Cat meets Nate at Frankie’s, named after famed singer Frank Sinatra. Complete with red leather banquettes tucked discreetly into corners and table lighting so low you can hardly see your steak, Frankie’s reeks of old-school. The old-school ways from yesteryear. Even the music is old-school—Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Fats Domino, Dean Martin and the like.
Cat’s newly short hair bounces as she walks confidently in, giving Nate a quick nod as she enters. Cat has always thought him attractive. It is not so much his looks as how he moves, with a megawatt smile that can light up a room. It lights Cat up when she sees it. But she must remain professional. She can’t allow her feelings to show.
As they exchange formalities, they sit in one of the booths, cocooned in red leather. They say nothing more until the waiter brings bread. Cat and Nate order drinks and food. The waiter steps away.
Cat admires Nate’s chiseled profile without his noticing. Unlike many men in high-level government positions, Nate has not allowed himself to go soft in the gut. Every day, he finds some way to exercise. It shows under the cut of his slightly skinny gray wool suit and the lean fit of his one hundred percent Egyptian cotton white shirt. Cat wonders what he looks like under the shirt. How tight and taught would his body feel to her touch?
The toasty bread’s smell brings her back to reality. That and his touch on her forearm.
“Catherine, you okay?”
He is one of the few in her life who call her Catherine.
“Oh, yes. Sorry. I had my mind on other things.” She blushes. She hopes he does not see it in the dim candlelight. “So, tell me what we have, because I think we are going to find more of them.”
“I do too. There’s no telling how many there are that we haven’t connected or haven’t gotten word of yet.” Nate stops talking and sits silent, eating bread. Cat’s mind is racing as she keeps talking.
“And the fact that these girls are getting dumped on one of the highways that connects to the Florida turnpike or near it—doesn’t help. How many people travel those corridors every day? It’s mind-boggling.”
“Yes. Literally, like trying to find a needle in a . . .well you know the rest.”
“Yes.” Cat waits for her vodka martini, which is slow in coming. “But we do have something.”
“What’s that?”
“We have a first victim who doesn’t fit with the rest. She doesn’t match the others. Hell, I’m not even sure her case is really related to the others. She could just be a random kill.”
Cat waits until her ice-cold martini and petite filet steak and Nate’s lobster tail arrive, and the waiter discreetly leaves, before she continues. She watches the martini glass sweat for a while. “The point is that victim number one, if she was victim number one, does not fit the MO of the others.”
Nate mumbles his affirmation over a bite of lobster.
Cat continues talking, her mind trying to put the pieces together.
“If she doesn’t fit the MO, then there is something else about her that makes her victim number one. Maybe she knows who the killer is, so he had to get rid of her. Maybe she is a relative or a friend of the murderer. Maybe she discovers what he or she is doing or what he or she is going to do. She tries to talk the killer out of it. And in doing so, she becomes victim number one. She knows too much. She can identify the killer. She might go to the police. So, she leaves him or her no choice. He or she can’t risk being discovered.”
Nate agrees, nodding over another bit of lobster.
Cat asks, “Have you already had detectives talk to her boss, co-workers, relatives?”
“Yes, but you’re welcome to do so again, if you think it will help.” Nate knows about Catherine’s sixth sense from other cases. A few years ago, they worked the New Orleans Mardi Gras killer case together. Cat’s instincts led to that killer’s apprehension. He sat on death row waiting to be executed—all appeals exhausted or denied. No one suspected the New Orleans chief of tourism had a very special way of treating the tourists to a good time in New Orleans: strangling them with his bare hands. Cat figured it out.
Nate knew to respect this woman’s mind, skills and instincts, as well as her beauty and guts.
“Okay, I’ll rent a car and conduct some informal interviews tomorrow. Can you e-mail me the names of all the people your detectives spoke to, the reports and the name of the firm she worked for—”
“Sure. Whatever you need. You just let me know.” Cat glances again at his tight suit, his piercing clear blue eyes. She wishes she could tell Nate what she really needs. But now is not the time.
