“They have nothing at all? How is that possible?”
I describe the time discrepancy: at ten-thirty I saw Greer and Chloe fight; around two a girl across the hall heard Chloe alive, which means the killer came at some time after two. Greer’s fingerprints are all over her place…sure, but it proves nothing: he’d been dating her for a few weeks. His housekeeper and estranged wife both confirm that he was home and passed out before midnight.
“Maybe they’re covering?”
“He and his wife have a nasty divorce pending. Seems unlikely she’d fib for him.”
I brood, dragging my feet. “On the other hand, they no doubt sleep in separate rooms on the rare occasion that he’s home. Ditto the housekeeper…so he could have slipped back out. The police can’t prove he didn’t, so they’re nowhere.”
We reach my block, mount the stoop to my building, and Joe swears. The front door is not only unlocked, but has been left sloppily ajar. He shoves it open further and looks at me with his eyebrows high, as if now seriously questioning my sanity in staying.
I tilt my head toward the knob.
“A cop last night told me she could pick that old thing with a bobby pin, so not much difference if it’s locked.” I peer through to the dimly lit hall, and hear furious arguing. “It’s that downstairs couple again. I’ll ask them to be more careful.”
“They’re drunks.”
“I’ll tell them a killer’s lurking in the neighborhood.”
Entering, the arguing comes louder from the door to the left of the stairs. Joe goes over and bangs his fist on it.
The arguing stops, surprised.
Joe pounds again. “Hello?” he barks. “This is the building management. If you leave the foyer door unlocked one more time, I shall begin court proceedings to have you evicted!”
The stunned silence stretches as we climb to my apartment.
“You sure sound like a lawyer’s son,” I tell him.
“Prosecutor’s son,” he says. “I’ve heard every trick. It rubs off.”
We enter my apartment. I sigh as Joe fumes again about the front chain “moored in cheese,” then glares out the kitchen window to the darkened fire escape “just waiting for some creep to climb up.”
“I’m the creep who does that,” I remind him, hurrying to put the nine-inch knife I left on the counter this morning back into its block.
“Let me guess,” Joe says, screwing his face up, watching me. “You slept with that under your pillow.”
“Stop, would I do such a hysterical, histrionic thing?” I say, stepping back to slump at the table.
He throws his palms up and sits with me, quiet at first, fiddling with brown sugar packets. Then he presses his lips flat. “So you won’t leave town till this blows over?”
“No.”
“Even though Mel will come? I’m going to call her tonight - plus there’s Joselito.” He tosses a sugar packet; glares at it.
“You think he may have seen you,” he says. It isn’t a question.
I nod.
“He could follow you easily.”
I shrug, nod again.
Joe leans closer. “Are you trying to get killed?”
“No.”
He just looks at me, shaking his head incredulously.
I exhale, long and slowly. Joe is wearing me out, and suddenly I’m almost annoyed. “You know what would really kill me?” I say.
He presses his lips, waits.
“It would kill me ten times over if Greer’s lawyers got him off like Brett Moore’s did. That would make me seriously crazy; you’d have to put me away.” I hesitate. Colliding with Greer at Jae-woo’s shook me badly, but now I can think again, go back to my earlier fury and focus.
Joe still says nothing.
I breathe in. “So you know what I’m going to do?”
“What?”
“I’m going to get Greer. Fake nice. Trick him. Do things the cops can’t because their hands are tied.”
Joe looks at me as if he hasn’t heard right. He blinks, then hunches his body as if he’s about to beg someone not to jump.
“You can’t,” he says. “Wealth and power like that, you can’t win. Do you realize what you’re really doing?”
I stare at the table top.
“You’re putting yourself through the same nightmare you went through when your sister died. The cops were weak, the lawyers were powerful and you lost; went weeks without sleep, wound up an emotional wreck.”
“You weren’t there.”
“You’ve told me about it. Don’t do it again!”
