A Job to Kill For

by Janice Kaplan

  “If you think you’re on to something, you need to pursue it,” he said simply. “I understand.”

  I felt a surge of gratitude. I couldn’t carp anymore about Dan’s being condescending. He loved me, and offered his support without strings.

  “If you really don’t mind…” I paused. “Listen, I will go back to LA, okay? But you stay here and have fun. Play more golf. Go to the spa and get a massage. Lie on a chaise and read journals.”

  “It’s a deal,” Dan said.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. But I’ll wait on the massage. You’re the only masseuse I want.”

  I got back to an empty house and almost immediately regretted having left Phoenix—and Dan. We could have hiked Camelback Mountain, had a romantic dinner, danced under the stars. Sure I needed to protect Grant, but he was at a tennis tournament in San Diego. The only immediate danger he faced was tendonitis.

  Still, Grant would come home and head back to campus. Back to his secret society. My rational son would laugh at vague warnings to be careful. He needed facts—and so did I.

  The connection to Delta ij seemed hazy at best, the evidence against Roger was a little clearer. What could be in the papers Cassie stashed in the study? Protection if Roger demanded a divorce, Paige had guessed. The secret he didn’t want exposed. Could it be that instead of protecting her, the mystery papers had made him poison her?

  But as she climbed the ladder, Cassie didn’t say, “Roger.” She said, “Delta.”

  I felt torn between my two possibilities. According to Grant, Professor Bohr had told the students in Delta ij that they might get asked questions about Cassie. Questions they couldn’t answer.

  I wondered if the answers lay on that shelf in the study.

  I could call Detective Wilson and tell him what I knew. But I doubted he’d take any action. Even if he tried, what judge would issue a search warrant based on a single word? Wealth and status didn’t mean Roger had the police in his pocket, but they made it pretty unlikely that Detective Wilson would want to rip up his penthouse on a hunch.

  I went to the kitchen and turned on our shiny steel Italian espresso machine to make myself a double. Great investment. Just four hundred more espressos made at home instead of at Starbucks and the machine would pay for itself.

  Small porcelain cup in hand, I went upstairs to my study. Twice I picked up the phone to call Molly then put it back down. Sure, I wanted to know what Roger and Molly were up to the night before Cassie died. But if I told her what Paige had said, she’d get defensive, and right now I just needed her help.

  “Hi,” I said when she picked up her cell phone. “Bad time or place?” In the wireless world, asking How are you? never made as much sense as asking Where are you?

  “I’m at the gym,” she said.

  “Oh, then I won’t bother you.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m lounging in the café, eating a croissant and reading a book on Pilates. I’d rather stretch my mind than my muscles.”

  Only Molly joined a gym because she liked the lunch. Her idea of exercise generally involved lifting the phone. “Any chance you actually bought sneakers?”

  “Of course not. Chanel flats are as sporty as I get.”

  “Chanel, proud sponsor of the Paris Shopping Olympics.”

  “I’m going for the gold, babe,” Molly said.

  We both laughed. Apparently murder, mayhem, and mendacity couldn’t ruin a good friendship.

  “Anyway, I called for a reason,” I said. I briefly filled her in on the stashed papers, Grant’s secret society, and my “Delta” breakthrough.

  “Interesting,” Molly said when I finished. “I kind of hope your hunch is right. Sure would take the spotlight off me.”

  “And put it on Grant,” I said softly.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” Molly blurted. “I wasn’t thinking. It would be awful if he got caught up in this. What do we do?”

  I liked that she’d made it we, rather than just me.

  “I still have the key to the penthouse. I want to go over and see what’s hidden on the bookshelf. Would you come with me?”

  There was a long silence. “We can’t do that,” she said finally. “What if the police come? It doesn’t matter if you have a key—it’s got to be breaking and entering.”

  “I’m not planning on breaking anything. But I am worried about someone breaking my son’s neck.”

  “You’re being dramatic.”

  “Two people are dead. That’s dramatic,” I said, sounding a lot like Dan.

