"You up?" Imogen whispered quite loudly.
"I am now."
Imogen was sitting up in the bed, drinking.
"Don't worry, yours is on the nightstand."
I lifted myself up into a seated position next to Ginny, leaned over, and grabbed my drink off the nightstand.
"Glenfiddich 18, neat," she said.
"Very thoughtful."
"I couldn't get something out of my head," Ginny said, and raised her glass to her lips, drops of water falling off the glass onto the bed.
"Clearly."
"SCV."
"What?"
"SCV. That was the subject of the email."
I was trying to rouse my brain from the haze of sleep. I took a sip of the scotch.
"Right, I think so. I have to check."
"That wasn't a question. I can't figure out what SCV means."
"You think a scotch and soda at 3 a.m. is going to help you figure that out?"
"No, but I think talking to you might help."
"I appreciate your faith in my intellect, but I'm not that sharp this early in the morning."
"That's why I poured you a scotch."
I took another sip. The backs of my eyelids were calling.
"Maybe SCV are the initials of the next victim?" she proffered.
"So, now we've got a serial killer on our hands?" I said, making myself more comfortable rearranging my pillow against the headboard.
"Maybe it's just the initials of someone who's in on this whole scheme."
"Could be, but would you put the initials of someone who's in on some conspiracy in the subject line of an email after you've already named your co-conspirator by name in the body of the email? He mentioned Clarke—why not mention anyone else by name too?"
Imogen pondered my response and took a sip of her drink while Jabber, now up, was pacing slowly around the bed.
"She probably has to go out," I said, not really willing to get out of bed.
"She's fine."
And then, as if on cue, Jabber lay down and went back to sleep. I took another sip of my drink.
"SCV might be some work shorthand. Like 'sent via courier.'"
"That would be SVC," Imogen pointed out.
"Regardless, it's too early to play hangman," I said.
"What about the initials ACAE?"
"No idea."
"Want to hazard a guess?"
"I want to go back to sleep. Kitty and Co. will have to wait until the morning," I said.
"I still don't like that lady."
"No one said you have to like her, my dear. No one said we have to ever see her again, either. In fact, I'd prefer the latter."
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning, my doorbell served as an alarm that woke both Imogen and myself. We had overslept. Jabber's barking helped too. I walked downstairs, in my boxer briefs, no shirt, and my Ugg slippers to answer the door. It was a detective expressing some interest in speaking with me. I told him to come in and to make himself comfortable as I walked into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I asked if I could go put on some clothes. He acquiesced, and moments later I was back upstairs.
"Throw on some clothes. We have company."
Imogen was still lying in bed.
"Now what?" she asked, rolling over to face me.
"It's a detective. Wants to chat."
"Oh, great. I'll be right down." She let out an exasperated gasp as she pulled the covers over her head.
I headed back downstairs to the detective, with Jabber in tow. I told him that Imogen would be joining us shortly and asked the detective if he would like some coffee, which was just about done. He said that he would love a cup with milk and sugar. I told him that we only had soy. He reluctantly nodded that soy would be fine. As I brought over the coffee for the detective, Imogen appeared.
"Beautiful house you have here, Mr. Slade," the detective said, taking the coffee from my hand.
He was right. I did have a beautiful house. It wasn't anything over the top, but it sure as hell wasn't a shack. It was a custom six-bedroom colonial that I had built a few years back. Nothing showy, but just standing in the main foyer gave the impression that you weren't in a typical house.
"Well, thank you. So, how can I help you, detective?"
"Well, Mr. Slade, as I—"
"Please, call me Max."
"Sure. Max, as I was saying when you opened the door, my name is Detective Jonathan Carrington. You can call me John," he said as he showed both Imogen and I his badge.
"I'll stick with detective if that's OK," I said.
"Whatever floats your boat."
"So, detective, how can we help you?"
"For starters, maybe I could get the name of the lovely lady standing next to you." The detective was looking at Imogen.
"I'm Imogen Whitehall," Ginny said.
"Miss Whitehall?" the detective asked, as if he thought we might be married.
"Yes, that's correct, Miss Whitehall," Imogen said. "We're not married, if that's what you're asking."
"No, no, I don't mean to pry. I was just—"
"Not a big deal, detective. Now that you know Miss Whitehall's name and marital status, is there a reason that you're here?"
"There is, Max. Have you heard what happened down the street the other night?"
"Miss Whitehall and I stopped by the crime scene. I couldn't get any information out of the officer working crowd control."
The detective chuckled. "That's certainly par for the course. They're trained not to talk about what's going on at a crime scene. He was just doing his job."
"And he did it very well. All I know officially is that someone died at 16 Raleigh Drive."
"So, you're telling me that Mrs. Baxter, who stopped by yesterday morning and stayed for a bit, didn't mention anything about her husband's death?"
"I said officially. Kitty did mention it, yes."
"Would you like to fill in the details of your conversation with Mrs. Baxter for me?"
"Is Kitty a suspect?"
"That's not any of your concern, Mr. Slade."