There are too many questions swirling. Questions that need to have answers.
* * *
Black and Knight is your typical high-powered law firm, with offices in Kyoto, Japan, New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Chicago, Hong Kong, Madrid, Paris, London and a host of other large cities around the globe. The firm employs more than five hundred attorneys in the US alone and too many support staff to count.
Whoever dumped Anna Perez’s body in the Intracoastal Waterway made sure that when she was found, whoever found her knows who she was. While her body was naked from the waist up, her purse had been slung diagonally over her bloated corpse. Inside, a Florida driver’s license stated her name and address, and her photo revealed a once-attractive Anna Perez.
From this, it had been easy for the Broward County detectives to track down where she worked until the last day anyone saw her alive—February 14, Valentine’s Day. Cat wonders if that is significant in some way. Right now, it is not.
Anna Perez was unmarried, no kids. No significant other. She seemed to lead a relatively normal life. Cat found this out from reading the interviews conducted by the detectives.
In her gut, she knows that there is something about Anna Perez that has made her the first one, something that’s been overlooked.
Cat drives to the firm’s Fort Lauderdale location. With offices beginning on the forty-fifth floor, Black and Knight takes up the building’s top three floors.
She parks and gets into an elevator that takes her to floor forty-two. There, amid a pristine floor-to-ceiling black-and-white-marble treatment, a receptionist chirps, “Good morning, do you have an appointment?” Her southern drawl holds a matter-of-fact quality disguised behind a fake smile and even faker boobs.
A plaything for the partners, no doubt.
Cat looks at her without any emotion and flashes her credentials in a quick, practiced move. “My name is Dr. Catherine Powers. I am here to discuss the death of Black and Knight’s employee, Anna Perez. Whom do you suggest I speak with?”
The receptionist’s eyes widen. She picks up a phone, whispers something and says to Cat, “Thomas Pierce will be right down to meet with you. Please have a seat.”
Cat’s prickly demeanor and words have the desired effect. She has no time for bullshit. She has no time for attitude, especially from a receptionist. Cat’s tone makes that clear.
Within three minutes, Thomas Pierce appears, his black Armani suit a perfect match for the black-and-white reception area. Cat stands as he approaches. She allows him to extend his hand first.
“Dr. Powers. I am Thomas Pierce.” He has a heavy build and even heavier jowls. A gut that reveals to Cat that he is a heart attack waiting to happen. Too many billable hours sitting at a desk for years to make partner.
“Good morning, Mr. Pierce. May I speak with you about Ms. Perez?” Cat looks him straight in the eyes.
It is amazing to her, but Cat’s experience has shown that if you look people in the eye, dead on, sometimes they just can’t handle it. As a society, we have become so used to less direct means of communication—text messaging, e-mails, voice mail, Internet, social media—that looking people in the eye disarms them, even experienced lawyers.
Attorney Pierce seems flabbergasted for a moment at the mention of Ms. Perez’s name, then gestures to Catherine. “Yes, please. My office is on the forty-fifth floor. Follow me.” Even though he is not thin, he
moves with quick footsteps that ring out on the marble floor.
Cat follows him into the elevator. Unlike the forty-second floor, the forty-fifth-floor foyer of Black and Knight is all white marble. It is as if the word “Black” from the firm’s name drops off here in the partnership ranks. Here, in an all-white environment, the partners seem pristine and above reproach. Pierce’s black suit stands in stark contrast to all the white walls and floor. Cat is taller than Pierce by about six inches. The height difference clearly makes the man uncomfortable.
Cat follows him into a large corner office suite, past a secretary who eyes Cat with disdain. Cat can almost hear this forty-something woman’s mind saying, Who is this with no appointment? Pierce does not acknowledge the secretary in any way as Cat steps into his glass cocoon and he closes the glass office door with a soft swoosh.
