A few moments later, they were buzzed in and took the elevator to the fourth floor, where the official-sounding Suite 4A did indeed turn out to be the homey apartment 4A. Peter was waiting for them in the doorway.
“What’s this about?”
Isobel cleared her throat. “We want to talk to you about Empire State Youth Camp.”
For a moment he didn’t move. Then he opened the door wider. “You’d better come in. I’m not talking about this in the hallway.”
They followed him into a modular living room with blond parquet floors, chrome-framed furniture, and bookshelves straining under the weight of legal tomes. He led them past a galley kitchen and a closed door to what Isobel figured was the bedroom, and gestured for them to sit on two high-backed chairs across from a surprisingly neat desk. Given his sloppiness as a producer, Isobel had expected disarray.
“What do you know about Empire State?” he asked.
“We know you defended a lot of the kids Harrison sent there.”
Peter clenched his fists. “For all the good it did. I can count on one hand the kids I got off. The whole thing is a fucking travesty.”
“We also know about Andrew,” Delphi said.
Peter’s face seemed to close. “Know what?”
“That he’s Harrison’s son, and he’s been arrested for the murder,” Delphi answered.
“You were protecting him that night,” Isobel said. “You didn’t tell the police he was there, although obviously they found out somehow. So why did you put him on the gig in the first place?” Isobel leaned back in her chair, though she noticed Delphi sat forward with her hands on her knees as if poised for flight or an impromptu karate chop.
“It seems like a strange thing to do,” Isobel went on, “unless he had a particular reason to be there, and I don’t mean raising a glass to his father in honor of a successful career.”
Peter flexed his fingers. “I didn’t know who the gig was for. It never occurred to me that it was Harrison. He was described as a well-respected judge.” He gave a grim smile. “As you can imagine, I don’t think of him that way.”
“So you’re saying you didn’t know it was for Harrison until you got there?” Delphi asked, unable to hide her disbelief.
Peter nodded. “And then I was stuck having to rehearse you guys and worry about how I was going to tell Andrew. I finally did, and that’s when he started disappearing.” He gave a hollow laugh. “I’m surprised he didn’t run off then and there.”
Isobel looked Peter squarely in the eye. “Did he kill his father?”
Peter took a deep breath and put his face in his hands for a moment. When he looked up, he seemed tired and resigned but also somehow sharper and more focused. He strode to the bedroom door, knocked, and turned to Isobel and Delphi.
“Ask him yourself.”
THIRTY-TWO
“I didn’t know anything about the gig until we got there,” Andrew confirmed. He was tapping his foot in a steady tattoo that might have been calming for him but was making Isobel jittery. He glanced sideways at Peter, who was seated on the other end of the couch, watching him intently. “When Peter told me who the party was for, I was like ‘I am so outta here,’ but he couldn’t make the show work without me. He said we’d just have to deal with it. He said it would be okay if I smoked some weed out in the park.”
“Did your father see you at any point?” Isobel asked.
Andrew frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“He saw me,” Peter said grimly. “During the cocktail hour. I poked my head in to check out the crowd, and he came storming over, demanding to know what I was doing at his party.”
“Because he only knows you as a lawyer. Of course it was you!” Isobel exclaimed. “I was talking to him when he spotted you. He seemed pretty pissed.”
“He was.” Peter’s lip curled in a wry smile. “Have to say, I kind of enjoyed seeing the look on his face when I told him why I was there.”
“Where were you during all this?” Isobel asked Andrew.
“The private dining office. Except for once when I ducked out to use the bathroom, and Peter found me in the hall.” He tugged at a wayward cuticle. “I was, um, I was crying a bit.”
Isobel nodded. “Jemma heard you. Go on.”
“Peter stayed with me a few minutes, then went back in. I waited until I heard the shot, and that was my cue to get in place. So I manned up and went into that little pavilion off the Jewel Room. I heard screaming, and then a woman near me shouted ‘Oh, my God, she shot the judge!’ At first, I couldn’t move. Everything just went overly bright, and I felt like I was paralyzed. It was partly the weed, but also my body was doing, like, this danger assessment and I freaked out. I wasn’t thinking rationally, you know?” His voice tightened as he spoke.
Isobel nodded sympathetically.
“I had to get out of there. I ran through that crazy hall with all those fun-house mirrors—those were real, right? Or was I totally tripped out?”
“No, those were real,” Delphi assured him.
He shook his head. “That’s fucked up. Anyway, I ran out one of the doors through the park and all the way to Fifth Avenue. And then I just walked and walked in circles, in case someone was following me. When I got home, I stayed off the internet and let my phone run out of charge. I didn’t want anyone to find me.”
“So you didn’t kill him?”
Andrew looked momentarily confused. “How could I? I didn’t know he was going to be there. And with what? I don’t own a gun, and even if I did, I wouldn’t bring it on a gig.”
“Is that what you told the police?”
“Yeah. They didn’t have any evidence to hold me, but they said I better lawyer up, so I called Peter. There’s another thing, too.”
“What?”
“My father had a provision in his will that he made really clear to my brother and me. If we’re not clean at his death, we don’t inherit. If I were going to kill my father, I wouldn’t have gotten high and then shot him. I’m not that stupid.” He glanced nervously at Peter. “How soon are they gonna test me?”
