In reply to that request, Valente noncommittally raised his eyebrows, but at least he was listening, and the three minutes he’d allotted them was over.
“I think you got involved on November twenty-eighth,” McCord began, “when you attended a party at the home of a girl you used to know. I think the last time you spoke to her, she was still an ordinary college kid and you were a guy with a beard and no money, who was working in your aunt’s grocery market and going to school. But by the night of the party, things were a lot different for both of you. She’s a Broadway star now, and you’re a very rich man—a tycoon, in fact, but one with a bad history. I also think—and this is where I’m guessing—that you had a real ‘thing’ for her in the old days. Am I right?”
Sam held her breath, waiting for Valente to answer—to agree to engage.
“Big time,” Valente finally confirmed.
While Sam gave a mental cheer, McCord continued with his scenario: “Now, at the party, she doesn’t recognize you. She takes you at face value—a notorious billionaire with an unsavory reputation, and she’s not very friendly. Even so, you’re anxious to spend a little time with her. Unfortunately, she won’t give you much time. While you’re still trying to decide if, and when, to tell her who you really are, she hands you over to a friend—an astrologer—and your opportunity vanishes. And here’s the real kicker to that,” Mack speculated wryly, “although you only spent a few minutes with her at the party—you got hooked on her again, didn’t you?”
Sam saw a slight smile deepen the corner of Valente’s mouth, and she assumed Valente was dismissing McCord’s statement as ludicrous—until Valente slowly nodded, and Sam drew the only other possible conclusion: Valente was unwillingly impressed that a “tough guy” like McCord could have made such a leap of logic about another man—particularly one with Valente’s reputation.
“A couple of days later,” Mack continued, “you hear she’s been in a car wreck, and she’s in the hospital. You know she loves pears, because she used to buy them at your aunt’s market. So you send her a basket of them with a note on your letterhead, and you sign it with the only names she ever knew you by. But she doesn’t get the note because we have it. A few days later, when she gets home from the hospital, you go over to her apartment to see how she’s doing—”
McCord stopped there and asked another question. “How did you get her to agree to let you come up to her apartment if she still didn’t know who you were?”
“I told her that her husband had some documents that belonged to me and I needed them.”
McCord nodded, assimilating that. “Was that true?”
“No.”
“But the ploy worked,” McCord continued. “As a result, you were there when we called to tell her we’d found her car, and you volunteered to fly her to the site in your helicopter. Hell, why wouldn’t you volunteer to do that?” Mack asked with a shrug. It was a rhetorical question, one he answered himself on Valente’s behalf. “You cared about her—you didn’t know her husband was dead, and you have nothing to hide. In fact, you landed your helicopter, with her in it, on the road right in front of a row of police vehicles.
“Even after you found out that Manning was dead, you kept right on going to see her—and you did it knowing damned well the NYPD would try to make a case against you on any flimsy excuse you gave them. But you weren’t worried about that, because you didn’t know we had an excuse—and it wasn’t flimsy. We had the note you sent Leigh Manning—a note that is so damning that anyone who wrote it would become Suspect Number One in a murder-conspiracy case.”
As McCord came to his role in the scenario, he walked over to Valente’s desk and restlessly picked up a paperweight, studying it as he spoke. “But you aren’t just ‘anyone,’ ” he said. “You’re the object of Trumanti’s vendetta, and from the moment he heard about that note you wrote Leigh Manning, his one goal has been to live long enough to sit in front of the window when you’re given a lethal injection. That’s where I come in,” McCord added bluntly, putting the paperweight down and looking straight at Valente. “I’m Trumanti’s handpicked ‘assistant executioner,’ whose job it is to help him stick the needle in your arm.”
Sam couldn’t see McCord’s face because his back was to her, but she could see Valente’s face, and he was scrutinizing McCord very closely, as McCord finished, “I’m not going to cancel the surveillance on you and Mrs. Manning or the wire taps on you. I can’t risk giving Trumanti any reason to replace me with someone else who’ll do his bidding. The best I can do right now is return that note you wrote to Leigh Manning as a gesture of truce—of goodwill.”