Below, through floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the dark green Intracoastal Waterway glistens, reflecting the ever-present Florida sunshine.
“Please sit.” Pierce gestures to one of those postmodern black leather chairs with silver legs. Cat can’t recall the designer’s name at the moment, but she knows it is someone famous. Two such chairs perch on a red oriental rug, creating a contrast against white that is striking.
Pierce sits behind a glass desk. There is not a single sheet of paper, no pen, no computer or anything else, on the desk.
How efficient.
Obviously, this man makes money from the associates toiling on the two floors below and all over the world. His billable-hour requirements have long since gone by the wayside. He is a partner and a rainmaker. A man whose connections with rich and powerful people have become more important to the law firm than how many billable hours he can put in on a computer in each day, week, or month.
Pierce regards her like a sentry at the gate. Cat is sure he is hiding secrets. The line of sweat at his forehead tells her so.
Only she doesn’t know what they are.
Not yet.
She adjusts her body in the uncomfortable chair, so she is sitting straight up, looking at Pierce. Because of her height, this brings her line of sight six inches above Pierce’s. It is a purposeful adjustment. Cat wants him to feel and see her authority.
Behind Pierce is a single eight-by-ten photograph in a large glass frame. From it, a statuesque redhead with long hair beams a perfect smile. She wears a dark emerald evening gown that sets off her emerald eyes perfectly. Cat wonders if she his wife, his mistress or a girlfriend.
“So, tell me about Anna Perez.” Cat figures an open-ended question to start. Then she will drill down, her questions becoming more specific. It is a technique she has used many times before. She knows Pierce, a lawyer, will be familiar with it. If he has ever done any trial work or even taken a deposition, he will know what she is doing.
He speaks before Cat finishes. “Ms. Perez had only been here for six months or so. She worked directly with me and my team. She was punctual. Her work product was not amazing, but good.”
His gaze shifts for a millisecond to the pristine views outside, then returns to meet Cat’s. “As far as I know, she was unmarried, she had no kids and no husband. And that’s the way she liked it.”
“What about her personality?” Cat says. “What was she like?”
“Well, to be honest, she was”—he pauses, as if thinking of what to say next or how to phrase what he had already thought—“a bit of a flirt.” Silence, as if he wanted the word “flirt” to seep into Cat’s unconscious. “She liked hanging out with the male associates after hours. She was a bit of a party girl.”
Cat wonders why he would volunteer this information right off the bat. She wonders about his ulterior motives. Cat’s instincts shift into full gear. The hair on the back of her neck bristles. Her eyes do not leave his. As she stares him down, the air seems to stand still.
He blinks quickly. Rubs one of his temples as if he is getting a headache. Even in his air conditioned office, the sweat on his brow increases. He takes out a neatly folded white cotton handkerchief and blots his forehead.
“Sorry, sometimes the Florida heat gets to me.”
“It’s all right. Please continue with what you were saying about Ms. Perez.”
His eyes met hers again.
Yes, he is hiding something.
His demeanor and words make that clear.
Cat wonders why he shared none of this with the detectives who did the initial interviews regarding Ms. Perez. For sure, Pierce knows more than he is letting on. Why would he badmouth a woman he admits he hardly knows?
He continues speaking, his eyes diverted by the spectacular view. “She had been fired by her prior employer, but her work product was good, so we figured we would give her a shot.”
Behind Pierce, the red-haired woman smiles at Cat from inside the frame. From the woman’s age, in her late thirties to early forties, and Pierce’s lack of physicality, Cat surmises she is his mistress. Cat notices that Pierce wears no wedding ring. So that confirms it. She is a mistress. So it may be Pierce who is a player.
Cat wonders if he is engaged in a bit of projection—a term used to describe the irony of the fact that what is coming out of an individual’s mouth, being stated about someone else—is true of the individual him or herself.
Is Pierce “the flirt”?
Is he the one who enjoys playing around with the staff, as opposed to Ms. Perez?
