“Millions of people do it all the time, Finch.”
“You don’t. I figured whatever was going on with you, it must have been personal.”
“Why?”
“I remember getting that drunk myself after finding out my wife destroyed our marriage.”
“Still doesn’t explain how you found out. Who told you?”
“No one. I’d never ask anyone else about your private life.”
“How do you know then?”
“I got curious, looked it up on the Internet.”
He hadn’t just looked it up. He’d done a little digging. It wasn’t hard to find, but it wasn’t easy either. “If you knew, why ask me about it the other day?”
“I wanted you to feel like you could talk about it when you were ready. If you didn’t, I’d wait and try again next year.”
We drove several miles in silence before he spoke again. “I hope you’re not upset with me,” he said. “I should have told you. I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not upset. You’re right. I should have told you.”
“No. I shouldn’t have pried. It wasn’t right.”
“How much do you know?”
“Not much. I found one article on an online newspaper site. I read it, then decided I shouldn’t have.”
My cell phone buzzed, and the conversation with Finch was cut short. I spoke to Barbara Berry for several minutes, said I knew about Alexandra’s memoir, asked if she wanted to admit she knew about the memoir too. She stuck to the same thing she’d said before, adding that since we’d last spoken she’d learned what Alexandra was really writing. Now that the funeral was over, Barbara was headed back to Chicago. We put a plan in motion for later that day, and she suggested meeting at the bed and breakfast where she was staying.
“Well, what did she say?” Finch asked after the call ended.
“That idea we discussed? She’s game.”
“We better get to the place she’s staying then.”
“The sooner the better.”
I interlocked my hands behind my head and leaned back, knowing if the plan went well, it would lead me right to Alexandra’s killer.
CHAPTER 44
Following the directions to Barbara’s room on the third floor of the house, I ascended the stairs, found a kid that looked like an employee standing in the hallway in front of her door, knocking. He seemed irritated. “Hello, ma’am, I’m here for your bags. Are you going to open the door so I can take them?”
The door didn’t open. The employee reached his hand inside his pocket, took out a phone, and made a call. “Are you sure you sent me to the right room? No one’s answering.” There was a pause then he said, “I am standing in front of the presidential suite. Are you sure you have the time right?”
“Excuse me,” I said. “How long have you been standing in front of Miss Berry’s room?”
Without looking at me, he held a finger in the air, expecting me to wait until he finished his call. I lifted the phone out of his hand, pressed the end button.
He swung for the phone. Finch grabbed his wrist and said, “Don’t touch her. Understand?”
“What are you ... let go of me!” the boy yelled.
“Answer the question,” I said. “How long have you been waiting at Miss Berry’s door?”
“Couple minutes maybe.”
“How long ago did she call to ask for help with her bags?”
“She didn’t call. She asked at breakfast this morning.”
“Was breakfast the last time you saw Miss Berry?” I asked.
He nodded.
I handed his phone back. “How can I get inside her room?”
“Who are you?”
“A friend she was supposed to meet. Right now, actually.”
“If she was supposed to meet you here, why was she leaving?”
“She was leaving after we spoke.” I looked at Finch. “I don’t have time for this. Go see if you can find a manager so we can get inside her room.”
“I knew you weren’t really here to meet her,” the kid said. “Who are you?”
Finch started down the hall.
I looked at the kid, itching to smack the smug look off his face. “Did you hear about the murder of Alexandra Weston?”
He folded his arms in front of him. “Yeah. Who hasn’t?”
“Miss Berry was Alexandra Weston’s agent.”
“So?”
“The man who killed Alexandra Weston hasn’t been caught yet.”
“Yeah, but what does that have to do with the lady staying here?”
I stepped in front of the kid, tried the knob on the door. It was unlocked. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Miss Berry, are you here?”
The kid came in after me. “You can’t go in—”
I whipped around, slapped him across the face. Hard. “Shut. Up.”
I searched the small, Victorian-style room for any sign of her. Finch called to me from downstairs. “Joss, get down here!”
I followed the sound of his voice down the stairs and into a small room that had been converted into a library. On the floor, in front of a pair of chairs, coffee had been spilled, and in front of that, still clutching the handle of the cup, was Barbara Berry’s body.
I bent down, checked for a pulse.
A housekeeper entered the room and screamed, drawing the attention of everyone scattered around the house. As they gathered around, Finch stepped in front of Barbara, to keep the crowd at bay.
“What do you think?” Finch asked. “Can you tell from looking at her?”
“Is she dead?” one man asked.
“It appears she is.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“I checked her pulse. There isn’t one. I also checked her pupils. They appear to be dilated.”
The housekeeper leaned down.
“Don’t touch her,” I said. “You could destroy the potential evidence on her body.”
“How long has she been dead, do you think?” the housekeeper asked.
“Not long. We just spoke on the phone.” I eyed the room. “Has anyone seen Barbara since breakfast?”