  Molly didn’t answer immediately. “Okay, here’s an idea,” she said finally. “How about I call Roger and tell him the story. He’s on a business trip—London, Hong Kong, Moscow. A private plane makes the world very small. But he can get someone to let us in.”

  How could I tell her that I didn’t want Roger to know? If he suspected the stashed papers involved him, they’d be gone by the time we got there.

  “It’s all too hypothetical to explain to a guy on a Gulfstream,” I said, looking for an excuse. “Maybe you should give him another reason you need to get in.”

  “Like what?”

  Oh, heck, how should I know? I was as lousy at lying as Pinocchio. “Tell him you can’t find your gold Cartier Roadster watch. You think it must have fallen off when you were at the penthouse. You’re in a panic because it’s so pricy.”

  “Darling, my Cartier is a copy.”

  “Can’t be. It’s gorgeous.”

  “You think I’d spend twenty-five thousand dollars on a watch? No way. I got it for two hundred bucks at a little storefront near Hollywood and Vine. The one corner of America that’s a mecca for all things fake—from tits to timepieces.”

  Despite myself, I laughed. “If it looked real to me, it looked real to him. Tell him you think you dropped it on the last visit. The night before Cassie died.”

  Ten minutes later, Molly called me back. “I reached Roger,” she reported. “He said he’ll buy me a new Roadster and have Cartier send it over.”

  “And?” I held my breath. Just how far had Molly’s morals fallen?

  “Tempting,” she admitted. “But I told him the one I lost has sentimental value. I explained you have the key and could let me in. He didn’t sound happy, but said to go ahead.”

  “Thanks, Molly.” I let my breath out again. “When do you want to meet?”

  “Tonight,” she said. “Seven o’clock.”

  “Great. Let’s meet in the lobby of Roger’s building. I’ll take you out to dinner afterward. A new Japanese restaurant opened with twenty kinds of eel on the menu.”

  “While we’re eating slimy food, you can explain your slippery comment about where I was the night before Cassie died.”

  Since she’d let it pass a few minutes ago, I thought she’d missed the mention. But Molly didn’t miss anything.

  “So how did you know?” Molly called out to me, as soon as she came into the gleaming marble lobby of Roger’s building.

  A spiffily uniformed doorman had pushed open the front door for her, a smartly dressed lobby attendant escorted her in, and a concierge behind a desk smiled politely. Molly ignored all of them, striding across the lobby, her high heels clacking.

  “Enough staff here,” I said, getting up from the leather sling chair where I’d been waiting. “They should know what’s going on.”

  “But they don’t,” Molly said. “Roger already complained to management about it. The garage elevator is unattended. No security cameras there.”

  She had a point. The main elevator from the parking garage came only as far as the lobby. Most guests would heed the small sign that said ALL VISITORS MUST BE ANNOUNCED and stop at the front desk. But what if they didn’t? A modern sculpture with a plunging waterfall at its center stood behind the freestanding concierge desk and kept the two high-speed elevators hidden from view. Anybody who wanted to slip upstairs undetected could do it easily. The security system had more holes th
an a rock star’s jeans.

  “I’ve hardly ever been in the lobby,” I admitted as we stepped into the elevator now. “There’s a private penthouse lift from the garage that works with a pass card.” I held up mine to show her. “I assume that’s how you and Roger got in.”

  “So I’ll ask again,” Molly said, not confirming anything. “How did you know?”

  “A friend of Cassie’s saw you and Roger. She even identified your perfume. Annick Goutal Passion.”

  Molly lifted a wrist to her nose and sniffed. “Is that a joke?”

  “No. As good an ID as DNA in my book. Probably better than fingerprints. Roger and you were in the study, and eventually you’ll tell me why. More important, he must have had a key to get in. Even though he made a big fuss the next day that he didn’t.”

  We stepped off the elevator, and as I put my own key in the door, Molly grabbed my arm. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.

  I heard the edge of fear in her voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. You suspect Roger. What if you’re right? He knows we’re coming here tonight. I’m suddenly scared.”

