"I didn't do anything," I said.
"That's what they all say," he said.
I ignored him. I wasn't going to argue with this man. My words meant nothing to him. All he cared about was hanging someone for Ted's murder. Unfortunately, he was trying to make me that someone.
"I know you murdered Ted Baxter. And the nonsense you're feeding Detective Carrington isn't getting you anywhere."
I was still lying on the bench, eyes closed, hands behind my head, but now I was seething inside. I wanted to sit up, walk over to Williams, and spit in his face. But I couldn't do that. I also knew that saying nothing was the best option. I fought back all of my impulses and lay there.
Williams continued, "Just sit tight for a little while longer and we'll get you processed and shipped out. Bus comes at five."
He turned and walked back into his office.
I was in big trouble. I closed my eyes and pictured what tonight was going to entail as I was moved into a real jail. Everything that floated through my head was terrible. I opened my eyes and sat up. All I could do was wait.
I stared blankly, for the next two hours or so, out at the five offices in front of me. Williams never again left his office. He spent most of the time looking down at his desk, writing something. Occasionally, he picked up the phone. Spoke for a brief moment and then hung up.
Carrington was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared. The cops at the scattered desks came and went. Never in a hurry. And I just sat in my cell. Waiting.
Eventually Carrington reappeared. He walked back into his office and picked up the phone. He was animated. His hands waving as he spoke. After a few moments he hung up, stood from his desk, and walked out of his office and knocked on Williams' door.
He went in, shut the door, and the two of them spoke. This time there wasn't a heated exchange. Carrington was sitting across from Williams and they appeared to be having a civil conversation. After a few minutes, Carrington got up from the seat, opened the door, and walked out. Heading toward me.
When he arrived at the bars, he looked at me and hit the big green button. The doors slid open.
"Let's go," he said. He grabbed my arm and started escorting me through the station.
"Where are we going?"
He didn't answer.
"I want to know where you are taking me."
He kept walking, holding me by the upper bicep. "Shut up."
Within a minute it was clear where we were heading. He pushed open the door, the frigid air hitting me like a punch, and walked me right out onto the front steps of the police station.
"I don't think you killed Ted," he said as he let go of my arm.
He had helped me. He was lobbying for me. Williams had just about said as much. Somehow Carrington had manipulated the system and bought me some time.
"I didn't," I said.
"But you've got a problem. Williams, the sergeant, thinks you did it. And he's hellbent on making sure that you have a permanent home behind bars."
"But the story doesn't add up."
"Doesn't matter. He thinks it does. And he's going to make sure the prosecutors think so too."
"But why? Why me?"
"You're all he's got. And this case needs to be solved. He's going to make it fit."
"But what about the email?"
"Max, the email is fine and all, but it doesn't prove anything. You're the one with motive; you're the one with a history with the victim. You're the one who was almost married to his wife. It doesn't look good, Max."
"Then why help me?"
"Because something inside is telling me that you're not the guy. And I want to believe it, but we need more. We need something to go on."
He trusted his gut. He had a hunch. He needed help. He wanted to believe me. Wanted to help.
"Well, Kitty lied to me. About the funeral. Told me she talked to Mike and Clarke, but she never did. Mike told me that much. But I don't know why she lied."
"I guess that's something."
"I also think Kitty and Mike are having an affair."
That one knocked Carrington for a loop. "Now that's something we could work with. And how do you know that?"
"Miss Whitehall. Mike's wife just about told her as much."
"At least we can work with that."
"So now what?"
"You're free to go."
"For now?"
"For the time being. I'm going to follow up on the information that you just gave me. But you know the rules. No disappearing. You might be back sooner than later."
He turned and walked back inside as I stood and stared at the bricks. I took a deep breath, turned, and walked over to my car. Disaster averted, again. I had the feeling if there was a third time, it wouldn't be a charm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After the whole jail scare, Imogen and I returned to the city. The holidays were right around the corner. We had already celebrated Thanksgiving, the weather had turned, and now the slight chill in the air had transformed, to my horror, into bone-chilling cold. POP was moving along, though, and I was quite optimistic that we had a decent shot at closing our round of funding, thanks in large part to Baxter, Miller & Clarke, by Christmas. Over the past two weeks my office has been communicating with BMC in order to secure the funding that Mike and I had discussed over dinner. I had not chatted with Mike nor seen him since that night at Gramercy Tavern. I had, however, tried to contact Clarke more than once. I'd left a few messages with his secretary, but he had not returned my calls. Kitty, as well, had faded into the background over the past two weeks. Not a peep had emerged from her. I had no idea if she had tried to stop by my home in the suburbs, but, even if she had, she must have figured out by now that we were no longer living there. Either that or she believed that she had the worst luck in the world trying to catch me.
