Murder.com

by David Deutsch

  "Do I get a junior detective badge if I help?"

  Detective John Carrington was about the same age as I was and, I now had no doubt, ambitious. He was looking to solve this murder with any help he could muster up. I imagined it would be quite a feather in his cap to solve the murder of a multimillionaire in this quiet, sleepy suburb. Cases like this certainly didn't come around every day. Could even lead to a promotion.

  "As I told Kitty, detective, I'm just a guy that likes technology. I have no interest in solving crimes."

  "Jealousy? Greed? Hatred? You've got to have a guess."

  Was this his way of digging for more information? If it was, it seems a little amateurish to me. I doubted many killers just offered up their motive at the drop of a hat. He might want to work on his technique.

  "I wish I knew, detective."

  "I wish you did too, Max."

  He was now standing. Peering down at Imogen and myself, who were both still seated. In the power position. You could tell he liked that dynamic.

  "Do me a favor, you two. Stick around. Don't go taking any trips out of state."

  "Now why would we go and do something like that?" I asked.

  "Just stick around."

  That was an order. Not a suggestion.

  The detective thanked me for my time, and for Imogen's time, didn't thank Jabber for her time, and then we all walked the detective to the door. The detective handed me his card, told me to call anytime if I needed anything, wanted to chat about the case, or felt the overwhelming desire to confess. We all exchanged some pleasantries and he left.

  "Now what?" Imogen asked.

  "Sunday brunch," I said. "With more than a few Bloody Marys."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Monday, I went to work. Sat in on a few board meetings. Met with the CEO of one of our companies and had a two-hour meeting with his CFO about raising a new round of capital. One that would hopefully be enough to bring his company to the next level and to a possible IPO in the next year or two. That was always tricky, though. It involved bringing other investors and venture capital firms into the mix. More investors meant more opinions. Never a good thing.

  When I finally arrived home, Imogen was not waiting for me. Neither was dinner, for that matter. I was hungry, and what better way to abate your hunger than by fixing yourself a drink? The bar beckoned, so I poured a scotch. On my way over to the couch, the doorbell rang.

  "Dutch!" Kitty said, as she pushed her way into my house. "I heard the police were here yesterday."

  "And hello to you, too, Kitty."

  "What did they want?"

  Kitty strolled, uninvited again, into the living room from the foyer where she had just verbally accosted me. Jabber, who was just standing by my side, followed Kitty like a shepherding dog. I was waiting for her to nip at Kitty's four-inch Prada heels.

  "What do you think they wanted?"

  "I haven't the faintest idea," Kitty said, waving her hand dismissively though the air.

  "They're watching you, Kitty."

  Why give her the satisfaction of knowing that she was right? That the police had indeed come knocking. That they thought I had something to do with this whole mess.

  Kitty acted shocked, although her determined expression showed something quite different.

  "Moi?"

  "Yes, toi. Your husband was murdered. Remember?"

  "I see you're still as charming as ever, Dutch."

  "Can I get you a drink?" I asked, and took a sip of my own.

  "I'm not here for a drink." Kitty scowled.

  "Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to sit down and sip on mine. I've had a long day and you've shown up unannounced."

  I sat on the couch and motioned for Kitty to have a seat next to me.

  "Well don't blame me, Dutch. Blame these nosy detectives. Questions, questions, questions. They don't stop," she said as she sat down.

  "Sounds like you blame them," I said.

  "I blame them for thinking that I killed my husband."

  "Are you sure you don't want that drink?"

  Imogen opened the front door carrying a large brown paper bag. Takeout. Finally, dinner has arrived. Imogen walked into the living room, clearly disgusted with whom she saw sitting on the couch. She greeted Kitty, ignored me, and then coldly, without even acknowledging my presence, walked into the kitchen.

  "Trouble in paradise?"

  "More like ripples in Shangri-La. Be right back," I said quietly as I stood.

