, I decided that my next move would have to be to chat with people at Esme’s workplace. It was too late to call and set up appointments now, so I’d just have to figure out what to do tomorrow morning.
Unless, of course, something turned up in the security tapes we were about to watch.
Chapter Seventeen
On the subway ride over to The Chemistry Club, Jerry informed me it was one of the most happening New York nightclubs at the moment. The bartenders wore lab coats, and drinks were served in test-tubes and conical flasks.
I nodded silently as I listened, not really impressed. The club scene was beyond me already. When I’d first moved here, I’d gone for a year or two, but although dancing was fun and the places were cool, the vibe quickly turned me off. There were too many obviously under-age girls pretending to be sophisticated, models trying to scope out a wealthy man to seduce, and men hoping to meet an “open-minded” woman to take home.
I was a bit surprised that Michelle still went to these clubs, and wondered what else she liked to do in her spare time. Clearly she wasn’t the type to stay at home and knit sweaters.
The Chemistry Club was dead inside when we arrived. I was sure that within a few hours, the walls would be booming with the sounds of music and happy people but, at this hour, the downstairs floor was deserted.
A man named Remy met us at the door and led us upstairs. He was a square-bodied, bald man with good-humored eyes. “You’ve never been here before?” he asked me as we went into an office room.
I shook my head, and Jerry said, “She’s not much fun.”
I was tempted to stick my tongue out at Jerry, but Remy said, “I’m sure that’s not true. I don’t go clubbing myself – of course, I’m too old for it now.”
“Oh no, that’s not true,” I murmured, while secretly trying to guess Remy’s age. He could’ve been anywhere from thirty to sixty.
“These are the monitors,” Remy said, waving his hand at six screens that could not have been anything but monitors. “We keep an eye out on them during the night. Let me find Friday night’s footage and I’ll fire it up for you.”
“What time did you open on Friday?”
“Nine. But that’s just the party-warming crowd. Models we hire to make the place look good, and a bachelor party or two who paid in advance to get in. Drinks are cheaper then, so we get a few drinkers, too.”
I nodded. Remy found the file for Friday night, and we proceeded to watch the recording at 2x speed. Remy was playing back footage from the camera that captured the entrance line: “That way you won’t miss her when she walks in.”
The words made sense in theory, but after five minutes of watching people line up, walk in or get turned away, my eyes started to blur over. Everyone’s face seemed to look the same.
After almost half an hour of watching the mindless parade, I snapped to attention. “That’s her!”
I would’ve missed Michelle, had it not been for the fact that she hadn’t stood in line. She and two of her friends had walked straight up to the security guard at the ropes and said something. He, in turn, checked his clipboard and waved them straight in.
“How’d they do that?” I asked Remy. “And can we check the timestamp on this?”
“Either they’re on the guest list,” said Remy, “which I highly doubt, or they’ve bought table service. And this is at 10:30.”
I nodded glumly, as Remy changed out the tape for one from inside the club. Esme’s time of death was 9:55, which meant that there was no way Michelle could have been in the Hamptons and made it back to Manhattan, even if she’d taken a helicopter.
I could’ve left immediately, but I was curious about what Michelle and her friends did in the nightclub. As we watched the tapes, it became apparent that the ladies had a pretty w
ell thought out strategy. They didn’t just order drinks and hit the floor – they went straight to their table and uncorked a bottle of champagne. They drank slowly, eyeing the floor, and glancing back at the other tables.
Once in a while someone would ask them to dance, or a man would join their table. But their real coup de grace happened when the table behind them was occupied by a group of four men who looked to be in their thirties. The trio of ladies went over, pointed at their table, and laughed. Within a few seconds, they’d joined the four men and asked a lab-coated waitress to bring over their bottle of champagne.
I watched long enough to be amused by the dirty looks a few good-looking young women gave Michelle and her friends – proof that money and good strategy trumped youth and good looks.