“How many copies of it did you keep?” Valente inquired blandly.
“Six,” McCord replied bluntly. “However, they’re in my custody and they’ll stay there unless I find out I’m all wrong and you did kill Manning. That’s the best I can do right now. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to live with it.”
In reply, Valente pressed a button on his credenza, and a dark glass panel slid open. Behind it glowed tiny red lights on an elaborate sound system. “I can live with that,” he said, removing a cassette tape from the recorder, “as long as you can live with this.”
McCord’s eyes narrowed on the tape and then lifted to Valente’s face. “Just out of curiosity, what do you intend to do with that?”
“It will remain in my custody,” Valente replied, repeating McCord’s earlier words, “unless you change your mind and decide either Leigh Manning or I killed her husband.”
The day before, McCord wouldn’t have believed a word that came out Michael Valente’s mouth. Now he took his word about a very damaging tape and eyed his former foe with reluctant admiration. “Nice trick,” he commented.
Sam bit down on her lower lip to keep from laughing and made a show of searching for something in her handbag.
“We need to talk to Mrs. Manning now,” McCord explained, “because I think the murder may have been related to her husband’s financial dealings. Naturally, you can be present while we talk to her.”
“Naturally,” Valente agreed dryly, reaching into his desk drawer and removing a cell phone. He glanced at it for a moment as if it were unfamiliar to him, then he turned it on.
“New phone?” McCord speculated with a twinge of a smile.
Valente looked at him as if the answer was obvious. “One of several,” he averred, pressing the numbers on the keypad.
“I imagine they’re probably the newest digital models, too—the ones that are very hard for us to monitor? And I imagine they’re registered to someone besides you?”
“I’m beginning to see how you got to be a lieutenant,” Valente told him with mocking amusement; then he broke off as his call was answered. “O’Hara,” he said, “can Leigh take a phone call right now?”
While he waited for O’Hara to bring the phone to her, Valente explained, “Leigh’s at the theater, rehearsing, but she should be finishing up about now. She’s going on tonight—”
Sam heard the unmistakable pride in his voice as he made that announcement, but a moment later when Leigh Manning took his phone call, Valente’s deep baritone gentled and his features softened so much that Sam was transfixed by the change. “McCord and Littleton are in my office,” Valente told Leigh. He chuckled at her reply; then he looked straight at Sam and McCord as he said, “I made that same suggestion to them when they arrived, but they were very persistent.” Teasingly, he added, “Aren’t you the one who once told me it was every citizen’s civic duty to cooperate with the police?”
When he hung up, his attitude reverted to brisk and businesslike. “She’ll be here in a half hour. I’ve already asked her about Logan’s finances, but she doesn’t know of anything unusual—other than the fact that he seems to have paid cash for an expensive piece of jewelry he gave her the night of the party.”
“Maybe she’ll think of something when we talk to her,” McCord replied, standing up. “We’ll wait in the reception room until she
gets here.”
Valente looked at McCord for a long moment. “Why is it you’re not trying to hang the murder on Leigh?”
“There’s always a chance she killed him,” McCord said, playing it absolutely straight, “but the only suspicious thing she’s ever done was appear to be having an extramarital clandestine relationship with you—with a man who has a criminal record for a violent crime. Once I take all that out of the equation, she looks to me like any other widow.”
WHILE THEY WAITED for Leigh Manning to arrive, McCord asked Sam to arrange for them to see Sheila Winters later that same day if possible. Sam phoned the psychiatrist and after some wrangling, Dr. Winters agreed to see them at four-forty-five, after her last appointment.
Chapter 66
* * *
Sheila Winters’s receptionist had already gone home, and the elegant little anteroom was empty when Sam and McCord arrived a few minutes ahead of their allotted time.
Since the door to Dr. Winters’s office was closed, they sat down on a pair of tufted, green leather wing chairs to wait until Winters finished with whoever was with her. McCord picked up a magazine from the stack on the lamp table between their chairs, propped his ankle on his knee, and began leafing through it.
