Everyone had thought she was crazy to do the women's half-marathon. But it was a women's event. It was her swan song before she disappeared down the rabbit hole of motherhood. Running thirteen miles through the heart of the city with eight thousand women had dispelled the panic for a while. Since then, she had kept going as if she were training for the Marathon in November. Fat chance—emphasis on "fat." The gentle swelling she refused to call a bump was pressing harder against her waistband every day.
Jimmy had come out to cheer her on at the half-marathon. Now she needed him to come with her to birthing classes. So far, he'd used every excuse his inventive brain could come up with. So he was freaked out by the messy mechanics of birth. He had to get over it. She couldn't put it off much longer. Didn't he realize she was terrified? She needed to learn how to deal with the pain that even the natural birth videos on YouTube didn't quite succeed in explaining away and get through this thing.
Sure, she could go without him. But it was the twenty-first century. Men parented their children right along with women. If she showed up at Lamaze classes by herself, she'd feel humiliated. Jimmy had to come, and not just because he should. The royal road to resentment was paved with shoulds, they both knew that. What was the point of getting married if he didn't want to be her partner in this? He had to stop moping about Sophia and resenting her and the baby. Didn't he realize how badly he was hurting her? Barbara felt tears rolling down her flushed cheeks as she longed for the kind, reliable, adoring Jimmy he'd been for so long.
At the southwest corner of the park, instead of making another loop, she swung right past the clusters of pedicabs between fares and out the Mariners' Gate. Bruce had promised to meet her at the island in the middle of Columbus Circle, with its fountain surrounded by flowers, bearing lunch for both of them from the vast subterranean Whole Foods under the upscale shopping mall where the Coliseum used to be. She saw him waving and waited for a break in traffic to dodge across and meet him.
"I'd hug you, but I'm all sweaty," she said. She knelt on the stone ledge and reached into the fountain, scooping water over her arms and neck. She cupped more water in her hands and splashed it over her face. "Better. Sit while I do some stretches. I'm starving."
"So how's my favorite pregnant murder suspect today?"
"Not funny, Bruce! I keep waiting for more detectives to show up. I'm afraid they'll look at my bookcases full of mysteries and think I seriously could have done it. My alibi is basically a meeting, and you know no one will admit they saw me there. I also can't stand the thought of cops disrupting a meeting because of me."
"You've got to prioritize your fears, Barb," he said. "That last one is way low priority."
"Have you seen Cindy?"
"I was going to ask you the same thing," he said.
"Just the once. Do you think she's told them she knows us from last summer? She knows I'm not capable of murder."
"I don't know what Cindy thinks any more," Bruce said, "especially when she's got her cop hat on. If she would only talk to me, I could be helping her."
"So help me," Barbara said. "What do we know that the police don't?"
Bruce's face brightened. Investigating murders had helped his sobriety. Bruce did better when he had a meaningful task to focus on. He couldn't temp his whole life. In recovery, he had developed a lot of interest in how other people ticked. He could have a career in criminal justice. He could go to John Jay. Once Jimmy got a job . . .
There she went, daydreaming about Bruce's future instead of her own again. Have the baby, get back to work, then social work school. She'd pay for it herself, since there would be no more largesse from Jimmy. She would make it work. She wasn't in DA. No one could call her an addict for taking out a school loan if she had to.
"We met some people at the funeral," Bruce said, "who the police may not even know had any significant connection with Sophia."
"The program people," Barbara said.
"Them and others," Bruce said. "At the lunch after Woodlawn, I talked to a guy who was running for City Council. I have his card somewhere, probably in my suit pants pocket. He worked at Larry's firm. He had a rich wife, too. Then there was Sophia's college roommate, Tracy Somebody. She's the editor of Next. She said Sophia was a wild child back then."
"Of course she was," Barbara said. "She was drinking. Drugs too, probably."
"Tracy said she'd seen Sophia's college boyfriend at the funeral," he said. "They used to meet at reunions."
"Where did they go to college?" she asked.
"She didn't say," he said.