A man raised a finger. “I have.”
“How long ago?”
“Let’s see. She came downstairs when I was watching TV so I’d guess about two hours ago.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Not a word.”
“Do you know why she came downstairs?”
Another finger went up. “I’m Lori, the innkeeper here. She wanted to know if I had any chocolate croissants left. The ones we served at breakfast. I heated one up for her, and I thought she took it back to her room. Maybe she didn’t.”
I crouched down, scanned the floor, located the croissant, topside down, halfway across the room.
“Why didn’t anyone notice she was in this room before now?”
“This room is hardly ever used.”
“There’s one other thing,” Lori said. “I overheard Miss Berry talking on the phone a while ago. She invited someone to stop by before she headed to the airport. She said she had something in her possession she’d be willing to return for the right price.”
“Did she say what she had?”
Lori nodded. “A flash drive.”
CHAPTER 45
While Finch remained downstairs waiting for the police, I returned to Barbara’s room, this time focusing on the room itself. Her luggage was open but empty, her clothes lined out on the bed like she was preparing to arrange everything in her bags. A laptop was on the nightstand. It was open, like she’d been using it the last time she was in the room. I walked over, running my finger along the keypad. The computer screen came to life, displaying a typed message. I bent down and read it.
The guilt I feel over Alex’s death is constant, weighing on me more and more with each passing day. It consumes me, so much so I can no longer live with the evil truth of what I’ve done. I killed her, you see, poisoned her drink in the same way I
poisoned my own this morning. It was me who ran Chelsea off the road. Me who broke into Alex’s house, making it look like a robbery. I needed the flash drive, and I was willing to kill a dear friend to get it. Not for greed or for money, but to ensure her memoir was never published. In the days since her death, nothing has eased my sense of regret, and I make no excuses for what I’ve done.
A light tapping sound came from the opposite side of Barbara’s bedroom door. I turned. A young girl of about twenty poked her head in. Her hands were clasped together in front of her, like she was nervous and afraid.
“Yes?” I asked.
“A few minutes ago when you were talking to all of us downstairs, you asked if anyone saw anything suspicious. I did.”
“Why didn’t you say something before?”
“I don’t know. I’m new here. I just got this job a week ago, and I don’t want to cause any problems.”
“A woman is dead,” I said. “Why would it cause a problem if you told the truth?”
“What I saw might be nothing, but the more I think about it, the more I’m not sure.”
“What did you see?”
“A woman coming out of Miss Berry’s bedroom.”
“What time?”
“Within the last hour.”
“Are you sure it was a woman and not a man?”
She nodded.
“How old?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t get a good look at her?”
“I was coming around the corner, headed to the next room I had to clean. I assumed the woman was a friend of Miss Berry’s, so I didn’t think much of it. It all happened so fast, no more than five or ten seconds.”
“Did you notice anything about her at all?”
“She wore a hat, and honestly, her hair didn’t sit right.”
“What kind of hat?”
“A beanie.”
I pointed to my head. “Like mine?”
“It was longer and a charcoal color. It had a pom-pom on top.”
“What do you mean her hair didn’t look right?” I asked.
“What I mean to say is, it didn’t look real.”
I pressed her for the height, weight, and attire of the woman she saw. Again she struggled with her answers. She described the height and weight as average, and as far as clothing went, she could only remember the woman had on a large coat with a faux fur rim along the hood. Fake fur to match her alleged fake hair.
“Anything else?” I asked. “Did she talk to you?”
She shook her head. “She never even looked at me. She kept her head down, walked past me, and out the front door.”
“Did you see where she went, or if she got into a car?”
“She didn’t get into a vehicle. She walked down the street and went around the corner. I’m sorry. I feel like I’m not really helping.”
“You’re helping, more than you know,” I said. “When the police get here, I want you to tell them everything you told me.”
“The police are here,” a male voice said.
Detective Murphy canvassed the room, then turned toward Blunt who was standing behind him. “Sounds like this girl has some useful information. Take her downstairs and see what she knows.”
Blunt started to speak, but Murphy held up a hand. “Take her downstairs, Blunt. That will be all.”
Both women left the room. Murphy walked over to the computer, bent down. “What’s this then?”
“A typed suicide note.”
He smiled, finding it amusing.
We exchanged information. I updated him on my visit with Elias’s mother, and he told me Porter had dropped Alexandra’s laptop by.
“We opened the password-protected book file,” he said. “It was blank.”
“The entire thing?” I asked.
“The entire thing, which means, it was wiped or transferred to another device, or wiped and transferred.”
“What are you thinking?”
“My best guess? Someone transferred the file onto a flash drive. Could have been Alexandra Weston. Could have been someone else. Hard to say. Either way you look at it, someone’s gone to great lengths to make sure that book doesn’t get published.” Murphy slid a pair of gloves on, riffled through the zippered parts of Barbara’s bag. “I tried calling Miss Berry this morning. When she didn’t answer, I called Pierce Glassman.”