Sam picked up a copy of Vanity Fair and opened it, but her mind was on the interview they’d just concluded with Leigh Manning. The actress had been so badly disillusioned by the police in recent weeks that she’d stood beside, and slightly behind, Valente’s chair with her hand on his shoulder the entire time she answered McCord’s opening questions.
At first, Sam had thought she was subtly seeking Valente’s protection. It was fully ten minutes before Sam realized the opposite was true—Leigh Manning was afraid for Valente, and standing with him against McCord and Sam.
McCord thought so, too, and remarked on it when they were in the car on the way to Winters’s office. “Did you notice Leigh Manning didn’t leave Valente’s side until she realized all our questions were going to be solely for her?”
“She reminded me of a lovely Irish setter trying to protect a dangerous panther,” Sam confided, and McCord chuckled at her analogy. “I match up people with their animal counterparts,” Sam admitted. “For example, Shrader reminds me of a rottweiler. I’ve nicknamed him Shredder—”
McCord’s laughter cracked like a pistol shot.
The phone on Dr. Winters’s receptionist’s desk rang and the answering machine clicked on. McCord got up and restlessly studied a picture on the wall behind his chair.
“I’m surprised Dr. Winters doesn’t use an answering service,” Sam remarked quietly.
“She probably switches her calls over to one when she leaves,” McCord replied, his voice lowered, too. “That’s what my brothers-in-law do.”
“Are they doctors?”
“Two of them are.”
“Two of them? How many sisters do you have?”
He slanted her an amused sideways glance and silently held up one hand, the thumb folded back against the palm.
“You have four sisters?”
He nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets, his face toward the picture, his gaze slanted downward to her. “Until I was ten, I thought shower curtains always looked like legs with feet.”
Sam grinned. “Panty hose,” she concluded; then she said, “Did that brown tweed jacket you were wearing the first day really belong to your brother-in-law?”
Nodding again, he said, “The apartment above mine caught fire while I was on vacation. When I got home, everything in my place reeked of smoke and had to be cleaned and treated. The clothes in my suitcases were the only things of my own I could wear.”
The phone rang again, and McCord turned, glancing impatiently at his watch and then the answering machine. “Dr. Winters is running almost ten minutes late. Shrinks are very clock conscious . . .” As he spoke he walked toward the door of her office.
He knocked.
No answer.
He reached for the knob and turned it as Sam put down her magazine. “There’s nobody—” he began, standing in the center of the office; then he turned right and disappeared from Sam’s line of vision. “Shit! Call for EMS!” he shouted.
Grabbing for her cell phone, Sam raced into the office, but all she saw at first glance was McCord’s back as he crouched down near the back corner of the psychiatrist’s desk.
“Never mind the ambulance,” he told Sam grimly over his shoulder, “call Dispatch and tell them to get CSU over here.”
Leaning over him with her cell phone to her ear, Sam did as he instructed, her gaze riveted on the corpse of the woman she had spoken to only hours before. Sheila Winters was sprawled facedown on the floor, her body behind her desk, her face peeking out around it, her eyes wide and staring, as if she were looking at the doorway. Her bright yellow dress was stained vermilion across the back where blood had poured from a gaping wound.
Careful not to alter the position of the body, McCord lifted Winters’s left shoulder so that he could see the wound from the front; then he released his grip and stood up. “That’s an exit wound in her back,” he told Sam; then he gestured toward the blood spattered on the wall behind the desk. “She was probably standing near her chair when she was shot, and the impact slammed her against that wall; then she fell forward on her face.”
Sam was about to answer him when McCord’s cell phone rang. He grabbed it and opened it, and then listened for a moment, an odd expression crossing his face. “What’s her home address?” he asked; then he said, “I’m at Sheila Winters’s office, and she’s a corpse. Get over here and sit on this crime scene until CSU arrives. I don’t want any uniforms tramping through the place, destroying evidence.”