Jerry and I watched for a few minutes, before I finally decided that we were just wasting time. “Thanks for your help,” I said, turning to Remy.
I managed to keep on my polite, happy façade until we left the club and got onto a train heading home. “Well, that was a waste,” I said bitterly to Jerry.
Now that I thought about it, I’d actually been hoping that Michelle hadn’t been at the club. I hadn’t liked her, with her perfect blonde hair and lack of career ambitions, and I was disappointed that her alibi had been captured perfectly on tape.
“Don’t worry,” said Jerry, being serious for once. “Maybe you’ll find something at Esme’s work.”
“Yeah, I wish. I haven’t even figured out how to get them to talk to me.”
“You’ll figure it out. Don’t stress.”
“I’m not.”
But I was. I was stressed and unhappy until we got home, where we discovered a plain white envelope had been shoved under our front door.
Chapter Eighteen
Jerry opened it and pulled out a piece of paper, which we read together.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop your investigation. You don’t want to end up like Esme.”
We both stared at it silently for a few seconds, and then I took a step back and raised both arms triumphantly in the air. “Yes! This is excellent! This is the best thing that’s happened to me all day.”
I was ready to do a little jig around the room, but Jerry gave me a strange look. “Are you feeling ok?”
“I’m feeling great! I’ve never felt better!”
“Really? Because you look a little…” He took a few steps toward me and raised his hand to my forehead, as though to feel my temperature.
I slapped his hand away. “Don’t be silly! I’m fine!”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, you don’t get it. This is great news.”
“Sure, I’m always really happy to get death threats. I just lo-ove knowing that there are psychopaths out there who want me dead.”
I shook my head. “You’re not thinking straight. Someone’s worried about my investigation! Isn’t that great?” When Jerry refused to acknowledge my greatness and gave me a disapproving look instead, I went on. “I thought I was getting nowhere! But I must be getting somewhere, if the killer’s getting worried. But how would they even know?”
I frowned and sat down on our grey sofa, and Jerry sat next to me. “Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I’m fine. Now help me think. Who would know that I’m investigating?”
Jerry ticked names off his fingers. “Michelle, Esme’s dad, your cop friend, Remy. Didn’t you say you met someone else at Esme’s dad’s place?”
“Darren. Her step-brother.” I bit my lip, hoping that he had nothing to do with this threat. I was convinced that Darren was interested in me as more than just a notch on his belt. But now I had to hope that his interest in me didn’t really have to do with my investigation. “Plus, Lisa and Mellie, these two women I used to work with. They were at the party. But…” My voice trailed off, and I felt a hollowness in the pit of my stomach as I realized just how much trouble those two ladies might have created for me.
“But?”
“Lisa said she’d tell everyone she knew that I was looking into Esme’s death. That’s a lot more people.”
We looked at each other seriously, and Jerry said, “You need to get a list of names from that woman.”
I nodded. “You’re right.” I sat back against the fluffy sofa cushions.
“Any idea why the killer would send you this letter now?” said Jerry. “I mean, you haven’t learned anything yet.”
“No. But I suppose they’re just worried I’m looking into it. Like, imagine if you were the killer–”
“No thanks.”
“Just do it. So, you’re the killer, and you’re sitting pretty. You think you’re safe. But now there’s this PI looking into matters, and she’s wonderful and intelligent,” – Jerry made a pig-like snort which I chose to ignore – “and she’s about to find out all your secrets. You’d be worried.”
“I guess so.”
We looked at the piece of paper again. “Now do you see why I’m so happy?”
***
I woke up early the next morning and rushed off to the 24th Precinct, where Sara worked.
The precinct was housed in a charm free, snot-colored building. The conference room where Sara met me briefly was just as charmless, but it was clean and functional and clearly saw a lot of use.
“This isn’t good,” Sara said, eyeing the piece of paper carefully. “We’ll run tests on it, but fingerprint results won’t get back for at least three or four days.”
“That’s ok,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to hold my breath that long. Well, you know what I mean.”