  I hesitated, but then pushed the door open and patted her arm comfortingly. Whenever Jimmy got scared, we’d hum an old Simon and Garfunkel song together. It worked for him, and it usually made me feel braver, too. Now I tried it on Molly.

  “‘Is there any danger?/No, no not really/Just lean on me,’” I crooned softly.

  She gave a small smile. “Okay, I’m leaning. What’s the plan?”

  “Let’s play it safe,” I whispered. “You stay here by the front door. I’ll be quick. If anything happens, you can run out fast to get help.”

  Molly nodded and I offered a thumbs-up sign. Then, walking with more confidence than I felt (“So I’ll continue to continue to pretend/My life will never end…” went the other Simon and Garfunkel tune in my head), I strode quickly into the study. I had only one place to focus: the bookshelf. Grabbing the library ladder, I rolled it to what seemed the right position. I had a strong visual image of where I’d been standing when Cassie scrambled up, and the angle of the ladder against the shelves. One advantage of being a decorator: Maybe I couldn’t always remember names lately, and the dates of friends’ birthdays blurred, but once I’d seen something, I never forgot it.

  I climbed, just as Cassie had done, and got to the rung she’d reached. But I held on firmly, not wanting to repeat the end of the scene.

  From where I stood, I could reach dozens of books. Where would Cassie have hidden something? I glanced at the titles. When I’d been in the midst of decorating for them, the Crawfords had sent over countless books, which I’d had an assistant arrange on the shelves. Most of them came from Roger—expensive, leather-bound volumes from a snotty English publisher, along with signed first editions of biography and philosophy books, purchased more for the show-off high price than for literary pleasure. But the section now in front of me seemed more Cassie’s style: hardcovers she had probably read in college and that had excited her to new ways of thinking. Virginia Woolf butted against Ayn Rand and James Joyce, and all seemed well-thumbed. So did the save-the-world texts from Rachel Carson and Jane Addams. As her friend Paige had pointed out, I’d been unfair to pigeonhole Cassie as just another girl who married well.

  I gripped the ladder tightly and scanned the titles again, looking for a clue. Some classic mysteries from Dorothy Sayers caught my eye. I pulled down Gaudy Night and flipped through it. A few underlined passages grabbed my attention, but they seemed more the mark of an eager reader than a secret message. No papers fluttered out. I put the book back and took down Strong Poison. How ironic would that be? This time I found a handwritten note tucked into the front. I opened it, heart pounding.

  Happy 20th Birthday, Cassie! I love you always.

  Love, Mom

  I grimaced. Nice sentiment, but not the one I needed. I shoved the volume back into place. My plan suddenly seemed futile. Even assuming I’d put the ladder in exactly the right spot, I could spend all night flipping through the books within reach. If Cassie had just hidden a single page or two, I could easily miss it. Not knowing what I was looking for made this harder. Or maybe impossible.

  My left hand slipped off the ladder, and I wiped my sweaty palm against my linen pants. Despite my efforts, my courage started draining, and I felt some of Molly’s anxiety seeping in. I’ll continue to continue to pretend….

  “Molly, is everything okay?” I called out.

  I waited a beat but got no answer, and I realized she couldn’t hear me. The penthouse was too big and the walls too thick. Cassie and Roger had picked an unusually well-built building. Right now, I would have preferred cheap Sheetrock that let voices carry.

  Stepping down a rung, I looked despairingly at the neatly lined-up books in front of me. None jutted from the shelf to show it had been recently read. Maybe I should give up and call it a night, have dinner with Molly and look elsewhere for clues. Hesitating, I gave the shelves one final scan—and an ordinary-looking book with a brown binding caught my eye. Something about the size and shape of the volume seemed familiar. Then I noticed the title—Words of Love—and laughed out loud. The perfect title for a book you didn’t want any man to open (or steal). I had the very same brown volume on my own shelf. Instead of pages, the fake binding had an empty center made for secret storage. Mine hid some of my best jewelry. (The fake Brillo box under the sink hid the rest.)