He snapped his phone shut, and looked at Sam, his blue eyes restless and intent. “Shrader got a hit on Jane Sebring. She rented a car on Sunday and returned it Monday. Guess how many miles she put on it?”
“Enough to get her to the Catskills and back?” Sam speculated, her heart beginning to pound.
He nodded, glanced impatiently at Sheila Winters’s body, and reversed his decision to wait there until Shrader arrived. Opening his phone, he ordered the closest patrol car sent to their address.
Two officers came running into the anteroom a few minutes later, and McCord backed them out of it into the hallway. “Stand outside this door,” he ordered them, “and don’t open it for anyone except Detective Shrader or CSU. You got that?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“And don’t touch the damned doorknob!” he warned over his shoulder.
Sam kept pace with him, but even with her long-legged strides it wasn’t easy in high heels, and she cursed herself for wearing them today, of all days.
In the car, McCord put his emergency light on the dashboard and slammed the car into gear.
Chapter 67
* * *
Once Leigh had publicly announced two nights ago that she was having dinner with Michael, the number of reporters hanging around outside her building, hoping for something inflammatory to print, dropped abruptly. She’d handed them their inflammatory story and they were running with it.
There were only two reporters huddling in their coats outside the lobby windows when Joe O’Hara pulled the limo to a stop at five P.M., but he escorted her inside anyway.
“Hey, Leigh!” Courtney Maitland called, rushing inside right behind her. When Leigh turned to talk to her, O’Hara touched Leigh’s elbow and said, “Hilda has some things she needs me to pick up. I’ll go on upstairs, get her list, and run her errands so I can get back in time to take you to the theater at six-thirty. Is Mr. Valente going to ride with us?”
“No, he’s going to come later from his place. I have to be at the theater at seven, and there’s no point in him waiting around there before the show starts. Jason Solomon will only make both of us crazy. He’s in rare form today. Oh, and, Joe—” Leigh called a moment later as he headed around the potted trees in the lobby toward the elevators. “I h
ave a ticket for you tonight, too.”
He grinned at her and saluted, and Leigh turned to talk to Courtney, who was wearing an oversize coat that looked as if it came from a thrift store and a long red wool scarf that dropped below her hem.
“I’m absolutely going to use Michael Valente as the subject of my interview,” Courtney explained in a rush. “Do you think you could get him to talk to me about really important things? I mean, I’ve already got some good personal stuff about him, but it’s mostly from eavesdropping and playing cards with him that one night. I’d like to write about the man he is instead of the way other people see him. . . .”
Upstairs, Joe turned his key in the lock of the apartment’s side door and walked into the kitchen. “Hilda?” he called, surprised that the apartment was dark. “Hilda?” he said, walking down the hallway that led to her room. He tapped on her door. “If you want me to do your errands, you’d better give me your list.”
When she didn’t answer his knock, O’Hara headed back into the kitchen, then through it, turning on lights as he went. He flipped on the dining room chandelier and saw the housekeeper’s prone form near the table, blood seeping from her head into the carpet. “Hilda. Oh, no!—” Bending down, he felt for a pulse; then he straightened and ran into the kitchen. He picked up the phone and pressed nine-one—
His entire body seemed to explode with a pain radiating from his chest. With a groan, Joe O’Hara slid down the wall, clutching the receiver while the world turned black.
LEIGH PUT HER KEY in the front door, opened it, and walked into the living room, pausing to hang her coat in the closet. Anxious to lie down for a few minutes before she showered and got ready to leave for the theater, she headed directly to her bedroom.
The bed was already turned down, Leigh noticed as she walked into the bedroom from the hallway. Hilda never forgot anything, she thought with a smile, including Leigh’s habit of grabbing a late afternoon catnap when she was performing. Intending to undress and put on a robe, she walked past the bed and glanced ahead of her at the large mirror above her dressing table. A woman was coming toward her in the mirror, a woman who was wearing the same red dress and ruby pendant Leigh had worn to her party. Except the woman was standing behind her, raising a heavy stone vase. . . .
Someone to Watch Over Me Page 42