  I walked into the kitchen. Imogen was unpacking our dinner, banging each individually packaged meal onto my quartz island.

  "This one's the chicken parmigiana," she said as she slammed it onto the counter.

  Her face was taut with anger while she desperately tried to soften her expression.

  "Cucina Italiano? Delicious!" I said, trying to defuse this volatile situation before it exploded.

  "Why is that bitch here?" she asked, in a controlled angry whisper.

  Too late.

  "She just stopped by."

  "Well, if I'm being honest here Max, I don't appreciate your ex-fiancée just popping in."

  At this most unfortunate of moments, Kitty called into the kitchen from the living room asking if everything was OK. I called back to her that we were fine and that I'd be out shortly. I told her to make herself comfortable and to fix herself a drink if she so desired.

  "Now she's staying for a drink?"

  "Let's discuss this later. For now, let's just go out there and play nice."

  Imogen wiped up some of the tomato sauce that had splattered out of the chicken parmigiana container and onto the counter, tried to abate her anger, and put on a charming, gorgeous facade. We both strolled out into the living room. Kitty now had a drink in her hand. Judging by the lime in her glass, it looked like she had made herself a gin and tonic.

  She was standing when she said, "I'm sorry to bother you two. I don't want to interrupt your dinner. I'll just head—"

  "Please, Kitty, enjoy your drink," I said, motioning for her to sit down on one of the chairs.

  Imogen shot me a look that nearly took my head off. Kitty, sipping on her drink, in the process of sitting, must have witnessed the glare. She tried to force herself to rise, but gravity took over and she descended into the seat.

  "Miss Whitehall, I don't mean to intrude, but—"

  "No worries, luv," Imogen replied, as fake and as charming as ever.

  "Before I leave, can I ask you two something?"

  "Of course," I said.

  I made myself comfortable on the couch. Kitty was sitting opposite me on a chair. The white shag rug separated us. Imogen was somewhere between leaning and sitting on the armrest of the couch.

  "What did you two make of the email from Mike to Ted?"

  It was not worth noting to Kitty that Imogen and I had discussed the email at some length. After all, I was not sure where Kitty stood in this whole mess, and I certainly wasn't going to let on to her that Imogen and I had been mildly grilled by Detective Carrington about our role in this sordid affair.

  "We weren't too sure what to make of it," I said.

  "It sounded like a threat to me," Kitty said.

  I dismissed the threat comment, wanting to learn more about the origins of the email itself. "How did you get that email? It wasn't addressed to you."

  "I'm a snoop. I looked at Ted's email on his laptop the other day. He had been acting weird all week."

  "Did Ted mention anything odd going on at the office?"

  "Ted never told me anything about work. But I had the feeling that something big was afoot. He was taking calls and doing work at all times of night, which, even for him, was out of the ordinary. He usually disconnected for a little bit before bed, but it was clear for the past few weeks that something had been brewing."

  "Why didn't you share that information with the police?"

  "They didn't ask."

  "Well, I'm sure they will shortly. I shared the email with them."
/>
  Kitty's expression changed from feigned pleasantness to displeasured shock. She shifted in her seat as she raised her voice in fury.

  "Dutch! That was for you. Not for them!" Now she looked as if she was contemplating throwing her drink at me.

  "We're all on the same side, Kitty."

  As if she caught herself in mid-tantrum, Kitty's demeanor changed back from fury to congeniality.

  "Yes, of course we are, Dutch. Well, I've taken up too much of your time already."

  Kitty got up from her chair, put her drink down on a coaster, and walked toward the door. I followed, Imogen trailing closely behind me, then opened the door for Kitty. She apologized to me for interrupting my evening and then expressed her apologies to Imogen for showing up unannounced and for disturbing her dinner. Imogen assured her there was nothing to worry about, and by the time we closed the door it appeared as if we were all on good terms.

  "Bitch."

