“This again?”
“Yes, this again,” I snapped. I hadn’t meant to be so curt. Perhaps it was all the excitement from earlier, or perhaps I was anticipating that Sam did know the details regarding Lenny’s murder and he wasn’t willing to be forthcoming with me.
“Why is this so important to you?” Sam asked me.
It was a good question. “I owe someone,” I said. “Someone saved my life, and I feel like I owe him some relief from the torture of not knowing why Lenny was murdered.”
“Shepherd,” Sam said.
I didn’t confirm his statement. I didn’t need to. Instead, I offered him my theory. “I believe that Lenny was set up. I think that Boris Basayev wanted a new way to launder money somewhere away from the Big Apple, so he targeted the Suttons and their gallery, and lured them here with a promise of the cut from the profits if they relocated their gallery to the Hamptons. They could’ve come out here to look around at what homes were for sale, and afterward, suggested to Basayev that the prices were too high and they couldn’t afford to make the move after all as, when Basayev found them, their gallery was struggling.
“So, Basayev found a listing under Lenny Shepherd, and figured he could kill two birds with one stone. He sent Greta to the home where Lenny was hosting an open house one Saturday in June, nearly two years ago now, and the Angel of Death murdered Lenny in cold blood. Greta made sure there were witnesses to see her exiting the property—she wanted her description to get back to the detective who would most certainly become obsessed with solving his ex-wife’s murder. And Basayev would get to operate his little money-laundering scheme out here, unencumbered by thoughts of a nosy detective, who was now too distracted to pay the Suttons any attention.”
Sam sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded in a relaxed position, patiently listening. His expression gave nothing away, although I made sure to focus all of my attention on it, hunting for any hint of recognition, or surprise, or even agreement. But his face and his eyes were a mask only of slight curiosity. There was nothing of an affirmation there for me.
When I was finished, he leaned forward and said, “That’s a very interesting theory, Ms. Cooper, but I want to caution you about revealing it to your friend, the detective. The person you mentioned is still conducting business as usual, and he’ll continue to do so for at least a little while longer. We can’t assure your safety—or the detective’s, if you get my drift—and any mention to the authorities of what you think may be going on, or what happened to Lenny Shepherd, would probably land you and the detective in the Atlantic, fifty miles offshore. And I’m not kidding.”
I felt the color drain from my face. I believed him, and I suddenly felt very foolish. Still, it really bothered me that Sam might have some sort of proof or evidence that would tie all this together, and he was refusing to offer it up because he wanted Basayev on other charges.
It also occurred to me that Shepherd was beginning to close in on a motive himself, and he was closer to Basayev than I believed either Sam or Boris thought. How soon before he put it together like I had?
Sam continued to stare at me expectantly, and I hate to admit it, but I felt intimidated. “I understand,” I said at last.
“Good,” Sam replied. “Now how about—” Sam stopped midsentence and lifted out his phone, which I could just barely hear was buzzing. He put the phone to his ear with a crisp, “Dancer.” There was a lengthy pause, during which Sam’s gaze flickered to me. “Understood,” he said. “I’ll be there in ten.”
“Is something wrong?” I asked, when he hung up.
“You could say that. I have to go.”
Sam got up and so did I. “It’s not Maks, is it?” I asked.
“Do you have the flash drive?” was his only reply.
“Yes. But if you want it you’re going to have to be a little more forthcoming about Mr. Grinkov. Is he all right?”
“He’s fine,” Sam said, his voice softening just a fraction. “Walk me to the door and we’ll shake hands again.”
I followed him to the door where he turned to face me. I took his hand and pressed the flash drive into his palm. We shook hands and I let go. He casually put the hand holding the flash drive in his pocket, and tipped a pretend hat at me.
A moment later he was gone, and I was left to wonder what the heck had happened.
Fortunately, I didn’t have long to wonder. My cell rang before Sam even made it to his car.
“Gilley?” I asked, seeing his name on the caller ID.
“Ohmigod, Cat! Did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“The news!”
“What news?”
“The gallery owner—Jason Sutton . . .”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead!”
My mouth dropped and for several seconds all I could hear was my own heart pounding in my ears. Gilley seemed to realize that it would take me a moment to let that sink in, because he was silent on the other end of the call.
“H-h-how?” I stammered.
“They found his car at the bottom of a lagoon. He was in the driver’s seat.”
“Suicide?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
“It was murder,” I said, as if it were already a known fact. And then something else occurred to me. “How do you know all this, Gilley?”
“I’m watching it on the news. It was their lead story. His husband was shown on camera looking absolutely devastated.”
“Or scared out of his mind,” I said.
“Yeah. Or that.”
“Are you still at the cupcake shop?”
“No. I’m next door getting a pedicure.”
“Okay. I’m on my way to pick you up.”
I hung up with Gilley but didn’t head out the door right away. Instead I paced my office for a few minutes, thinking. Finally, I looked toward the inner office door and said, “To hell with it.”
Marching forward, I pushed out of the door and nearly bumped right into Shepherd.
“Oh!” I said, as we almost collided. “Steve! I . . . What’re you doing here?”