"We could go and see her," she said, "and find out. We could ask her about the old boyfriend. Old boyfriends tend to know a darker side of you."
"If that's a preface to Too Much Information," he said, "please stop now."
"Don't be a wuss. Okay, let's look up Next." She slid her iPhone out of its holder at her waist. "Next time I upgrade, I'll be paying for it out of my own pocket."
"Barbara, don't dwell on it," he said. "Not today's problem."
"I never expected Jimmy to pay my way," she said.
"I know, Barb," he said, "neither did I."
"This iPhone has a lot of bells and whistles that he insisted on and I don't really need. I don't even know how to use all the apps he downloaded for me. But even I can type a four-letter word into a search box. N-e-x-t. Wait, it's loading. Here she is: Tracy Miller, editor in chief."
"It's an e-zine," he said. "Do they even have a physical office?"
"Yes! And it's our lucky day, because they're right on West 57th Street near Sixth. Let's go visit her. Come on!"
"Hey, wait a minute! Not so fast!"
Bruce scrambled to his feet and started after her, his long strides not quite catching up with her rapid trot east along Central Park South.
"Whoa!"
A plumed carriage horse, evidently thinking itself addressed, raised its nose from its feedbag, stomped once, and flicked a fly off its haunch with its tail.
"Barbara, wait up!" He drew level with her, panting. "Shouldn't we call first or maybe email her?"
"And have her say no, she can't see us? Let's take a chance. If she's not available, we can ask for an appointment. Or if they say she works from home, which you'd expect with an e-zine, we can go the online route."
"What are we supposed to say?" he asked. "We met her at a funeral and stopped by to say hi?"
"Of course not, silly," Barbara said. "We met her at a funeral, and we have a story to pitch to her."
"What story? There is no story, dammit!"
"We'll think of something." She beamed at him. "How about college loans? What happens to people who come out of school with that albatross around their necks? How many of them end up in careers they didn't want because they have to pay back their loans? How many never pay them back at all? Do they become compulsive debtors? How many end up in DA?"
"Barbara, I'm not a journalist!" he protested. "Anyhow, I can't write about DA. Anonymity at the level of press, remember?"
"We can say you have a source for anonymous quotes," she said. "I think it's a great topic. If I were Tracy, I'd jump at it."
"Earth to Barbara," he said. "Not a journalist?"
"You're sober, Bruce," she said. "Think about that, and don't dare tell me you can't do anything you set your mind to."
"I didn't set my mind—hey, Tracy, hi! Bruce Kohler, remember? We met at Sophia's funeral, and this is my friend Barbara."
"Barbara Rose. Sophia's college friend, right? What fun running into you! What a beautiful day! Are you going out to lunch?"
Tracy, who didn't seem to mind being ambushed, shook her head.
"Just picking up a sandwich to take back to my computer. I couldn't resist a breath of air, even though I have a ton of work to do."
"You must have time for a cup of coffee," Bruce said.
"Please do," Barbara said, putting her hand lightly on Tracy's arm for a moment. "It's such a shock when a friend your own age dies, isn't it? I
t takes a while to process, and we'd love to have another chance to talk about her."
As she spoke, she herded Bruce and Tracy back along Central Park South toward Columbus Circle like a moderately subtle sheepdog.
"That stand at the Mariners' Gate has tables, and their coffee is good," she said. "We're practically there already."
Barbara pounced on a table as its previous occupants, two women wearing saris, got up to leave, and swung a third chair into place.
"I'll get us all coffee," Bruce said.
When he returned, Barbara was in full spate, her eyes locked on Tracy's.
"But I'm doing all the talking!" she exclaimed disarmingly. "You and Sophia saw each other at reunions, you said? Where did you go to school?"
"In California," Tracy said. "UC San Diego."
"I've never been to San Diego," Barbara said. "Is it beautiful?"
"Parts of it are," Tracy said. "The UCSD campus is in La Jolla, which is gorgeous. The whole area would be desert, the annual rainfall is only nine inches a year, but they bring in a lot of water, so you have the town on cliffs and the Pacific and a lot of green and flowers: bougainvillea, oleander, you know, paradise—unless you happen to think New York is paradise."
