by L. A. Fiore
I dropped my hand on his shoulder. “It never gets easy.”
“No, it doesn’t. The story is out, too, printed in time for the morning run.”
That was fast, but, sadly, a stabbing in the park wasn’t uncommon.
My desk faced his. I sat down and took a sip of my coffee. “Why was she out running last night? Those receptions go well into the evening.”
“Don’t know, but she had a salon appointment yesterday and met someone by the name of Frank Harris at The Plaza for tea.”
“The salon makes sense because she did go to a fancy reception. What did you learn about Frank?”
“Reporter for some online publication.” Zac leafed through his notes. “Daily Examiner.”
“Never heard of it. So what’s his interest in Samantha James?”
“We’ll have to ask him, but first, let’s go to her apartment.”
Zac drove. Traffic wasn’t too bad because it was early. I’d called ahead; the super was waiting for us, an elderly man, kind eyes. “Is Sam okay?”
Zac and I shared a look. Samantha James had only been in the city for two months, but her super knew her, which meant she was either a pest, based on the concern looking back at us that was unlikely, or she was social…friendly.
“I’m sorry, but Samantha is dead. She was found last night in the park.”
His expression fell; he reached out for the wall to steady himself. “I can’t believe it.”
“Did you know her?” I asked.
“She’d only been here a couple of months, but she had that kind of personality, you couldn’t help but like her. Always had a smile and a hello. Nice kid.”
“Do you know why she might have been out running last night?”
“She did it often. I warned her, but she was religious with her exercise. She liked to run in the morning, but if she missed it, she’d run at night. Yesterday, she said something about a salon day when she was leaving.” He took a deep breath. “You’ll find out who hurt her?”
“Yes,” I answered, without hesitation. “We’d like to see inside her apartment.”
He pulled the key ring linked to his belt and unlocked her door. He stepped back, and I handed him my card. “You remember anything, please call me.”
“I will.”
I closed the door, Zac was already moving through the apartment that was remarkably neat. “Whoever killed her wasn’t looking for something, or if they were, she was carrying it,” Zac observed.
He was right because otherwise the place would have been tossed. I strolled around the living room. It was pretty lived-in for someone who was only here temporarily. “He corroborated the salon appointment, but we’ll call and confirm she was there and establish the timeline. When was she meeting Frank?” I asked.
Zac checked his notebook. “12:30pm.”
“So she pampers herself at the salon. Goes to tea at the Plaza, spends part of her evening at the reception and ends her night with a run.” At least her last day had been a good one.
“Her laptop is here, files,” Zac said, using his pen to lift the cover on the top file. “We need the team to process this like yesterday.” He reached for his phone to get an ETA.
“I’ll call the salon to confirm when she was there, and then I say, we hunt down this Frank Harris,” I suggested.
“Works for me.”
The Daily Examiner office was actually an apartment in a walkup in Queens. There were boxes of papers lining the walls; the windows hadn’t been cleaned in a while. A desk sat in the middle of the room, an old laptop on it. Frank Harris was in his forties, looking like a throwback to Woodstock. His hair was long and greasy, his glasses sliding off his nose. How did a man like this afford to take Samantha James to The Plaza for tea? One thing that was clear, whatever Frank’s involvement, his shock at hearing that Samantha was dead was genuine. What I found curious was that I saw fear, too.
“I can’t believe she’s dead,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, as he paced in front of his desk. “I just talked with her yesterday.”
“Where were you from eight to ten last night?” Zac asked.
“At home.”
“Can anyone verify that?” I asked.
Frank clued in when his eyes went wide. “You think I hurt Samantha?”
“You were one of the last people to see her. We need to rule you out, so can anyone confirm your whereabouts?” I asked again.
“Yeah, my neighbor. She came over, and we watched a movie.”
“Name?” Zac demanded, pulling out his notepad.
“Emily Duncan. Lives across the hall, apartment ten.”
“Why the interest in Samantha?” Zac asked.
Frank stood and paced, not that he got far with all the boxes. For an online publication, he sure kept a lot of paper.
“Her boss,” Frank said.
Zac didn’t hide his surprise when he questioned, “Milton Teller? Why are you interested in Milton Teller?”
Frank stopped pacing and looked at us like we’d just beamed down from a spaceship. “Katrina Dent.”
The name seemed vaguely familiar.
“Who’s that?” Zac asked.
“You don’t know…” Frank started to pace again. “Katrina Dent, the movie star.” He stopped pacing. “None of this is ringing any bells?”
Zac and I shared a look. “Why are you interested in her?” I asked.
“Because she’s dead.”
Were we dealing with a potential serial killer? “When did this happen?” Zac had his pen to the paper.
“1989.”
That was when Frank lost me. It took effort to hide my exasperation. I was all for conspiracy theories; I had a few of my own, but there was a fine line, and I suspected Frank, here, was on the wrong side of that line.
Zac was more patient. “Katrina Dent was murdered?”
“It was ruled a suicide, but I believe she was murdered.”