I raise my face. “Go home,” I say, trying for gentle. “Maybe I’m just ranting. Maybe Greer’s lawyers will rein him in, he’ll bother me no more, and the cops will magically come up with something.”
Joe scowls. “You just want me to leave.”
I almost smile. “Yes. So I can sleep.”
He gives a great shrug of surrender and gets up; heads for the front and I follow. By the door he looks almost dour, so I reach to pat his cheek, and thank him.
“Promise to be good?” he says with his hand on the knob.
I nod.
“You weren’t serious, were you? About ‘getting’ Greer, faking nice?”
“Nah, just ranting. I’m going to bed.”
He leans to kiss my cheek, pulls away, and then he’s gone.
I lock up, adjust the chain out of habit, and go to my bedroom.
It’s dark outside, just a sliver of moon. Hurriedly, I settle at my desk, and fire up my laptop.
I didn’t say when I was going to bed.
21
The neighborhood’s the 200 block of Grand Street. I was in a TV shoot there once; remember the bars, Chinese and Thai restaurants, pharmacies, and more bars. I find the pretty brunette’s picture again, and the article beneath it.
Police are investigating the death of a young woman found early Thursday morning. Officers say they found Darcy Lund, twenty-three years old, dead from a gunshot wound in the parking lot behind Rocco’s Bar on the Lower East Side. Ms. Lund, a native of Chicago, had been an assistant at Farrell Partners Equity, a $5 billion hedge fund. No witnesses have been found. Authorities confirm that Ms. Lund died from a small caliber bullet shot at close range. Police have requested anyone with information to please call the following number.…
For long moments I frown at the words, imagining the horror, the tragedy. A young, vibrant life dying alone like that…so terrible.
The article is dated last June twenty-eighth. Early Thursday morning must mean two or three a.m.; “no witnesses” means the parking lot was deserted, and a small caliber bullet shot at close range…
…maybe means a .22? Delivered by someone who either crept up, or was already standing close.
I breathe faster, hear David Kemp say, Chloe was shot with a .22, the gun held close to her head. The killer was clever, knows that .22 slugs shatter…
Same killer.
So the cops know that! Are they pursuing it? Likely, given the new Greer tie-in, only…no witnesses and insufficient evidence in both cases. Nothing plus nothing is what they have, and murders happen a lot in the city. The police try not to let any case cool but funds are limited, there’s pressure to solve all of them, and bad guys have the advantage.
Meanwhile the families, the grieving families. The pain and rage, like I feel, of justice thwarted….
I shake my head, continue reading the article that has another photo of Darcy Lund, vivacious, playing championship tennis with her long dark hair in a ponytail. Her father, if he’s still functioning, is a partner in a consulting firm. Her mother, says the article, is a history professor at the U. of Chicago. Both parents are devastated; a younger brother reads an emotional plea to anyone with information; friends tearfully attest to what a loving, beautiful person Darcy was. She had graduated from the U. of Chicago, received an MBA from it, too…meaning that she’d spent her life living close to her family before coming to New York. A last s
entence mentions “autopsy findings of opioids, suggesting a possible drug connection”…the sort of connection that takes place in desolate parking lots at two in the morning.
I shudder, picture Darcy Lund rushing through Rocco’s dark, grungy parking lot…and then, unbidden, I wonder why Joe wasn’t interested in the article about her. It was right below her picture-
My phone rings.
It’s to the left of my keyboard and I stare at it; go cold.
It rings again. I take a deep breath, and then another.
Decide to plunge. “Hello?”
“Did you make it home safely?” asks a male voice, and I recognize it.
“No, somebody shot me.”
Greer laughs softly. “A woman with humor, imagine that.” A pause. “You’ve probably guessed I got your number from Beth.”
Silence. I hear the pulse in my ear.
“Still there?” he asks amiably. “I called for two reasons: First, and I should have mentioned it earlier, you left your burner in my alley. It’s new, just has your text and call to me on it. That’s precious; you bought your burner just to harass me?”
I say nothing.