  On second thought, things might still be a bit precarious.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After calming Imogen down, I called Detective Carrington. I was going to make it a point to share any information that I had received about this case with him immediately. At least for the time being. Keep the suspicion away from myself. I was going to play offense.

  "Detective, it's Max Slade."

  "Ah, Max, good to hear from you."

  "John, do you have a minute to chat?"

  "John, huh, glad to see we're making some progress."

  I chuckled inside. Maybe I was a cliché, subconsciously cozying up to the detective, addressing him by his first name.

  "I certainly do. What's on your mind?"

  "Kitty just left."

  "Ah, Mrs. Baxter. She certainly likes stopping by your place."

  "Indeed, it's becoming a terrible habit that I intend on helping her break."

  "So, what did Mrs. Baxter have to say for herself?"

  "She was poking around about the email from Mike to Ted. I told her we didn't really get anywhere with it. But then I told her that we shared it with the police and she lost her cool."

  John paused for a moment then said, "Hmm, I see." I believed he spoke simply to fill the void of silence that had formed. Then, after another moment of silence, he asked, "Do you think she's hiding something?"

  "I'm not sure. She told me that she thought there was something brewing at Ted's office, but she wasn't quite sure what. That's why she was poking around Ted's email."

  "Can't a husband trust his wife anymore?"

  "I'm sure the knife cut both ways in that house."

  "Funny you mention it, Max—we've been poking around about the email and a few other things over here."

  "Care to share?" I asked. There was nothing to lose. The worst he could do would be to hang up on me. But I guessed he would want to bait me. String me along. Play some sort of detective mind game with me. But maybe my tidbits of information had endeared me to the detective.

  "Well, for starters, forensics came back with confirmation on the gun. It was a 9mm. There were traces of the powder left on the entrance wound. We also found a fragment of the bullet lodged in a book. The powder and the casing match."

  "Forgive me, detective, but, what does that all mean? That Ted was shot with a 9mm gun?"

  John laughed. "You got it, Max. If we can find the gun we can probably link it back to Ted's murder. But the odds of that are slim to none." He let that comment marinate for a moment. "You don't have a 9mm, do you?"

  He threw that question in nonchalantly. As if I would admit it even if I did have a gun.

  I chuckled. "No, detective. I don't carry a gun. I've never even fired one."

  He paused. Digesting my answer. Then completely changed the subject: "Another thing that you might be interested in is the time of death. They put it around 7:45 p.m. Smack dab in our window. And, last but by no means least, is the email. Our boys have been working on that one, too. There's something to it, but we're not sure what exactly. We'll be interviewing Mr. Mike Miller shortly."

  I just listened. I didn't have anything further to add to this conversation. Other than the sinking feeling that I was still a person of interest. I had hoped that I wasn't going to graduate to suspect.

  "OK, Max, well, we'll be in touch."

  Then he disconnected. I threw my phone on the couch and looked over at Imogen sitting across from me.

  "So, now we're in this, huh?" she asked.

  "I'm afraid so. For a little while. We don't have a choice. At least until we can deflect this away from us."

  "Please don't tell me that we'll be seeing more of Kitty."

  "I can't promise you that. But we're putting an end to our revolving front door policy. I'm done entertaining. You free tomorrow?"

  "I am. What do you have in mind?"

  "Tomorrow is going to be Bring My Girlfriend To Work Day. If we play our cards right, we should have a meeting to attend together in the afternoon."

  "Smashing."

  CHAPTER NINE

  I met with the CFO and CEO of one of our portfolio companies called POP the following day. POP was a great idea. It was one of the largest music-sharing companies in the world. There was nothing like it. You could follow what music your friends were listening to from anywhere on any device, anytime anyone was listening. In addition, you could instantly listen along with your friends to their playlists or to whatever music you were in the mood for, along with a whole host of other goodies. No need to actively post anything, although you could. It all happened in real time. The ultimate music-sharing and discovery service amongst real friends.