"I thought you were going to call me Max."
The detective seemed annoyed with me. I asked him again if Kitty was a suspect.
The detective took a careful sip of his coffee.
I pressed the situation. "Do you think she did it?"
John Carrington swallowed hard and then took another slow sip of his coffee. Perhaps he didn't like the soy. It did taste odd to the uninitiated. He was noticeably annoyed with me, but oddly willing to offer up information. He lowered his coffee from his lips and held it in two hands. One hand on the mug handle, the other warming itself around the front of the mug facing me as we stood in my foyer.
"I'm not going to make any judgments here, Max. I don't know if she did it or not, but she's certainly not helping us figure out who did."
"Maybe she doesn't know."
"There are a lot of possibilities. Maybe you can help me start filling in the blanks. Was Mrs. Baxter here yesterday?"
"She was. She came by around nine."
"How do you two know each other?"
"We were friends a long time ago."
"What kind of friends?"
Kitty's impromptu meeting with me yesterday stuck in my mind. Why give the police any reason to sniff around me?
"Are there different kinds?"
Detective Carrington laughed. Then went all stern-faced.
"When one is male and the other is female, sometimes there are."
"It was so long ago I really can't remember."
"OK, Max." He wasn't going to push it any further. "What's a long time ago?"
"Long enough where she shouldn't be contacting me."
"Mr. Slade, can you try to make an effort to answer the questions?"
"I thought I was."
"Well, let's try a little harder. What do you say?"
"I'll certainly give it the ol' college try."
The detective shot m
e a smile accompanied by an exasperated sigh.
"Wonderful. Let's try that previous one again. How do you and Mrs. Baxter know each other?"
"I told you we were friends. But if you really must know, we kissed a few times."
"Well, that's an interesting tidbit. See, now we're getting somewhere, Max."
"You're telling me," Imogen interjected.
"We dated for a while, then things fell apart. You know how it goes."
"Judging by this house, looks like she should have stuck around." He let that inappropriate comment just linger for a moment. "And then out of the blue she contacted you the other day?"
"That's correct. We had seen each other every now and again at a business function here or there. Ted and I ran in the same circles. But we rarely, if ever, chatted. Once in a blue moon I would have occasion to chat with Ted, but that was usually when Kitty wasn't around."
"And then she contacted you?"
"Yes. She called me the day Ted was murdered. Told me she needed my help and asked if she could come by the following morning."
"How did she have your number?"
"I don't know. I asked her that myself, but she was evasive."
"Did you ask her what kind of help she needed?"
"I did. She didn't discuss that on the phone."
"So, she discussed that when she showed up here yesterday?"
"That's correct."
"So, what did she want?"
"She told me she thought she might need some help. It's not every day that your husband is murdered."
"You're an attorney, correct?"
"I am."
Why was everyone hellbent on continually reminding me of the fact that I was an attorney? Kitty must have mentioned it to Carrington.
"So was she retaining you as her counsel?"
I laughed. Hard. I was about the furthest thing from a criminal defense attorney that you could come across. I invested in technology companies. You remember the dotcom boom? Well, that was my story. I made millions starting and selling dotcoms. I didn't know the first thing about murder. Other than it didn't end well for the dead guy.
"What are you laughing at?" Detective Carrington asked.
"This."
"Excuse me."
"This whole thing."
"I don't find it funny in the least."
"You think Kitty wants to retain me to represent her? I'm the furthest thing that there is from a defense attorney."
"So what did she want?"
"I don't know what Mrs. Baxter wanted."
"Do you think Mrs. Baxter wanted your legal opinion?"
"My legal opinion? No. I think she wanted my help to solve the murder. I'm not sure she has faith in our police department."
"What would give her that idea?"
"You've got me. She said that you haven't any leads, suspects, or clue about Ted's murder. And, after you just told me that Kitty's all you've got, I'm starting to agree with her."
"So, are you going to take Mrs. Baxter up on her offer?"
"I haven't decided. I'm not a detective, as you know."
"Is that all you discussed with Mrs. Baxter at your house?"
"That was it."
The detective was finished with me. Or so it appeared. He took another sip of his coffee then spoke in a friendly, relaxed voice. "Miss Whitehall, you were there yesterday, right? Is that all that was discussed?"
"It was," Imogen said, reciprocating with a similar disposition.
He thought for a moment. "What was your impression of Mrs. Baxter?"
Imogen made a puckered face. "All right, I guess. Struck me as a bit of a gold digger. But then again, I only met her for a spell. Who knows? She might be a saint."
"A saint she's not," I added.
"Did she mention how Ted was murdered?" the detective asked.
"Are you sure it was murder?" I replied.
"That's the only thing we're sure of right now."
"She didn't discuss it with me. Can you tell me what happened to Ted?"
"I can tell you what we've pieced together so far."
"Good enough."
CHAPTER SIX
The detective began his description of the events that took place leading up to the murder of Ted Baxter. Ted was at the office in midtown Manhattan until about 6:15 p.m., at which point he got into this car and drove home. It took him about an hour to get there, and after checking his home security alarm, the police were able to confirm that the security system was disabled at 7:27 p.m. What happened between 7:27 p.m. and 8:20 p.m. was the mystery.