"I do," Barbara said. "How about you? And Sophia?"
"I just moved here last year," Tracy said, "when I got the job at Next. But I really live most of my life in cyberspace, so it almost doesn't matter, except that with Next, the big stories are here. Sophia was a New Yorker through and through. She never missed a reunion though."
"Didn't you say she had a boyfriend in Texas?" Barbara said.
She kicked Bruce's ankle under the table. Tracy had told him, not Barbara, about the boyfriend. But Barbara's overwhelming conversational style evidently had Tracy's head in such a whirl that she didn't question Barbara's source of information.
"Rod Prentice," Tracy said. "He must have flown in just for the funeral. His family made money in oil and switched to real estate mostly, but they diversified, so I don't think they've ever had a slump. Back in college, he and Sophia were inseparable—except when each of them went home with someone else after a party, which was almost every weekend."
"A wild child, huh?" Bruce said.
Tracy looked at him for the first time since Barbara had set out to mesmerize her.
"Yes, Sophia was something else," she said. "Rod is married with kids now, but he and Sophia had a same time next year thing going. San Diego is far away from both their homes, so it was easy."
"Romantic," Barbara said.
Tracy laughed.
"For Rod, it might have been romantic. Sophia was more of a free spirit. I happened to talk to him at the end of the reunion last year, and it seems she told him there was somebody else."
"She didn't mean her husband, I take it," Bruce said.
Barbara and Tracy both laughed.
"She must have meant she'd fallen in love with someone," Barbara said. "Was she ending the affair with Rod? Was she going to leave her husband?"
"Not according to Rod," Tracy said. "When I say free spirit, I mean it—or at least, the Sophia I knew always meant it."
"Sounds like she was into romance and intrigue," Barbara said.
"I've never heard it put that way before," Tracy said.
Barbara wasn't surprised. Evidently, Tracy was not a member of Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous, from which Barbara had borrowed the term.
"Yeah, that was Sophia," Tracy said. "She got a kick out of all that."
" Even after she cleaned up her act in other ways," Bruce said.
"I hadn't seen her get drunk in years," Tracy said, "if that's what you mean. But monogamy, hell, no."
Chapter Twenty-Three: Cindy
Cindy found Miranda Spence with the sleeves of her silk shirt rolled up to the elbow, her piled-up ash blonde hair askew, and the yellow latex gloves on her hands contrasting oddly with her Hugo Boss suit. Cindy was detective enough to identify the designer from the label on the jacket, which Miranda had slung neatly, inside out, over the back of a chair.
"What a pity," Miranda greeted her, "your scene of crime people don't send in a cleaning team when they leave. I'm trying to restore order."
"Sorry about that," Cindy said. "This office was not the crime scene, but we did need to take a look. I need to ask you a few questions."
"Of course," Miranda said. "Give me half a tick to visit the loo, and I'm all yours."
Cindy peered through the rest room door as Miranda opened it, noting that the medicine cabinet was empty and the toilet seat up. In the office, the rosewood desk that had been Sophia's was piled with papers. A matching file cabinet stood in the corner, one drawer open and bristling with file folders. These were discreetly numbered and color-coded. Cindy had come armed with a list of Sophia's clients. Opening the door to the darkroom, which had been emptied of photographs and chemicals, she frowned at the doorjamb on which CSU had found prints, trying to imagine the unidentified schmoozer leaning against it.
Miranda emerged, makeup restored and hair smoothed to a state of perfection. She shrugged on her jacket and sat—in Sophia's chair, Cindy noted—crossing her legs in a slither of sheer nylon and spandex. Cindy weighed the pros and cons of initiating a power struggle over seating by choosing one of the upholstered chairs grouped in the far corner of the room and waiting in silence until Miranda joined her. Finally, she took the visitor's chair at the side of the rosewood desk, swinging it out as she sat so that the light from the window behind Miranda didn't shine into her eyes. Miranda had to adjust her chair to match.