“I don’t know. It depends on a number of things. But you gotta lay off the weed. Starting yesterday.”
Andrew ran a hand through his shaggy, unwashed hair. “Shit. Just when I need it the most.”
“Where’s your brother?” Isobel asked.
Andrew looked up, surprised by the question. “Grant? He’s in California. He got away as soon as he could.”
“He wasn’t at The Hostelry, was he?”
“Not that I know of,” Andrew said. “I’m sure he didn’t even know about it.”
“Did he get sent to the camp?”
“Lord, no. He was the good one. Never stepped out of line.”
“So why did your father include him in the provision about staying straight?” Delphi asked.
Suddenly, unaccountably, Andrew started to laugh, wild hyena laughter. Peter looked at Isobel and gave a small, confused shrug. Finally, Andrew caught his breath in tiny hiccups. Peter went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water.
“Don’t know why that never struck me before. Fucking hilarious.”
“I get it,” Delphi said. “Grant is gay.”
Andrew nodded. “Dad had no idea. He never used the word straight about drugs, just clean. So when you put it that way…” He began to shake again, as another wave of hysteria overtook him. Peter handed him the water, and Andrew took a grateful sip.
“So, the provision?” Isobel prompted.
“I can answer that,” Peter said. “Grant may not use drugs now, but who’s to say he never will? If that kind of thing is a deal-breaker, the parent usually puts in the safeguard for all children.”
Andrew’s hysteria had given way to quiet sobbing. His eyes were closed, and he was rocking slightly, hugging himself. “Sorry…I gotta…” He rose from the couch and disappeared into the bedroom again.
Isobel moved to follow him, but Peter put a hand on her arm. “Let him go.” He pulle
d his computer chair out and sat down, spreading his arms wide. “Okay, so now you know everything.”
“Not everything,” Isobel said. “I want the names of the kids Harrison sent to the camp. I know you have a list.”
His body stiffened. “Who told you that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it does. Who told you?”
“A professor at John Jay.”
“Zoe Lin?” He gaped at her. “How did you get to her?”
“Through a friend who’s a student. How did you get it in the first place? I thought juvenile records are sealed.”
Peter rapped his knuckles on his desk. “A court clerk who was just as disgusted as I was.”
“Can you give me a copy?”
“Lin has asked me before, and I won’t give it to her.”
“Why not?”
Peter stood up angrily. “Because those kids have been through enough. I know she’s trying to close the camp, and I want to see that happen as much as she does, but she would put them front and center in an investigation. That would be the absolute worst thing for them.”
“It’s not for her, it’s for me,” Isobel said.
“No,” Peter said firmly.
“Did you know Harrison had a financial interest in the camp?” Delphi asked.
Peter opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His mouth twisted, and for a moment, he looked like he might cry. He sank back into his chair. “Oh, my God,” he said huskily. “How could I not have figured that out?”
“Believe me, his tracks were well covered,” Isobel said.
“Then how did you find out?”
“A little creative database searching. But we have proof that Harrison and his lawyer, Gordon Lang, were investors.” Isobel watched him steadily. “So was Angelina Rivington.”
Peter frowned. “Who?”
“Angelina Rivington. She was the real estate developer. Name ring a bell?”
He shook his head. “Never heard of her.”
“Well, she was supposed to be at the party that night, but someone killed her the day before.” Isobel tipped her chair onto its back legs.
“How the hell did you find that out? Don’t do that. You’ll scratch the floor.”
She let the chair down gently. “Sorry. It was in the news. Oh, and Harrison left her a third of his money in his will.”
Peter closed his eyes. “I’m not even going to ask how you found that out.”
“Good,” Isobel said. “Because I can’t tell you. Now will you give me a copy of the list?”
“So you can give it to Professor Lin? No way.”
“I told you, I’m not going to give it to her. I want to check the names against the guest list from the party to see if anyone else Harrison sent to the camp was there that night.”
“Do you have the guest list?”
Isobel bit her lip. “Um, no. Not yet.”
“And how do you propose to get that?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
Peter gave an exasperated grunt. “So my list isn’t even any use to you right now.”
“Did you recognize anyone else at The Hostelry?” Delphi asked.
“No.” He rubbed his forehead wearily. “The thing I can’t figure out is how nobody saw the shooter.”
“Because you told them not to pay attention,” Delphi reminded him. “The power of suggestion is a strong thing.”
“I just told them not to go tackling anyone waving a gun, but afterwards, wouldn’t you remember seeing someone?”
A thought that had come to Isobel earlier now recurred. “Did you have a third weapon in your bag that night that went missing?”
Peter’s expression grew pensive. “You know, it’s funny. I sometimes carry an extra, but I didn’t this time. Good thing, right?”
“I guess so.” She considered him. “But you do own more guns?”
“I’ve got five and permits for all of them.”
“Have you inventoried them recently?”
Peter loomed over her, indignant. “What the hell?”
Isobel flinched. “I don’t know. I’m just asking.”
“Of course I have,” he snapped.