So far, Imogen and I agreed on one thing. We both did not want me arrested for Ted's murder. The other thing that we agreed on was Mike's involvement in Ted's death. His email, his general demeanor at our dinner at Gramercy Tavern, and the Kitty connection all gave him ample motive to kill Ted. And John's questioning of me had changed our focus. Maybe this had something to do with love. And greed. Those two emotions are very powerful.
We still weren't ruling out Kitty as the accomplice or murderer. Especially after she had lied to me. But we were both confused as to why she would have bothered soliciting my help or providing me with the email from Mike to Ted.
Although I was now terrified that I would end up back at the police station, this time to be arrested, we had both decided that we would put the Ted investigation to rest until after New Year's. I was determined to enjoy the next few weeks and to plan a proper proposal to Imogen. My thoughts veered toward renting a chateau in Whistler, British Columbia, for some skiing, relaxing, and proposing. We would spend our days enjoying top-notch skiing and then our nights in the village of Whistler, a quaint, picturesque winter wonderland, for dinner and drinks. Once back at the chateau we would sip wine in our outdoor hot tub, resting our tired bones and preparing for our next day of skiing. It was exactly what we both needed, and I was quite confident that Ginny wouldn't mind capping off the trip with a mountaintop proposal followed by an exceptional dinner in the village.
Imogen was still coming to work with me every day. It was a staggering development. I had thought that I may have been on the way to convincing her to work with me full-time, even though she feigned consternation about coming to an office on a daily basis. Something told me that a proposal would change her mind.
With Christmas just around the corner, we were moving into full holiday party mode. I had received several holiday party invitations from a bunch of our portfolio companies, as well as some from other companies that were always courting our business. Tonight we were attending one such party.
The invitation arrived from Jake Cooper, an old friend from law school and the CEO of a social media and video delivery company. They were always very creative with their inv
itations. This one was a video of his office dancing like a bunch of crazy people. How could you turn down that sort of invite? In all honesty, I couldn't care less about the invitation. What drew me in was that the party was going to be at the top of the Gansevoort Hotel.
The Gansevoort was located in the Meatpacking District of Manhattan. Amongst the trendy restaurants and twenty-something hipsters running around there sat the luxury of the Gansevoort and her heated rooftop pool. In the city, a rooftop pool was an oasis. And one in a luxury hotel was even better. I used to spend countless summer weekends at the rooftop pool, spending way too much money on food and alcohol, hitting on women and hanging out with my friends. If I could only turn back the hands of time.
Ginny had never been to the Gansevoort. How that was possible was beyond me. I was still amazed when Ginny told me that she hadn't been to this famous place or that in or around Manhattan. She always answered me the same way: "I'm not into that sort of scene." I was never quite sure what that meant, but it didn't really bother me. Most likely it was because she didn't spend her twenties and early thirties in New York City. She'd moved to New York after living in London her whole life. She said she'd wanted a change after she'd retired. So she'd packed up and moved herself to an affluent suburb. Bought herself an eight-room mansion and settled in. We'd met about six months later, when I'd finally come to the realization that I was too old to be running around Manhattan every night, drinking, chasing women, and generally running myself ragged. Selling my first company for a fortune hadn't hurt either.
We were back at the brownstone getting ourselves dolled up and ready to attend the party. I, as per the norm, was ready first, dressed in my typical getup of a black suit, black shirt, and no tie. I poured myself a scotch, relaxed in my brown leather club chair, and stared out the window at the place across the street. It was a white brownstone. From my apartment you could see across the road and directly into the living room through their large French bay windows. You could see the Miro hanging above the couch, the Picasso off to the side of the living room. An enormous bejeweled Victorian chandelier hung from the ceiling, blocking, from my view, what was most likely a painting by Manet. This person must look into my brownstone and ask himself what sort of pauper lived there. Who was I kidding? They were so rich that they were probably never home. Too busy at one of their six other homes.
A drink and a half later, Imogen emerged in a stunning black dress that complemented her beautiful features so exquisitely that it made me feel guilty I was even internally questioning the time it took her to get herself ready. To round out the outfit, she wore an antique necklace comprised of a singular evergreen emerald dangling from a gold chain. It made her eyes glow.
"Don't you look beautiful," I said.
"Thank you, Max. You clean up rather nicely yourself."
"Shall we, or would you like a drink first?"
"Aren't we late already?"
"Does it really matter?"