I was flabbergasted that the detective was being so open with me. I'd read a lot of mystery novels, and the police are never cooperative. My curiosity got the better of me, and I started asking questions to see how far I could push Detective Carrington.
"So, Kitty arrived home at 8:20 p.m.," I said.
"That's what she says, and it is consistent with her call to 9-1-1."
"What time did she report that there was something wrong?"
"8:23 p.m."
"Where was she?"
"She said she was out with a friend having dinner."
"And that checked out?"
"It did. She was having dinner in Greenwich. Left around eight."
"Male or female dining companion?"
"Female."
I was surprised with his compliance and frankness, as well as the fact that Kitty was dining with a female friend. Judging by my past experience, she struck me as one who might stray. My face must have shown it.
"You were thinking male?" the detective asked.
"That thought did pop into my head. But I have no information to justify that. So, what happened to Ted?"
"When we arrived, Ted was in his home office, face down on his desk in a pool of blood, body still in his chair, head with one single bullet hole, the shot administered through the back of his head. Looks like he never saw it coming. They're telling me the wound looks like a 9mm handgun was used. Generic. His face then hit the desk with a fair amount of force breaking his nose. Post-mortem.
"We did a preliminary sweep of the office and didn't come up with anything. No casing from the bullet, no fingerprints, no signs of forced entry. Forensics is still working the scene, but so far they haven't found anything of importance. Whatever happened, they left the place clean."
"Did you guys find anything out of place in the office?"
"Just your usual stuff—books, computer, television, papers, a filing cabinet. Nothing out of the ordinary." He stopped for a second. "They did find a medical device in a metallic suitcase. I think it was a heart monitor. Apparently Ted had a heart condition."
Too bad his heart condition didn't kill him. Would have made things a lot easier.
"Anything else?" I asked.
"That's all I've got," the detective said.
Great. Having had my fill of him, I started to get up from my seat to escort Detective Carrington out of the house.
"Well, I've got one more question, Max. If you don't mind."
I sat back down.
"Sure, detective."
"Where were you and Miss Whitehall between 7:27 p.m. and 8:20 p.m.?"
There we go. It was only a matter of time before he got around to asking the really important question. When did I kill Ted?
"I was on my way back from work. From Manhattan."
"On the train?" he asked.
I chuckled. "The train? No. I drove. I'm not big on public transportation."
"Was Miss Whitehall with you?"
"No."
"So you were alone?"
"Yes, detective. I was alone. In my car. Is that a crime?"
"Not in of itself. No."
He turned his gaze from me toward Imogen.
"And you, where were you?"
"Home."
"And where's home?"
"Next door."
"Isn't that convenient?" He smiled.
"Excuse me?" Imogen answered. Not too happily.
; "I mean, it's convenient that you live next door and you two, well, you know…"
"Really, detective?" I interjected.
He laughed uncomfortably. Embarrassed. "I'm sorry. So you were home, Miss Whitehall?"
"Yes, I was home. I heard sirens, and a few minutes later I headed over here and saw Max had just arrived home."
"And what time was that?"
"Don't really remember. Shortly before the time they wheeled poor Mr. Baxter into the white van."
Carrington just nodded. Not approvingly or disapprovingly. Just nodded. Then he shifted his attention back to me as he jotted down some notes in his little black book.
"So, Max, is there anyone to corroborate your whereabouts yesterday between 7:27 p.m. and 8:20 p.m.?"
"You can ask my car. She's right outside."
"Not helpful, Max."
"I'm sorry. Normally you could ask my secretary, but she wasn't in yesterday. I'm not sure who saw me leave the office. But feel free to ask around."
"I'm sure we'll take you up on that offer, Max."
He was digging. That was for sure. I was weighing my options. I had already fibbed about my past relationship with Kitty. And my relationship with Ted. More like my disgust for Ted. I was considering filling the good detective in on the email that I had received from Kitty. It might deflect some suspicion away from me. At least for a short amount of time while they sifted through the information. It was something I would have to do.
"If that's all there is, I think we're done here," Detective Carrington said, as he started to rise.
"There's one more thing, detective, that might be of some importance. If you have a second."
"Max, I've got all the time in the world."
I mentioned that Kitty had sent me an email from Mike Miller. I showed him it and then told him that I'd forward him a copy. He was interested in the email, thanked me for my cooperation, and asked to keep him in the loop if Kitty contacted me again. He then asked me about Ted and what I knew about him. I told him that he was a pretty cold, abrasive guy, was a genius when it came to technology, and was worth a fortune. On the few occasions that I'd had the displeasure of working with him, he treated everyone in the room pretty poorly. Overall, he wasn't a nice guy.
"Can I be honest with you, Max?"
"Sure, detective."
"You seem like a bright guy. Logical. You ran in Ted's circles. Any reason you can think of why someone might want to kill him?"
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