Murder.com

by David Deutsch

  "Dutch?"

  Imogen's voice pulled me out of my semi-conscious state.

  "Yes, sorry, my dear," I said.

  "Where were you?"

  "I was just admiring the scenery out the window. It's snowing."

  Ginny took a moment to admire the delicate powder.

  "First of the year, I daresay," I proffered.

  "Must be." She shook her head with an intoxicated exaggeration and then leaned across the table in an effort to invite me to listen to her secret that she had so callously been keeping close to her vest while she was busy nibbling on her apple pie. "Now that we've covered the weather, Dutch, would you like to know what Kate divulged whilst we were in the loo?"

  Sometimes, when Ginny got a bit of an edge, her accent and her mother-tongue terminology made a more prevalent appearance. She'd begin to slur as well, which made translation a bit of a chore, but, although challenging, it was quite cute. When I'd first met her, almost five years ago, she had stopped by my house as I was moving in and introduced herself as my neighbor. I'd been instantly smitten by this black-haired, green-eyed maiden with the English accent. We'd talked about this and that, and before I knew it we were sharing a drink, the first of many that hot summer afternoon. I remembered that as the day had progressed, and the number of drinks consumed had increased, Ginny's accent had become more and more prominent, and my grasp of the conversation had declined by the minute. I had worked in London before I had met Ginny, so the English accent was no great mystery to me, but throw a little drink into some of these blokes and birds and it became a whole new ballgame. Or cricket match, they would argue.

  "Indeed I would, Miss Whitehall, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

  "No trouble a'tall."

  I put my coffee cup down and the waiter, who arrived out of thin air, asked if he could provide a refill. I answered in the affirmative and he poured.

  "For the lady?"

  Imogen waved him on and he refilled her cup as well. I added sugar and cream to mine. A rare luxury. Imogen would have hers black with sugar. She must not have been in the mood to ask for soy.

  "C'mon, Ginny. Let's get to it."

  "Once we were in the loo and our business was concluded, we met up at the mirror to powder our noses. Kate turns to me and asks if you and I were a couple. I told her not quite. Which isn't really a lie, since we're not married, but I don't think she really cared what I said, because she wasn't interested in my answer. She was ready to dish."

  Ginny tended to ramble on a bit after she'd had a few drinks.

  "And if you would have told her yes, we were an item, that would have blown our cover?"

  "Steady on, ol' man!" Ginny laughed. "I told her no. Then she tells me how precarious a work relationship could be. Turns out Mike and her met at the office. She was his secretary for a number of years and then it progressed. A few months later they were boyfriend and girlfriend, and by the time a year had passed they were husband and wife. She said they were happy for a time, but the last couple of years have been 'rough'—her words. Now she thinks he's been cheating. She asked my opinion. I told her that I couldn't get a read on him one way or the other, but he seemed perfectly nice. She told me he was a monster. Then she tells me that she's followed him from the office on a few different occasions. She found him at that Italian place." She paused. Thinking. "You know the one. The one we eat at sometimes. Downtown."

  Alcohol. This was what it could do to a person. Turn someone hyper-intelligent into a babbling bird, albeit a cute one. Of course, I always kept my composure.

  "Yes, I know the one, Ginny." I exhaled, slightly exasperated. "Get on with it."

  "No reason to be so touchy, Max," she said.

  "I'm not being touchy. I would just appreciate you getting on with the story."

  She rolled her eyes at me then continued, "So one night Kate sees Mike at that Italian place with another woman. Mike and this woman met outside the restaurant, and Kate said she was camped out at the corner of 12th Street watching—that's how I know where the place is—where they exchanged a quick kiss and hug before they disappeared inside. Then she said she saw the same woman with Mike one night, uptown, checking into The Pierre. That particular night he claimed to be working late and was going to stay in the city."

  "Mike seems way too strait-laced to be a cheater."

  "Like cheaters have a look? Dutch, please!" She playfully pushed me in my shoulder.

  "And you found out all of this out in the loo?"

  "I told you, ladies certainly can talk. Especially when they want to get something off of their chest."

  "Well, I have to ask, was she cute?" I wanted details.

  "She described the woman as tall, well dressed, blue eyes, long blond hair, very pretty. That rang a bell."

  "Shit. No way."

  "Yes, luv—Kitty Baxter."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A few days later, despite my protests, I was sitting in an interrogation room at the small brick police station located in the heart of town. I had told John, when he had called, that I had no intention of coming down to the station to talk. He told me that he wasn't asking. That I could report to the station myself or I could receive an escort, cuffed, in the back of a squad car. I opted to make the drive myself.

  I hadn't even seen John yet. When I'd arrived an hour ago, alone, as was requested, a uniformed, armed officer had escorted me to this room, where he'd told me to wait. Then he'd exited, locking the door on the way out. Click.

  Before I had left Manhattan, I'd told Ginny not to worry, but if I didn't make it home for dinner to call my lawyer. That had made her cringe. She hadn't liked the sound of that one bit.

  "I'm not going to let them arrest you, Max. I simply won't have it."