“Who’s Pierce Glassman?”
“Alexandra’s lawyer.”
“Her lawyer?”
“Not her estate lawyer. The guy who looks over her publishing contracts. Alexandra has been a client of his since her first book. I heard he was a confidant. Someone she trusted implicitly.”
I added her lawyer to the growing list of men she’d kept in her back pocket. “What did you find out from him?”
“Nothing. Seems no one is available for comment today. Called the guy three times already.” Murphy laughed, but it was obvious he hadn’t taken too kindly to being slighted.
“It’s Saturday,” I said. “He’s not in the office.”
Now on the third zippered pocket inside the suitcase, his eyes locked on something. Using a pen he’d pulled from his pocket, he lifted out a bag of white powder. Holding it up in front of him, he squinted his eyes, inspecting it. “What do you wanna bet this here is fluoroacetate, the same poison used to kill Alexandra Weston?”
“I’d say there’s a slim chance it isn’t.”
He winked at me. “Convenient, isn’t it?”
I nodded. A little too convenient.
CHAPTER 46
I found Pierce Glassman stretching against a gate in front of a house that looked like it was big enough to accommodate three families. Maybe four. His knee was bent, his hand palming a shoe grazing his left butt cheek. He looked to be in his mid-fifties and was short, five foot seven inches or so, but decked out in Nike from head to running shoe, his svelte body made up for every single inch of it and more. Body to body, he’d never measure up to Finch, no matter how hard he tried, but he was a pint-sized sight to behold nonetheless. I beheld for a solid minute before Finch caught me. He shook his head, pulled the car over, and I put the window down.
“Are you Pierce Glassman?” I asked.
Without turning, he replied, “Who’s asking?”
“Joss Jax.”
“Very funny. Try again.”
“Turn around, Mr. Glassman.”
He turned and eyed me then Finch, unfazed. “What can I do for you, Joss?”
“Detective Murphy has been calling you all morning. You haven’t returned his call.”
“I will later, when I have time.”
“You’re finished with your run, aren’t you? Looks like you have time right now.”
“I need a shower. Then I have some paperwork to go over. Then I have a dinner date.”
“Suit yourself. If you don’t return his call, he’ll be coming over later.”
“I won’t be here.”
“Barbara Berry is dead,” I said.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“How?”
“Killed herself.”
“How?”
“Poison.”
He raised a brow. “Forgive me if I have a hard time believing she’d off herself. Are you certain?”
“She left a suicide note.”
His eyes expanded significantly, but he maintained his nonchalant, unaffected attitude. “Saying what, exactly?”
“Saying she’s responsible for the death of Alexandra Weston.”
“You’re joking, right? You must be.”
“No joke, Mr. Glassman.”
“What reason did Barb give for killing Alex?”
“She killed her to keep Alexandra’s memoir from being published.”
“What?”
Pulling his shirt up, he wiped his face with it, then approached the car. When he leaned down and stuck his head through the window, the car filled with an unsavory stench of sweat
and body odor. Maybe he was trying to make me go away. I wasn’t going anywhere.
“What do you know about Alexandra Weston’s memoir?”
He shook his head. “Can’t tell you that.”
“The book has gone missing from Alexandra’s computer. The police have her laptop. The file is there, but the manuscript is gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“I mean someone either erased it, or transferred it to a flash drive and then erased it. You wouldn’t happen to have a copy or know where I can get one?”
“I don’t read her books. I just negotiate the contracts. I’m not a storage facility.”
“I didn’t ask if you read it or not,” I said.
“Then what are you asking?”
“Did she ever talk to you about the contents of the book?”
“No.”
“Did she ever express concern about anyone being upset with her over what she wrote in the book?”
His head indicated no, but his eyes said yes.
“Did someone threaten her?” I asked.
He didn’t reply.
“Someone did. Who? I already know about Paula Page. Anyone else I need to add to the list?”
“Like I said, I don’t know. You’re wasting your time and mine. I can’t help you.”
He stood up and smacked the hood of the car with his fist like he was giving us permission to drive away. Of course, we didn’t.
“It just seems odd,” I persisted. “Barbara has been Alexandra’s agent for years. To my knowledge, they’ve never quarreled, never had a falling out, and had nothing but respect for each other. And now I’m supposed to believe this crazy scenario where Barbara kills Alexandra and then herself?”
The attorney sighed. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but all I’ll say is this: Barb wouldn’t have stopped the book deal. She had no reason to. Even if the contents within the book were scathing, Barb still would have pushed to publish it. As far as Alex goes, she offended a handful of people over the years.”
“Just give me a name,” I said. “One name. I’m sure someone comes to mind. If you had to name one person who wanted Alexandra dead, who would it be?”
“I’ve said more than I wanted to already.”
A View to a Kill Page 36