Cat’s sixth sense overcomes her, sending her skin into goose bumps. She feels a single bead of sweat roll down her spine, melt into her waistband. Cat works saliva into her dry mouth. She tries not to white-knuckle the armchair she is sitting in.
She knows that she does not need to ask Pierce any more questions. She knows that he is involved, either directly or indirectly, in Ms. Perez’s disappearance and murder. She is sitting with a murderer. She is talking to a murderer. There is far more to Black and Knight than meets the naked eye.
Cat stands and shakes Pierce’s outstretched palm, “I think I have taken up quite enough of your time, Mr. Pierce. I am sure you have a busy day ahead of you.”
“It was my pleasure, Dr. Powers.” He tries to sound authoritative. She can tell he does not like the fact that she is six inches taller than he is.
A Napoléon complex.
“Thank you. I will be in touch if I have more questions.” Cat takes one of his business cards off his desk.
“May I?” He offers his hand, takes his business card and scrawls numbers on the back. “My cell and home numbers, just in case you have questions after hours.” He gives a sly smile. His touch lingers on her skin just a while too long as he places the card in her hand.
Cat wonders how many after-hours activities he’s had with the staff here.
He’s even hitting on me.
This guy gives her the creeps. Is he enough of an egomaniac that he can’t control himself now, much less with Ms. Perez?
“Thank you again. I’ll let myself out.” Cat puts his card in her purse and walks out toward the elevators. She can hardly get away from him quickly enough.
As Cat is waiting for the elevator to arrive on her floor, an older man appearing to be in his sixties strides and stands a little too close to her left.
“Haven’t seen you here before. You’re not one of our clients.”
“Pardon me?”
“I said you’re not one of our clients. Trust me, I know all of the clients.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Clayton Pierce. Thomas’ uncle. I am a partner here. And you?” The man’s delivery is slick and smooth, much unlike his nephew.
“My name is Dr. Catherine Powers. I’m here investigating a death.”
“Ah, yes. Anna Perez. Unfortunate case. Poor girl.”
Cat listens in silence.
The elevator arrives and they both get in. The doors close and the elevator starts to descend.
“By the looks of it, I can tell you are with some government agency, which one?”
“F.B.I
. I’m sure you have heard of us.” Can decides to play upon this man’s prickly demeanor.
“Ha ha. Smart with a sense of humor too. How fascinating.” A cool smile finds its way to Clayton’s face as he eyes her up and down.
“Glad I could make your day,” Cat says as the elevator reaches the ground floor and the doors open to the building’s lobby.
“The pleasure is all mine, trust me,” she hears him say as the doors close.
CHAPTER FIVE
White lies always introduce those of a darker complexion.
—William Paley, The Principles of Moral and
Political Philosophy
Cat calls Nate as soon as she is in the car. “There is something going on at Black and Knight. I met with a partner, Thomas Pierce. I’m sure he knows more than he is telling me. Totally bad-mouth the victim.” Cat speaks quickly, as if every second counts.
Nate says, “That’s weird. He never said anything to the detectives who went out there.”
“I know,” Cat says, “I read their interview reports before I went out there. He had nothing to say about it before.”
“So, what makes you think he is involved?”
“From practically his first sentence, he is accusing Perez of being the office slut, says she liked hanging around after hours with the associates. He made real sure I knew she had no kids, no husband and no one at home. And this is after he told me he hardly knew the woman.”
“Okay.”
“Then he shares that she was fired by the prior firm she worked for, but said that her work product was good.” Cat pauses briefly. “The inference being she was sleeping around with people at her prior employer and got caught or there was some other act of moral turpitude at her prior job that forced her to resign or quit. It was too much bad information ‘shared’”—Cat’s fingers make quotation marks while still on the steering wheel—“and a little too fast. A little self-serving, given the circumstances.”
“Yeah, I get it, but not enough for a warrant.”
Dying Declaration Page 3