  Certain that I’d found what I wanted, I grabbed the book and scuttled down the ladder. Safely on terra firma again, I opened the cover. Sure enough, the book was hollow. I lifted the velvet covering of an enclosed box and felt a wave of excitement as I pulled out a wad of papers.

  I knew I should get back to Molly, but I couldn’t resist a quick peek.

  First came a worn newspaper clipping from the front page of the UCLA student newspaper The Daily Bruin reporting on the death of a junior named Derek Howe. A blurry photo showed a group of grieving students that included Cassie. From the date, I figured it must have been Cassie’s freshman year at college. She had probably saved the page since then.

  I quickly went on to the next item, a printout from a local newspaper in Connecticut. The story, from twelve years ago, detailed a house fire in a three-bedroom colonial that had killed a couple named Sandy and Jerry Baker. Their son, Nicholas, home from college on vacation, escaped unharmed. Neighbors expressed shock, and Sandy’s sister, who had lived across the street, promised to do whatever she could for the devastated young man. She pooh-poohed reports that Nicholas could have started the conflagration.

  I hesitated, trying to figure out how the two stories could be related. Two tragedies at opposite ends of the country, several years apart. A young man named Nicholas Baker orphaned. Another one, Derek Howe, dead. None of the people overlapped. But both reports had been important enough for Cassie to hide away.

  Puzzled, I went on to the next page. This one seemed simpler: a document from the UCLA development office, where Cassie had worked. It described a discussion she had underway with Randall Scott, a Silicon Valley millionaire, to endow a chair in theoretical physics. The straightforward report had been submitted a few weeks earlier to Elsa Franklin.

  Finally, I came to a yellow-lined page covered in small handwriting I assumed to be Cassie’s. I couldn’t take the time to read it now while Molly stood worrying and waiting. But maybe Cassie’s notes explained how the other pieces fit together.

  I tucked the pages into my Lulu Guinness pocketbook and raced out of the library. I’d grab Molly and we could head to the restaurant to discuss the papers that—possibly—had signed Cassie’s death warrant.

  “Molly, I’m set!” I called exuberantly as I rushed into the foyer.

  The room stood empty. The front door remained open, just as I’d left it. But Molly hadn’t stayed.

  “Molly?” I called her name again, a little louder. No answer. I peered cautiously into the hallway.
Nothing. She should have told me if she was leaving. I didn’t feel like playing games.

  Suddenly, a piece of metal jammed hard into my spine. I screamed, but a man’s thickly callused hand clamped powerfully over my mouth.

  “Shut up.” A low, gravelly voice resonated in my ear. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.” I could feel my attacker’s hot breath at the back of my neck.

  Fight, I told myself.

  I jerked back my head as hard as I could and tried to open my mouth enough to bite down on his flesh. But his viselike grip didn’t ease. I twisted, trying to get away.

  “Cut it out.” He took the gun from my back and smacked the butt against my hip. Tears sprung to my eyes; I lifted my foot and stomped down, but my soft flats didn’t make a dent in his metal-toed oxfords. Furious now, I swung my hip hard into his groin.

  “Oww,” he hollered. “Bitch!”

  His gun clattered to the ground and I tried to take off. My legs churned, but like a character in an old Road Runner cartoon I didn’t get anywhere, because he grabbed my arm. Not taking any chances, he looped his leg around both of mine, knocking me over. He fell on top of me, his knee in my chest and both hands at my throat.

  “What do you want?” I gasped.

  “What you just stole.”

  “I didn’t steal anything.”

  “Give it to me, bitch.”

  Now he pointed the gun at my head, holding the cold metal against my temple. I started to hyperventilate, my breath coming too fast. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to get under control. Whatever those papers contained, I wouldn’t die for them. I had three children at home.

  “In my Lulu Guinness,” I said in a small voice. “Just papers. I didn’t take anything you’d want.”

  Some of his weight came off me, but the gun stayed in place. “What’s a frigging Lulu?” he asked. “That your lady friend?”

  “My friend,” I gasped. “Where’s Molly? What’s happened to her?”

  “I told you to shut up,” he said. “What’d you steal? Where’s the Lulu?”