  "It's out of your control, my dear. But listen—if I don't make it back tonight, come looking for me."

  "Max! I don't like the sound of this. I'm coming with you."

  "You can't." I must have sounded dejected. "You can't."

  "Well, I'm coming with you tomorrow. Drop me at my place before you head over to the station. Then I'll be there if you need me."

  That had sounded like a plan. So that was what we had done. And so I was sitting here. Waiting for Detective John Carrington to formally arrest me. I couldn't imagine any other reason for this meeting.

  The door finally unlocked and then opened. In walked Detective Carrington dressed in what might be the finest clothes that one could afford on a detective's salary. A dark blue worn suit, a paper-thin, cheap white shirt, and a crappy striped tie. He didn't acknowledge me or try to shake my hand upon entering. He simply strolled in and took a seat in the chair that sat directly across from me at the metallic table.

  Without looking at me, he pulled a digital recorder from his pocket and placed it on the table with a clang. He pressed a button and then said, "Interrogation of Max Slade regarding the murder of Ted Baxter."

  I knew it. It was just a matter of time before this happened. A recorded conversation. As if the other times we talked were just informal chats, with a detective, at a police station. They sure as hell felt like interrogations, but the recorder on the table made this one feel different. Formal. Serious.

  "Mr. Slade, I see that you are not represented by counsel. I have to advise you of your right to have counsel present. Would you like to contact your attorney before we start?"

  I wasn't cuffed. That was a good thing. They cuffed people that they thought were guilty. They didn't want any problems while they were throwing lies in your face. While they were setting you up to take the fall for something that you didn't do. While they tried to take your life away from you.

  "I'll act as my own attorney for now," I said. "I didn't do anything wrong, and if I don't like where this is heading, I'll sure as hell get one."

  "That's your prerogative, Mr. Slade? So be it."

  "John, cut the bullshit. Why am I here?"

  "Mr. Slade, this is an interrogation relating to the murder of M
r. Ted Baxter. I'd appreciate your assistance."

  I was going to go along with this charade. It was the only way I was going to get out of here. If I refused to talk, I was going straight to a cell. If I was in a cell, I couldn't do anything to help myself. If I talked, I had a shot. A shot at exposing the ridiculousness of this interrogation and this investigation.

  "You got it. Let's get to it."

  "For the record, you are declining to be represented by counsel."

  "That's not technically correct, John. I'm an attorney representing myself. I don't need to pay another lawyer if I didn't do anything wrong."

  "I'd prefer if you addressed me as detective."

  "Yes, sir, detective."

  "Can you walk me through the day Ted was murdered starting at around 6 p.m.?"

  This seemed like amateur hour already. I had to walk though the story again. So they could make sure that everything I had already told them matched up with my previous statements. Was this really how you caught a killer? Hoping they divulged it to you during questioning? This was real life, right? Not a television show.

  "As I told you last time, detective, I was at work until around 6:30 p.m., at which point I left my office in Manhattan and drove home to my house about an hour or so in the suburbs. I got there around 7:30 p.m. Then Imogen Whitehall knocked on my door, and we walked over to the crime scene. Stayed there a few minutes, watched Ted get loaded into a white van, and then went home."

  "And no one saw you leave your office."

  "Again, as I told you, my secretary was out of the office that day. Other than her, I'm sure there is someone who saw me leave. Or haven't you bothered to check up on that lead, detective?"

  He ignored me and stuck to his line of questioning.

  "And then Kitty Baxter shows up at your house the next day?"

  "Yes, Kitty showed up at my house the next day."

  "And she wanted your help to solve the murder."

  "Yes."

  "She didn't want anything else?"

  "No, nothing else."

  "Did she mention anything about the will?"

  "No."

  "She didn't mention that her inheritance is tied up?"

  This was shocking. Her inheritance was tied up. How? And what would that have to do with me? I didn't care if she saw one dime of Ted's money.

  "What?"

  "Mrs. Baxter's inheritance is going into a trust. She can't touch it. Baxter had a clause in his will that spelled out what would happen if he was murdered."

  I was surprised, and I must have looked it. Carrington stared at me like he had just cracked the case wide open.

  "He knew something like this was going to happen. Something made him add that clause to his will. Something gave him the feeling that his days were numbered. And he was hell-bent on making sure, if that was the case, that no one was going to get his money. Until his murder was solved."

  "So?"

  "So, Mr. Slade, Mrs. Baxter came to you for help. She wanted you to find the killer so she could get her money. You, in turn, would set up someone else to take the fall. Then you two would run off into the sunset together. Just like what you wanted to have happen all those years ago."

  This was one of the most idiotic things that I had ever heard. There were so many flaws in the logic and the story that I didn't know where to begin. But start I had to. I could see where this was all heading. On its current trajectory, it had me behind bars momentarily.

  "Are you crazy? That is absurd."

  "You hated Ted. He stole Kitty away and you wanted her back. You waited. You courted her. She seemed willing to run off with you, but that wasn't enough for you. You wanted Ted dead. Only then would Kitty be yours. So you killed him."