"I'd like to go over the list of Sophia's clients," Cindy said before Miranda could speak. "Anything you can tell me about their relationship with Sophia and what is likely to happen to each account would be helpful. But first, what are your own plans?"
She cocked her head to one side like an inquisitive bird, a technique Bruce had told her his therapist had used to good effect. She was trying not to think about Bruce. Getting the interviewee to respond took focus.
"It hasn't been decided yet," Miranda said, "what will happen to the business or the office. For now, Larry—Mr. Kane—has asked me to stay on and mind the shop, as it were. He might sell the agency's good will to someone who can offer the clients the services Sophia did, provided they can be persuaded to stay. They might or might not want to take over the lease of the office. I believe Mr. Kane is discussing with his partners the alternative possibility of this space reverting to the law firm."
"I see," Cindy said. "If that happens, or if someone else takes over the agency but doesn't ask you to stay, what will you do?"
"I'll get another job," Miranda said. "A good PA on the English model is like a top flight executive secretary here. I can command a better salary at a law firm or a brokerage or investment banking firm than I've been making here."
"You were making less than you were worth?" Cindy said. "Why did you stay?"
Miranda crossed the other leg and refolded her hands in her lap.
"I liked Sophia," she said, "and I liked the work. There is more fun in public relations than in investment banking."
"I see," Cindy said.
While she debated whether she should ask Miranda to elaborate on her definition of fun or ask if working for the law firm next door was one of the options she was considering, Miranda's composed expression relaxed into a smile.
"Knock knock."
Cindy had to twist her head to look. A man stood in the doorway, a Starbucks grande cup in either hand.
"Mr. Kerensky," Miranda said, "come in. This is Detective Cenedella from the police."
"Detective." Kerensky flashed Cindy a charming smile. Cindy assessed him as well, aware of the hair flop and the dimple in his right cheek. "You're here about Sophia, of course. A sad business. Miranda, here's your triple espresso latte." He dimpled again, holding out the other cup. "Detective Cenedella, you're welcome to this if you'd care for a caramel Frappucino with an extra two shots of espresso. If not, M
iranda can ring my secretary to go downstairs and get you whatever you'd like. There's a Starbucks in the lobby. Sophia loved her salted caramel mocha."
"No, thank you," Cindy said, "I'm fine."
Not only did both Sophia's and Kerensky's choices sound revolting, but they'd found the cyanide in the salted caramel mocha. She'd have to tell Natali, though they didn't need confirmation: they'd found Sophia's prints on the cup. The killer's drink had been a plain latte. If it had been Kerensky, he'd been smart enough to realize that his usual caffeine fix was too distinctive. He'd also taken away the cardboard ring that kept customers from burning their fingers on the hot drinks, so he'd left no fingerprints.
"I recognize your name as one of Ms. Schofield's clients, Mr. Kerensky," Cindy said. "How often did you bring her coffee?"
Kerensky threw back his head and uttered a practiced shout of laughter.
"You've found me out, Detective," he said. "Larry Kane and I are colleagues, so I work down the hall. It was no trouble to get Sophia's coffee every morning. My secretary did the legwork, and it spared Miranda here a trip. There were only the two of them, with plenty of work to do. I wanted them at top speed and efficiency, since they were helping me get elected to the City Council. We were friends as well, my wife and I and Larry and Sophia."
"When did you last see them socially?" Cindy asked.
"There was a cocktail party at their home," Kerensky said, "the weekend before Sophia died."
"Did you socialize with Sophia after that?"
"We spent a few minutes here over coffee every morning," he said, "no more than five or ten, wouldn't you say, Miranda? My department is very busy at the moment, and the campaign takes up a lot of time, of course. We had one dinner meeting to discuss our strategy for the campaign."
"I'll need that date," Cindy said, "and that was just you and Sophia?"
"Miranda joined us for dessert," Kerensky said.
"I was working late," Miranda said. "Sophia phoned from the restaurant, asking me to bring over some papers, and she and Mr. Kerensky kindly invited me to stay."
Death Will Pay Your Debts Page 13