Shepherd looked annoyed. “Go back to your office, Ms. Cooper,” he said formally. “I’m on official police business.”
“In my building? I hope you have a warrant.”
Shepherd held up a folded piece of paper. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He then proceeded to walk past me and up the stairs.
I hesitated just a few seconds before I followed him.
He paused on the second-story landing to glare back at me. “I’m telling you to butt out, Catherine.”
“And I’m telling you that as long as you’re in my building I’ll go where I want!” Something in my gut let me know exactly where Shepherd was going, and I’d be damned if I was going to make it easy on him.
“Fine,” he said. “Have it your way.” He then moved up the stairs at a faster pace than I could keep up with. Still, I managed to reach the third-floor landing only a little bit behind him.
Shepherd walked to Maks’s office door and banged on it hard with his fist. “East Hampton P.D., Mr. Grinkov. Open up!”
I stood near the stairwell, watching Shepherd and dreading what I thought might be coming. The door to Maks’s office suite opened, revealing the man I’d had drinks with the night before. However, he hardly looked like the same man.
Maks looked pale, and tired, as if he hadn’t slept the night before. And yet he managed to remain calm in the face of one agitated cop. “What can I do for you, Detective?” he said.
“You can turn around and place your hands behind your back,” Shepherd said, while also producing a set of handcuffs. “You’re under arrest.”
I stepped forward. “What’re you arresting him for?”
“Butt. Out. Catherine,” Shepherd snapped.
“I will not!”
Maks then got my attention. Holding up his hand in a calming gesture, he said, “It’s all right, my dear. I’ll be fine.”
<
br /> Maks then turned and placed his hands behind his back for Shepherd to cuff him, which he did, and I couldn’t help but notice the satisfied smirk on his face as he clicked the steel bracelets closed. “Maks Grinkov,” he said, taking out a card from his pocket to read from, “you are under arrest for the murder of Jason Sutton. You have the right to remain silent. . . .”
Shepherd read Maks all of his Miranda rights, while I stood helplessly by. Shepherd finished by saying, “Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“I do,” Maks said. He then looked to me. “Catherine, would you please call Marcus for me?”
Marcus Brown was the best damn lawyer on the planet, and I should know because I’d retained him a little while back when I’d been in Maks’s shoes.
“I’ll call him,” I assured him.
Shepherd sneered at me as he walked past with his prisoner in front of him. “Glad to see you’re looking out for your boyfriend,” he muttered as the pair passed.
I let the comment go. Given the situation, Shepherd was going to think the worst, and I couldn’t explain to him what was actually going on between Maks and me. And that wasn’t simply because I didn’t really know what was going on between Maks and me.
I followed the pair down the stairs and to the door, then watched as the detective put Maks in the back of his unmarked sedan. Shepherd never looked back; in fact, I rather thought he made a point to avoid looking at me altogether, but Maks did offer me a soft smile and a nod from the back of the car as it pulled away from the curb.
His reassurance in spite of being the one handcuffed and heading off to jail broke my heart a little.
The second Shepherd and Maks were out of sight I hurried into my office, sat at Gilley’s desk, and placed a call to the attorney.
“Marcus Brown,” he said crisply, answering the call before the third ring.
“Hello, Marcus, it’s Catherine Cooper calling.”
“Ms. Cooper,” Marcus replied warmly. I smiled at the change in his tone. “What a surprise. How may I assist you, ma’am?”
Marcus had an office a few towns over in Sag Harbor. He had represented me a few months earlier when I’d been accused of murdering my neighbor. As a woman who’d run a multimillion-dollar business, and gone through a terribly contentious divorce, I’d had my fair share of legal representation, but none of those attorneys had ever held a candle to Marcus Brown, either in courteous manner, professionalism, or ability.
“I’m calling on behalf of a mutual friend of ours,” I said.
The other end of the call was quiet, and I swear there was a note of tension there. “As in . . . ?”
“Mr. Grinkov,” I said.
Through the connection I thought I heard the sharp sound of paper being turned over—like a sheet of legal pad being turned to a fresh sheet. “Talk to me,” he said.
“I’m afraid I’m light on the details. A local gallery owner named Jason Sutton was found deceased in his car at the bottom of a lagoon somewhere in East Hampton. About five minutes after I heard the news, Detective Shepherd showed up at my office building and arrested Maks.”
Marcus sighed. “Shepherd really likes to shoot first and ask questions later, doesn’t he?”
“He is a tad overenthusiastic when it comes to making arrests,” I admitted . . . mostly because, in my experience, it was true.
“Where are you now?” Marcus asked.
“I’m still at my office.”
“Okay. It’ll take about an hour to process Maks’s paperwork once he reaches the station. And Shepherd’s not dumb enough to question him until I show up. I’ll leave here in thirty minutes and be there before five. If you can get word to Maks that I’m on my way, that’d be great.”
“How would I do that?”
“By telling Shepherd, of course,” Marcus said. “He’ll pass the word on to Mr. Grinkov because he just won’t be able to resist.”