And that’s where he lost Zac.
While Zac rolled his eyes, I sought confirmation to my suspicions. “And Milton represented Katrina at the time of her death?”
“Yes,” Frank said, then added, “I hoped that Samantha knew more about it, working for Milton. It was really big news back then.”
“Did she?”
He hesitated, before he said, “No.”
He wasn’t telling us everything.
“Why do you think Katrina Dent was murdered?” Zac asked.
“Because she was terrified of razors. Had a bad experience as a kid,” he said, waiting for us to connect the dots.
“And she was found—” I started, but he finished.
“Slit wrists. There are countless ways to kill yourself, ways that are more effective than slitting your wrists.” He moved to one of the boxes, rummaged through it and pulled out some crime scene photos.
“How the hell do you have those?” Zac demanded.
“Case is closed, so the reports and photos are public record. Look,” he said, but I already was. Katrina Dent looked like a movie star, even in the final picture of her life. Pretty and young, a life cut short way too soon. “There’s no hesitation and the cuts were deep. Someone afraid of razors would have needed a few tries.”
He made a good point, but then, in my experience, when someone was truly ready to end it, they had no hesitation. Almost like they were already gone and were just tying up the loose ends.
“And do you have theories on who killed her?” Zac was encouraging him. It was his way; he liked puzzles as much as me, but sometimes, it was best not to feed the delusion. To say Frank was mildly obsessed with Katrina Dent was fair since I was pretty sure all the boxes around the room were related to her case. He might not be playing with a full deck.
At Zac’s question, Frank closed up. Like he didn’t want to get scoope
d on his own story. “Nothing concrete.”
Like hell. He probably had at least ten running theories, likely a crime board for each of them, but Katrina’s death had nothing to do with Samantha James. We were done here. I touched Zac’s arm. “You ready?”
“Yeah.” He reached for his card and handed it to Frank. “You think of anything else about Samantha, call me.”
Frank moved back to his desk, sat down. “Yeah, okay.”
We stopped at Emily’s to confirm his alibi, but she wasn’t home. I waited until we were outside on the curb before I said, “You didn’t need to encourage him.”
“I know, but I couldn’t help it. We’ve got detectives on the force who don’t put that much effort into active cases, and he’s still digging on a closed case that’s over three decades old. Obsessed much.”
“I’ll confirm his alibi with Emily, but he was holding back.”
“Yeah, he was. We need to talk to Samantha’s parents.”
“Alright, I’ll schedule some time with them. What’s next?”
Zac got that look, the one that meant he was going to stir shit up. “I say we go to the top, work our way down.”
I just knew he was going to say that. “We need to tread lightly,” I warned.
“We’re just asking him a few questions.”
“Alright, let’s warn Cap,” I said, reaching for the door of Zac’s car. “You know how he gets about getting calls from the commissioner.”
“Yeah, yeah. Call him, let him know we’re paying Sinclair Rothschild a visit.”
Zac hadn’t drunk the Kool-Aid when it came to Sinclair Rothschild. Despite the man’s good deeds, Zac didn’t like him. A man with his wealth, Zac argued, tended to think he was above the law. He wasn’t wrong, but Sinclair Rothschild’s altruistic ways had helped so many in the city. Whatever Zac thought of him, the man did good things. That wasn’t debatable.
He walked around his car and tapped the roof. “One thing you gotta acknowledge. This job is never boring.”
He could say that again.
It blew my mind the wealth of some. Sinclair Rothschild was a billionaire, many times over. Walking through his Brownstone, one of many properties he owned, the display of wealth was overwhelming…decadent.
His butler showed us into a room that had oak walls and a highly polished wood floor, covered, in parts, by rugs that I was sure cost more than I made in a year. A fire, warming the cool spring morning, was burning in the fireplace that was big enough for a man to stand upright in. Old paintings in thick gold frames hung from the walls and windows that went from floor to ceiling were draped with dark green silk.
Sinclair sat behind a desk that looked like an antique. His white hair was a little long, and he was dressed in a smoking jacket and pants. As he walked from around his desk, my eyes traveled to the black loafers he wore with a gold emblem stitched on the top. Rings of platinum and gemstones sat on a few of his fingers. When he smiled, though, it reached his eyes, which was unusual because most people we interviewed weren’t happy to see us.
“To what do I owe this visit from New York’s finest?” he said, gesturing to the chairs around the fireplace. “Can I get you coffee?”
“No, thanks,” I said, taking the seat closest to the door.
“Do you know Samantha James?” Zac asked, not bothering to sit.
Sinclair didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “I’m going to have coffee. Joshua,” he called. The man had been standing right at the door because he appeared like magic. “Coffee and pastries, please.”
“Very good, Sir.”
He looked back at Zac. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”
“Samantha James. Do you know her?”
“I can’t say that I do.”
“She was at your reception last night,” Zac added.
Sinclair brushed unseen lint from his pants. “Half of Manhattan was at my reception, Detective.” His eyes lifted to Zac when he asked, “Has something happened to her?”