  I laughed. I couldn't control myself. Then I composed myself and said, "This is the best you can do? I didn't kill Ted. I'm not trying to set anyone up. I don't need Kitty and I certainly don't need Ted's money. I'm rich. Very rich. And I have a woman I'm quite happy with. Your story makes no sense."

  Carrington ignored me. Then he pressed a button on the recorder.

  "Stay here."

  "Do I have a choice?"

  "No."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I was the one being set up. Set to take the fall for a murder that I didn't commit. I didn't have any idea if this story was going to stick, but I sure as hell didn't want to leave it up to a jury of my peers to decide.

  Minutes later, Carrington walked back in. "Let's go." He grabbed me by the arm and walked me out into the main hub of the station and over to the jail cell. He pressed a button and the heavy black bars slid open. There was only the sound of phones ringing, light office chatter, and the sound of metal against metal as the doors slid shut with me inside.

  I was angry. For one of the first times in a long time, I felt powerless. Two emotions that, if I didn't keep them in check, would quickly spiral into helplessness. And there was one thing that I wasn't: helpless.

  "John, this is absurd," I said as the door locked.

  He didn't say anything. I just stood with my hands grabbing a bar on either side of me. I watched Carrington walk over to an office. There were large glass windows framing each of the five or so offices that I could see.

  Carrington went into one of the offices directly across from me, which had a well-built man in his mid-fifties with black hair, black mustache, in a dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, sitting with his elbows on his desk.

  "Whose office is that?" I called out. "Anyone?"

  No one looked at me, seemed to listen, or care.

  My blood had started to boil. Not a good thing. Anger clouded your judgment, and I needed all the judgment I could muster up. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to calm myself down.

  I stared at the office and tried to read the name on the door that was shut. I couldn't make it out. How could anyone read that? It made me question my vision. Maybe I'd get my eyes checked one of these days.

  The conversation was getting heated. I could see Carrington talking, moving his hands up and down. The other guy was flailing his hands, and it looked like he was raising his voice, although you couldn't hear anything through those walls. The man with the moustache stood up and started pointing at Carrington. He was tall. Very tall.

  Carrington just stood there letting this man point at him. It must have been his boss. It had to be Williams. Sergeant Williams. The one setting me up. The one trying to ruin my life. The one bullying Carrington into arresting me.

  Then the conversation stopped. Carrington turned and opened the door. He walked into what must have been his office, next door. He sat down at his desk and started writing something, then picked up the phone. Talked for a moment then hung up. He then stood up, opened his door, and walked out of my sight.

  Defeated, I dropped my hands from the bars. I turned and looked at the cell. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing in this box other than a one-piece cement bench attached to the floor.

  I sat on the cold bench. I was in trouble. Big trouble. And I wasn't sure how on earth I was going to get out of it. I couldn't just sit here. I couldn't just let more time tick away. I needed to get out of this cell.

  I stood up and went back to the bars and started yelling, "I want to make a phone call."

  Nothing. No one even as much as looked at me.

  "Hello? I want to make a phone call. I know my rights!" I yelled, louder. Hoping to attract some attention. "I'm being held against my will!"

  A female officer sitting a few seats to the left of my cell hung up her phone and proceeded to walk over to me. Her brown hair was tied in a tight bun and the uniform fit her to a tee. The blue hue of it made her aqua eyes pop.

  "Finally," I said, happy to have someone acknowledge me.

  She walked up to the bars, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, "If you don't shut up I'm going to throw you in the drunk tank."

  That wasn't the reaction that I was hoping for. This lady meant business.

  "Unders
tand?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "Good. Now sit down and shut up."

  She walked away and I obliged. I sat with my head in my hands. Thinking. Playing back what had transpired over and over again. I didn't think that I'd be here. In a jail cell. I had thought Carrington was bluffing. They'd never have enough to arrest me. This sort of thing didn't happen. Innocent people didn't wind up in jail. But here I was.

  Although I was sitting in a cell, I hadn't been arrested. That was a silver lining. I was being detained. Held. But they couldn't hold me here forever without formally pressing charges against me. Without reading me my Miranda rights. Without arresting me.

  But that was coming. It was most likely up next on my introduction to the penal system. The fingerprinting, the mug shot, then off for processing, where I'd sit until my arraignment. I doubted they'd grant me bail. They probably didn't do that in a murder case.

  At least I'd get to call Ginny. She'd help me. I'd have to wait until they let me use a phone. Then something happened. Williams left his office, and he was heading straight for me. I had thought that he had looked tall in his office. But now, as he approached, he looked like a giant.

  I wasn't going to stand when he arrived at the cell. I wasn't going to show him one ounce of respect. He didn't deserve it.

  "Mr. Slade," he said.

  "Yeah," I said, laid out on the concrete bench, my hands behind my head.

  "How do you like your accommodations so far?" he asked.

  "Wonderful," I answered. "I guess I have you to thank."

  "You can thank yourself. You were the one who got yourself into this mess."