Sara shook her head. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high. Whoever did this probably wore gloves – if it was left by Esme’s killer, they were probably careful.”
I nodded, trying not to let her words deflate my spirits. “Or maybe not.”
“Maybe not. And I want you to be careful – we can’t do anything as law enforcement officers, because in most cases these threats turn out to be nothing. Keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Sure,” I said. “And could I get the paper back once you’re done with it? I was hoping to at least be able to use it as evidence.”
Sara shrugged. “You can have it back, but I don’t think it’ll be that great as evidence. The jury might think Jerry planted it himself. And that makes him look even more guilty.”
I sighed. Sara was in a real balloon-pricking mood today – the balloon, of course, being me. Which was a terrible thought: my mid-section wasn’t looking all that great, but I didn’t like comparing myself to a balloon.
I drove straight from the precinct to the offices of Lipkin, Lipkin and Mizrahy, where I marched up to the receptionist and said, “I’d like to speak to Alan Peterman, please.”
My conversation with Sara had put me in a slightly grumpy mood, and I was expecting the receptionist to tell me that Mr. Peterman was in a meeting or would be out all day, so it came as a bit of a shock to me when she put her phone down and said, “Mr. Peterman’s office is just down the hall to right. He’s got a few minutes right now.”
I nodded and quickly walked down the hall before he could change his mind and decide he needed to pop out of the office. I passed an open-space area of cubicles, and turned right to arrive at his office.
Alan Peterman was a thin, brown-haired man in his late fifties. His thick hair looked slightly incongruous on his thin frame, and I wondered if it was a wig.
He looked up when I approached the open door. “Valerie Inkerman?” he said with a mild look of surprise. “What can I do for you?”
He indicated a wobbly-looking, wheeled swivel chair on the other side of his desk, and I sat down gingerly.
Mr. Peterman’s desk took up most of his office. There was a window directly behind him, offering a view of the building across the road, and two framed diplomas hung on one wall. It was a tiny space, but I wondered how much the cubicle-workers coveted it.
“Mr. Pe
terman, I’m a private investigator,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “I’m looking into Esme Lindl’s death.”
“Please, call me Alan.”
Mr. Peterman – Alan – looked at me with his slightly worried eyes. “We were all terribly sorry to hear of Esme’s death. And we’d love to co-operate with any investigation that’s ongoing. It’s just that… you’re not from the NYPD.”
“No, I’m not,” I agreed. I fished around in my bag till I found my PI license, and handed it over to him. “I’d really appreciate your help. I’ve already spoken to Esme’s family, and they’re one-hundred percent behind my work.”
He glanced at the license briefly and then handed it back. “Are you working for the family?”
“No. But they feel, as does my client, that the NYPD are overlooking some important facts. That’s why it’s important to me – and to them – that I try to uncover what really happened.”
Alan shook his head. “It’s such a terrible business.” His tone of voice was slightly sad but polite and professional. I could imagine him standing around a barbeque, using this same tone of voice to discuss the terrible business of insurance rates with his neighbors. “I suppose we should co-operate.”
“I’d appreciate that. If you don’t mind, can I get started with the questions?”
“Sure. I’ll type out an email to my staff while we chat.”
“Yes. Of course. I understand you’re busy. Um…” Where to start? I fished out my notebook and a pen, and wrote down “Alan Peterman, Esme’s boss.” I underlined the words twice, and then I said, “Why don’t we start with what kind of employee Esme was. Did she work hard? Come to the office on time? Things like that.”
“Oh yeah, sure,” said Alan. “She was a hard worker. And really good with people, too. I’d have recommended her for a promotion later this year.”
“Hmm. Was anyone else competing for that promotion?”
“Well.” He looked doubtful. “Nobody has seen the kind of results Esme brings us – brought us. But I suppose there’s Danny Ford. He’ll be the next associate partner, now that Esme’s no longer with us.”
A.R. Winters - Valerie Inkerman 01 - Don't Be a Stranger Page 7