“She was murdered last night.” Zac was blunt, looking for Sinclair’s reaction.
He had one when his face paled. “Oh, dear. Who was she?”
“A publicist who worked for Milton Teller,” I offered.
Recognition swept his face before he said, “Milton. Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. And this Samantha worked for him.”
“She was at your event because her client was there, Desiree McKenzie.”
“Ah, now Desiree I do know. Heart of gold,” he said, before leaning closer and lowering his voice. “Not the best actress, I’m afraid.” He wasn’t wrong about that. “Since I’ve got homicide detectives in my study, I’m guessing there’s more to her death.”
We didn’t answer and that was an answer. Joshua appeared, pushing a cart with a silver coffee pot, china cups and saucers and a plate of mouthwatering pastries. Joshua didn’t serve it, though. Sinclair did. “Are you sure I can’t entice you with something?”
I caved because I was hungry. “Coffee, please. Cream and sugar.”
“Very good, and you, Detective?” he asked Zac.
“No, thanks.”
“As you wish.” He handed me my coffee that I placed on the table next to me, before he held up the plate of goodies. I took one of the sticky buns because they looked amazing…gooey with golden raisins piled on the top. A plate and a cloth napkin followed, before he settled back in his chair with his coffee.
The sticky bun was mind-numbingly delicious.
“I wish I could help you.”
“You can. We need a list of attendees from last night,” Zac said.
We were working on getting the list, but this would be faster, not to mention it was a test to see how cooperative Sinclair would be. “Of course. Joshua?” He appeared again. I kind of wished I had a Joshua. “A list of names from last night, please.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Whatever I can do, Detectives. The idea that such a beautiful evening ended in tragedy… However I can help, you have it.”
Joshua returned with the list. Sinclair gestured to Zac, and Joshua handed it to him. “If you think of anything…” Zac said. He didn’t give his card to Sinclair because I was sure he already had our numbers. He probably knew more about us than we did.
I finished my coffee and stood. I was tempted to take another sticky bun, but I didn’t. “Thank you for the coffee and pastry.”
“Sweet Escape on Fifth Avenue,” Sinclair said with a smile. “They make the best sticky buns.”
They sure the hell did. “I’ll remember that,” I said.
In the car, Zac was shaking his head. “You were having a mini love affair with that sticky bun.”
“It was the best thing I ever tasted.”
Another head shake.
“I like food. Sue me. Besides, we were doing good cop, bad cop.”
“No, we weren’t.”
“And yet, it worked out that way. Look at us go.”
“You’re ridiculous sometimes.”
“But awesome all the time.”
He chuckled. “Who is on that list? Any names stand out?”
I reached for the list, scanned it and, oh, there was a name that stood out. “Kade Wakefield.”
That turned Zac’s head. “He was there?”
“He’s on the list. Whether he attended is another story.”
Kade Wakefield was an enigma: money and movie star good looks. He ran a multi-billion-dollar corporation with interests in everything from national security to toasters, but he hated publicity. Probably why the paparazzi loved him, his face showing up in countless tabloids every week. It also was known, but not proven, that his businesses weren’t a hundred percent legal. To say the Feds were watching him, would be accurate.
“What are the chances we get a sit down with Ka
de Wakefield?” I asked.
Zac didn’t miss a beat when he replied, “There’s a better chance of Desiree McKenzie winning an Oscar.”
Three
Kade stood by the windows in his penthouse, his hands fisted in his pockets. Samantha James. Her name first mentioned to him last night, and this morning, she was dead. The cops loved connecting the dots, particularly when his name was in the mix. He’d have to entertain their questions, despite the fact that he couldn’t pick Ms. James out of a lineup.
He didn’t do anything on a whim, but agreeing to Penelope’s suggestion of having Samantha interview for a position in the public relations department had been just that. Penelope had been with him from the beginning, his trusted right hand. She was also a bit of a Hollywood freak, and Samantha had worked for Milton Teller, representing Desiree McKenzie. Penelope saw stars. She’d argued that bringing in young blood to the public relations department might help pull in the younger generation, not that they had trouble with that demographic, since he owned several of the most trendy night clubs in the city, but he knew part of Penelope’s suggestion was getting the chance to meet Desiree, someone Samantha would no longer represent if she’d gotten the job. He wasn’t sure Penelope had thought her idea through, not that it mattered now. Samantha James had been a kid with a promising career and now she was dead.
“Mr. Wakefield. Levy is bringing the car around.” Benson, like Penelope, had been with Kade from the beginning. He’d offered to set Benson up with his own place, offered him any job he wanted, but he wanted to tend to Kade. He understood. They had history; they were family, and Benson believed in earning his way.
“I’ll be down in a minute. Thanks, Benson.”
Kade turned back to the window. It was a beautiful day, but he suspected his day was going to be anything but beautiful. He crossed the room to the elevator; reaching for his jacket as he did, while wondering how long it would be before the NYPD was knocking on his door.