“Unfortunately,” Greer continues, “harassment won’t help in your court case with Brett Moore. I know about it. Terrible tragedy. My condolences, sincerely.”
“Thank you.” I lay my face in my hand, not believing this.
“The danger is, my lawyer is pals with Moore’s lawyer. If he got his hands on your burner, he’d go all out picturing you as…well, a stalker, someone who climbs fire escapes, accuses others without merit. It could torpedo your case.”
It’s a threat. I feel strangled. “You’re going to use it.”
“No, I won’t. Moore is a complete shit; I hate him and hope you fry his ass, so I’d like to give your burner back to you. Also, and here’s my second reason for calling: I may be able to help.”
“With what?”
“Sink Moore.”
I’m breathing fast. Surely Greer’s lawyer has harped to him about speaking with no one especially me. So he’s either insane or insanely arrogant or trying psychology. All of those, doubtless. Bundy! I hear Joe say. Sociopathic monster behind his charm!
Greer is speaking again. I’m suddenly aware of traffic sounds at his end: distant horns, the rumble of vehicles.
“…so would you like your burner back? Hear how I can maybe help you against Moore? Note, I’m in a good mood tonight but I’m a very moody person. Maybe tomorrow I won’t be feeling so nice, and will just hand your burner over to my holy terror insufferable defense lawyer who’s really quite nasty. Don’t make me do that.”
So much for Greer’s lawyers reining him in…but wait, wait!…my churning mind’s a GPS recalculating. He has been coached; he’s gone from playing nice to luring me with important cards. This is how the power lawyer game works - but it’s war on my part, too: fake nice, trick him.
I let the silence stretch. Then, finally, I gulp air and say, “Okay. Stop by Cooper’s tomorrow.”
“No. Now, please?”
I don’t understand.
“I’m just outside, pacing up and down your pretty street. Your boyfriend’s left. He won’t mind.”
This whole time Greer’s been watching my house? And called me a stalker?
“Joe’s my employer, not my boyfriend.”
“Better yet.” The voice turns coy. “Please let me come up? You really should get this burner out of my hands quick, while I’m still feeling halfway nice.”
The heart’s thrashing, the mind can’t believe this - and yes, I am aware how totally nuts this is – but there’s the lure of getting my burner back plus…could it be?…possible help against Moore…and I rationalize that it’s too soon for another woman connected to Greer to die.
Isn’t it?
“Okay, come up,” I tell him.
On legs that threaten to give out, I go to the door to buzz him in.
22
His shirt collar is open, slightly squished under his blazer, his dark hair is blown and tumbled, and his cologne is the same expensive cloud I remember from earlier. He seems somehow thinner than he did just hours ago, chasing me from Jae-woo’s.
“Hi,” he says tensely, glancing from me to my living room, looking around. “This is nice.” His gaze lingers on my father’s antique desk, moves to the Italian armoire…and he goes to it; turns his back to me as he touches it murmuring, “beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I say tightly, motioning him to the sofa as he turns back to me, looks me up and down. I’m barely breathing. The room feels suddenly smaller, devoid of oxygen. He starts toward the sofa, then stops and mimes pouring a drink. “Do you have anything?”
I nod stiffly toward the kitchen. “My fancy wet bar’s back there, but is that a good idea?”
“You’re thinking of my horrid behavior in the alley?” He looks rueful; seems to calm a little. “I scared myself too, and I’m sorry, really.” He gestures tactfully toward the kitchen. “May I?”
I nod again, dumbly, and off he goes heading that way, to the counter next to the sink and an unopened bottle of red Burgundy. I come up behind him as he opens and closes cabinet doors, finds glasses, then starts rummaging through drawers. “Corkscrew, corkscrew,” he mutters.
“There,” I point, grim and incredulous as I watch him. There’s a nervous elegance about him that reminds me of…I root around a moment before I have it: Gatsby. If Greer weren’t a murder suspect he’d be a ringer for Gatsby, and I love Gatsby but he was a tragic character; wound up shot dead. How many times have I cried at that ending? I’ve started to blink. Gatsby? I’ve lost myself…what’s happening? Oh yes, watching Greer wield the corkscrew like a sommelier. Pop! it goes.