“Do you have any idea who killed Harrison? You must.”
Peter paced over to the window, his hands behind his back. “Did you ever consider that Harrison killed Rivington, and then someone else killed him? Maybe it was a case of investors turning on each other. Were there others?”
“Mason Crawford, Rivington’s business partner.”
He turned to her, and she could see his creative wheels turning, as if he were plotting one of his shows. “Okay, so Crawford wants to run the company himself. He gets Harrison to kill Rivington, then he kills Harrison.”
“From the table. Where nobody saw him,” Delphi said.
He snorted. “Are you kidding? He hires a pro. The kind of guy who can take an expert shot from a hidden location.”
“The thought did cross my mind,” Isobel admitted. “But if that’s the case, then everyone at the judge’s table becomes a suspect again. Any one of them could have hired a professional.”
“Follow the money. It’s always the money.” Peter made a show of looking at his watch. “Speaking of which, I gotta go make some.”
Isobel took her cue and stood up. “If I can get the guest list, will you give me the camp roster?”
“You have to promise you won’t give it to Professor Lin.”
She put her hand on her heart and nodded solemnly. “I swear.”
Peter gave a resigned sigh. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”
She smiled. “Probably not.”
He ushered them toward the foyer. Isobel turned abruptly and rapped on the bedroom door.
“What are you doing?” Peter asked.
Before she could answer, Andrew opened the door, his hair tousled, his eyes red.
Isobel reached into her bag and handed him an envelope. He stared at it blankly.
“Your paycheck.”
THIRTY-THREE
“How am I going to get that guest list?” Isobel lamented as they headed toward Grand Central. She had decided to take the subway uptown to see if Percival could come up with some way to snag the list, although she had to admit it was a stretch, even for him. “I wish Peter would just give us those names.”
“Obviously the thought of Professor Lin putting the kids in the middle of an investigation is upsetting. You saw what a mess Andrew was,” Delphi said. “He doesn’t think you’ll be able to get the party list, so he figures he’s safe.”
“If this thing ever gets shut down and the surviving investors are prosecuted, at least some of them will have to testify, whether Lin hands them the list or the district attorney subpoenas it.” Isobel paused with one foot off the curb. “You don’t think Peter’s protecting one of the others?”
“Watch it!” Delphi yanked Isobel back onto the sidewalk as a bus rumbled past, dangerously close. “Who?”
“Jemma. She’s about the right age, and she has a sideline that’s, how shall I put this, not out of character for someone who might have been a juvenile offender.”
Delphi gave a raucous snort. “You think she was turning tricks after cheerleading practice?”
“Why not? And then there’s Tony.” Isobel pushed open the door to Grand Central and started down the ramp toward the station.
“Tony? He’s way too old to have been an inmate.”
“He might have some other connection. Maybe a niece or nephew who went there.”
“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. Peter’s right. This is a business thing, and either Lang or Crawford is behind it.”
“You know what this place is called?” Isobel asked, craning her neck to look at the mural of constellations on the blue-green ceiling.
Delphi followed her gaze. “Um, Grand Central Station?”
Isobel held up a triumphant index finger. “Wrong! It’s Grand Central Termi
nal. Grand Central Station is the post office next door.” She took off at a clip across the cavernous chamber.
“Don’t change the subject.” Delphi hurried to keep up with her. “I know you don’t like to be wrong, but just consider what Peter said about investor infighting and the shooter being a pro. If this doesn’t sound like a hit scenario, I don’t know what does. Ditto Rivington in the river. It’s classic stuff. I think you’ve got this camp stick by the wrong end.”
Isobel swiped her card through the subway turnstile. She took a few steps before she realized that Delphi was still on the other side.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I think I’ll walk home. It’s a nice day, and I may as well save the fare.” Delphi pulled her shoulder bag across her body. “Seriously, though. You know why Andrew ran off and why Peter was protecting him. As the Lord God Sondheim wrote, move on.”
Isobel waved good-bye and trundled down the steps toward the shuttle. Delphi had a point. Even the police didn’t think Andrew did it, and whatever he’d told them hadn’t sent them running after Peter. If Jemma had wanted to kill the judge, she could easily have arranged a private meeting. And Tony? A tendency to sweat didn’t make him guilty. No, unless some former inmate emerged, the people closest to Harrison were the only ones left, and the sureness of the shot definitely suggested a skilled accomplice.
“Excuse me.”
An angelic-looking white-haired woman wearing a blue windbreaker, matching polyester pants, and orthopedic sneakers fluttered a subway map in Isobel’s face. “How do I get to Times Square?”
Isobel pointed to the waiting train, its silver siding obscured by a multicar advertisement for Citibank.
“Just take the shuttle.”
“How many stops?”
Isobel rolled her eyes. “Five.”
“Thank you, dear.” She started to walk away.
“Wait!”
The woman turned. “What?”
“I was kidding,” Isobel said guiltily. “Just take it one stop.”
The woman’s face darkened. “Fucking New Yorkers!” She scowled at Isobel before continuing down the platform, muttering to herself.
Isobel was momentarily rendered speechless, but then she burst out laughing. If it wasn’t the natives, it was the tourists, she thought with amusement.
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