  My firm had contributed the entirety of POP's first round of funding to the tune of $10 million about three years ago. My firm and I owned a very large percentage of POP, so we stood to gain a lot when POP was sold or went public. Since then they'd raised another $100 million, and they were going to raise a whole bunch more. It was all causing a bit of frenzy in the tech world. That was never a bad thing.

  I told the assembled POP crew that there was still a lot of work to be done and that we would need at least three or four other firms to come in with a lot of capital in order to meet the $248 million goal, but that meant issuing some more stock. The trick would be to make an offer attractive enough to an investor without diluting the shares that both my firm and the other two investors owned.

  Imogen was a trooper. I had allowed her to sit in on my meetings and to offer any valuable insight that she might feel the need to convey. While Imogen was technically retired, and apparently now a reluctant private investigator on a murder case, once upon a time she had been an investment banker. So high finance was something Imogen was familiar with. In fact, I'd hire her to work for me, but she joked that she would only work with me. I didn't think I could afford her coming in at the "with" level.

  After my discussion with Detective Carrington yesterday afternoon, I was somewhat concerned. He had clearly not ruled me out of the possible suspect pool. Even though his question about me owning a handgun seemed off the cuff, it most certainly was not. He wanted to know. Maybe if I had said yes, he'd have gotten a warrant, found the gun, and wrapped this whole thing up. But, as it stood, he was grasping at straws.

  I formulated a plan to get in to meet with Mike Miller. I figured that I might be able to get a little information out of Mike myself. Do a little digging on my own. We were in this real-life novel now, for better or worse. Part of what had drawn Ginny and I into this mess was the fact that we both enjoyed a good mystery. We loved reading mystery novels. Good practice, we had both agreed last night. I also had another motive. The one where I convinced the police that I didn't kill Ted. Junior Detective Max Slade, or, as I liked to think of myself, Private Dick Slade, called Mike's office and was able to set up a three o'clock appointment with him to discuss POP.

  A quick lunch and a quickie later, Imogen and I were on our way to the offices of Baxter, Miller & Clarke. When we arrived via taxi, we made our way through security and the
n up to Mike's office on the thirty-second floor. A statuesque, brown-eyed and -haired model of a woman dressed in a navy skirt and jacket met us at the elevator and then escorted us through reception into Mike's office. As we walked, I admired her perfect body. This was how clothes were supposed to fit a woman. She must have been Mike's personal assistant.

  The office was opulence at its finest, which was in stark contrast to my office, which consisted of a basic desk, a couple of Aeron chairs (my one extravagance), my fifteen-inch laptop, and a whole host of other electronics, mainly phones that I'd stopped using. I was constantly buying new cell phones. It was an addiction. Not in a bad way, or at least I didn't think so. Imogen might have disagreed. Spending hundreds of dollars every month to have the latest and the greatest wasn't exactly prudent. But sometimes you had to indulge yourself.

  Adorning Mike's cherry wood office walls were three diplomas: Harvard University, Harvard Law School, and Harvard Business School. His office resembled what I would imagine a Harvard professor's office might look like if he was worth a not-so-small fortune.

  Mike was sharply dressed in what must have been a custom-made dark blue suit with a white and light blue checkered French-collared shirt with his initials embroidered on his cuff, along with interlocking blue "NY" cufflinks. His tie was comprised of different shades of blue made to resemble a preppy English university uniform tie. He wore black-rimmed, rectangular glasses that sat in front of his green eyes, making him look more like a banker or lawyer than the venture capitalist that he was.

  He stood from behind his large mahogany desk, walked around it, and greeted both Imogen and me at the door.

  "Max, it has been way too long," he said, extending a hand.

  I shook it and responded, "It has. How are you, Mike?"

  "I'm well." He let go of my hand. "And who is this?"

  "This is Miss Imogen Whitehall, an associate of mine."

  "A pleasure," Mike said, shaking Imogen's hand. "Why don't you both have a seat."