“You all right?” he glances at me, recorking the bottle.
I shake my head. “Think I’ll skip the wine.”
“You may change your mind.” He tucks the bottle under one arm; scoops up two empty glasses by their stems. “Okay, where were we?”
He leads the way back, places the bottle and glasses on the coffee table, and sits. I remain standing. The narcissist sociopath is leading me around - and I’m supposed to be tricking him?
“Please, please sit, you’re making me nervous,” he says, reaching into his breast pocket. “Here you go.” He hands my used-once burner up to me. “Destroy it. You’re crazy doing this garbage having another trial pending.”
So nice he is…what a performance. I thank him and slowly sit, stunned by my own death wish or whatever it is that I’m doing.
“I’ve been crazy for two years,” I say, turning the burner in my nervous hands. “Since my sister died.”
I look up to see Greer’s dark eyes brooding into mine. He waits a long moment, then says, softly, “She was murdered.” He nods a little. “Definitely.”
I think my heart just ruptured.
“My lawyer knows a lot about your trial coming up.”
“Who doesn’t?” I say bitterly.
“Rich, famous people know more and they all know each other. My lawyer says Moore admitted…” He stops. “I’m sorry….”
“Say it.”
“…that he killed your sister. He was drunk, actually mad at his house guy for some screw up.”
I feel myself start to lose control, and struggle with it; watch Greer pour wine into both glasses. He clinks his glass to mine, then downs all of his in a gulp.
There’s a long pause. Greer clasps his hands; looks solemn.
“He…threw your sister down the stairs, then screamed at the guy, ‘See what you made me do? This is on you.’”
Breathing has stopped. I feel my eyes fill and blur. “House guy?”
“Name’s Ricky Boudreau, still in Moore’s employ running his homes. The job pays extra because Moore’s bought his silence for other things.” Greer’s lips give an ironic twist. “Boudreau hates working for Moore. He’s afraid of him, went to a lawyer my lawyer knows hoping to blackmail or something, then c
hickened out. Let’s just say that…bigger money could un-silence him.”
Oh.
Are we talking tit for tat? They’ll get dirt on Moore if I…what?
I watch Greer’s face, feeling as if blows are coming at me and I’m helpless to stop them.
He picks up an elephant figurine from the coffee table, turns it in his hands. “You accused me,” he tells the little elephant, “of killing Chloe. I didn’t. We fought, that’s all. I left before eleven, she was killed hours later. The police have…re-interviewed me since our meeting in the alley. They seemed to know things only you could have seen. How ferocious did you make our fight sound to them?”
My brain reels, but I’m not so far gone that I’ll let myself be manipulated. “She threatened to tell your wife and employer. You got crazed.”
“Not enough to kill.” Greer seems oddly relieved; puts the elephant back, picks up his glass. “That’s all you told them?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That means they’re stuck. Motive’s no good because my wife and employer already know what I do – I’m a womanizer, right? So say gossip sites because I date a lot, go through women like candy.” He makes a face like someone who’s sick of too much candy. “It’s old news to my wife who’s finally divorcing me…and it’s old to my employer, who isn’t. I’m too valuable to them.”
I frown, feeling my heart thud. “They know?”
“Of course. They’re constantly covering for half the guys in the place.” Greer swirls the wine around in his glass, sniffs it. “Nice corporate culture, huh? As long as we keep their star shined.”
How hideously rational it all sounds. Rich people have employees paid to keep secrets; corporations cover for their stars as long as they’re big earners.
But murder?
“Ricky Boudreau…” I echo, memorizing the name.
“Might come work for me at a higher salary, how ‘bout that?” The right side of Greer’s mouth tips up. “Now back to what you saw on the fire escape, if the police want to question you again…”
“You were horrible.”
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