I realized he was right. Steve would pass that information on to Maks just to gauge his reaction. “I’ll text Steve right away.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
The moment I was off the phone with Marcus I texted Shepherd. After sending the text, I saw the little bubbles appear just below my message, but no reply ever came through. I tried not to feel disappointed—but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me.
Next I called Gilley as I was locking up the office. “Where are you?” he demanded. I realized I’d left him at the nail salon without updating him about what was going on.
“I’m on my way.”
“You were on your way forty minutes ago!”
“Gilley,” I said calmly, getting into my car. “Please don’t be angry. There was a development.”
“Uh oh, that sounds bad. What kind of development?”
“Shepherd arrested Maks for the murder of Jason Sutton.”
Gilley audibly gasped. “No way!”
“Way.”
“How did you find out?”
“It happened in front of me.”
“No way!”
“Way.”
“Why would Shepherd arrest Maks of all people?”
“Obviously, Shepherd believes he did it.”
“You don’t think this is just some way for your boyfriend to get back at your other boyfriend?”
I rolled my eyes and looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror. “Neither of them is my boyfriend.”
“Have you told that to your boyfriends? Because, me thinks neither one of them got that memo.”
“Would you stop?”
“Fiiiiine. But haven’t you wondered if Shepherd is doing this just to be spiteful?”
I thought back to the patrol officer who’d harassed us the other night when Maks and I had gone to dinner. Shepherd had been behind that little stunt, but I didn’t think he’d go so far as to arrest Maks without some pretty hard evidence. “He had a warrant, Gilley. That means it was signed by a judge, so Shepherd has something on Maks that he thinks is worthy of an arrest.”
“That hardly holds water, Cat. I mean, he arrested you on pretty flimsy evidence.”
He had a point there. “Still, I don’t think Steve would do something so dumb. At least not twice.”
“I wonder what he has on Maks to link him to Sutton’s murder.”
“I’m here,” I said, without answering Gilley’s question. I was double parked in front of the nail salon.
“Oh, so you are,” Gil replied, then hung up the phone. He made his way out to my car and hopped in.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I replied, pulling away from the curb.
“So what do you think Shepherd has on Maks?”
“No idea. Whatever it is, Marcus will probably poke a lot of holes in it.”
Gilley’s interest piqued at the mention of the attorney. “Oooo,” he said. “Is that tall, dark, delicious drink of water back on scene?”
“You know he’s straight, right?”
Gilley wiggled his ring finger at me and his wedding band. “I’m just window shopping, sugar. No reason to worry over Marcus’s virtue.”
I gave Gilley some side-eye. “I wasn’t really worried.”
“Mmmmhmmm,” Gilley said. “I could’ve had him if I’d wanted him.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I said with a laugh. But then all humor left me when I thought about Maks, waiting for his attorney to show up and likely nervous that he’d been charged with murder. I too wondered what could possibly link him to Sutton’s death. “Gil?” I said after a bit.
“Yeah?”
“Was there anything on the news about evidence left behind at Jason Sutton’s crime scene? Something that might’ve hinted toward Maks being the killer?”
“You don’t believe he’s really the killer, do you?”
“No. Of course not.” At least I didn’t think he was the killer. “I mean, what could possibly have been his motive?”
“You know him better than I do,�
�� Gilley said.
“Which isn’t as well as I should, apparently.”
Gilley turned thoughtful and tapped his lip. “M.J. once gave me great advice.”
“What’s that?”
“She said that your first reaction to someone is almost always right. It’s how we soften our memories of interactions with people over time that pollutes and clouds the picture.”
“Hmmm. That’s actually a really good observation.”
“It is. So, I gotta ask. What was your first impression of Maks?”
“You mean like . . . ever?”
“Yes. The moment you two met, what was your immediate measure of the man?”
“Well . . .” I said, thinking. “I suppose it was an instant attraction, but also . . . maybe . . .”
“Yeah?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know . . . a sort of ease. Being in his presence put me at ease, like I was safe in his company.”
Gil nodded. “He’s not the killer,” he said. “No way would you have felt so comfortable around him so immediately if he were bad people.”
“I agree,” I said, pulling into the driveway at Chez Cat.
Once I’d parked the car I looked at Gilley. “Now what?”
Gilley bounced his eyebrows. “How about I make you and me an early dinner and take your mind off your troubles.”
“Count me in,” I said with a sigh of relief.
Gilley headed over to Chez Kitty while I ducked into Chez Cat to change out of my ruined clothes and put on some comfortable loungewear. I then made my way over to Chez Kitty, let myself in and I plopped on the couch while he fussed in the kitchen.
Gil is an excellent cook, and I always marvel at his creativity. Tonight he was making a gorgeous-smelling pesto, with locally made pasta, roasted chicken, fresh tomatoes, and goat cheese. My stomach growled with impatience while I waited for him to bring it all together.
I also had a chance to contemplate the mysterious case of Jason Sutton’s death. I had no doubt that he’d been murdered, and I also had very little doubt that the deed was done by someone in Boris Basayev’s organization—but who and why?
And to that point, was Maks being set up by Basayev? Had the mafia kingpin identified Maks as an informant?
To Coach a Killer Page 15