"Well then, I'll take that drink."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We arrived at the Gansevoort fashionably late, if you thought an hour and half late was fashionable. There was an attendant with a velvet rope in front of the elevator making sure that all who entered were on the guest list. After we were granted access, Ginny and I walked into the stark metallic silver elevator and rode it to the top floor, where Jake had rented out the entire roof bar. When the elevator door opened, I felt like I was in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy arrives in Oz and opens her black and white house door, revealing a world of vivid color. Reds, greens, lights, people mingling, glasses clinking, Christmas trees everywhere, dangling candy canes contrasted against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. This was holiday sensory overload.
"Oh my," I muttered to Ginny, as she grabbed my arm, stepping out of the elevator into holiday Oz.
"Indeed."
I searched the room with my eyes, trying to find anyone who I might know at this party. Unfortunately, my eyes continued to be accosted by the decor. We inched forward, playing every part of the power couple that we were. I grabbed a glass of champagne from one of the gloved wandering servers while Imogen grabbed a white wine.
"What kind of white?"
"Pinot." She made a disapproving face. "No doubt house."
We strolled the length of the room, passing couches that lined the windows, little tables, and small ottomans that were scattered about, forming sitting areas. Waiters whisked food through the crowd with nonchalant expertise while the partygoers drank and ate with reckless abandonment. I grabbed a piece of prosciutto-wrapped melon and popped it into my mouth.
"There he is!" someone said, giving me a good slap on my back. I nearly choked on my melon. After using my tongue as a shield to prevent the melon from lodging itself in my throat, I turned around. There stood Jake Cooper, dressed almost exactly like myself minus the jacket, as were most of the guys here. Everyone in holiday party clothes.
Jake was blond, blue-eyed, and chiseled—well, his face was. He was a bit plump around the midsection, which probably meant that he was working too hard and taking full advantage of the free snack area at the office. His wife must have been in agreement with my analysis of his appearance. She was busy walking away from him.
"Jake," I said, my mouth full in mid-chew. I chewed as fast as I could and swallowed. "Good to see you, man."
"I'm glad you could make it. How do you like all of this?" Jake fanned the room with his hand, inviting me to try my darndest to take in the grandeur—no, the splendor—that was this holiday party.
Ginny looked at me with eyes that were saying, This guy's crazy. I looked at her, confirming her suspicions while I gave myself a moment to compose an answer.
"It's something else."
Jake was simply waiting for a response. It didn't matter what it was. He was busy waiting to say, "We've had a wonderful year. Revenue through the roof. You should have invested, pal."
"That's grea—"
"Seriously, Max, we nailed it this year. I knew we could do it. Hard work…" He rambled on for minutes. He was clearly tipsy, and who could blame him? This was a holiday party that he was throwing for his employees that had helped him to make his company a success. But holiday parties were not about business to me. They were about actually celebrating and having a good time, not networking.
After taking a ten-second breather by knocking down his full martini glass, he started in again, this time slurring a bit. "But you're in luck, you lucky devil." Perhaps he was a bit further along than tipsy. He put his arm around me now, and was pulling me a little closer to him so that I wouldn't miss what was going to come out of his mouth next. "You lucky bastard. You know I love you. That's why I'm going to give you a little info that I know you're going to be psyched to hear, bro. Totally psyched." Jake wobbled, and he was now using my shoulder to hold himself upright. "Check this. We had such a kickass year, bro, and now I'm going to give you the chance to get in on this thing. Yeah, you heard me. This thing is big time, Max, and I know you're not going to let it slip by this time. Right? Right. I'll put you down for a shitload of cash, cool?"
"Jake, this isn't really the plac—"
"Naw, naw, no, don't be that way, Max. We go way back. We're old school, brother." Jake gave me a drunken shoulder bear hug. I didn't like it.
I didn't know how Jake missed her when she was standing off to the side, but now Imogen slid next to me, and this seemed to throw him into a totally inappropriate state. Jake punched me in my arm, hard.
"Maxy, Maxy, Maxy. You son of a bitch. Look at this woman." Jake was pointing at Imogen, still balancing himself with an arm now around the back of my neck. "Look at this vision of beauty." Jake now attempted to grab Ginny's hand to kiss it. Instead he was pawing at her forearm. Ginny, taking pity on this creature, placed her palm in his, allowing Jake to complete the outdated and very cheesy action of kissing the back of her hand. "My dear, you are simply gorgeous. Max, this woman is gorgeous. Don't tell me that you
're with Maxy over here." Ginny just stood there. Jake was yelling, but the music was playing so loudly in the background that it didn't matter how loudly anyone spoke. "Oh my God, you are! How did Max nail down someone like you?"
That was our cue. I removed Jake's arm from my neck and helped him to steady himself.
"Jake, it was great to see you." I patted him on his back. Not with too much force behind it, mind you, but just enough to give him the old buddy pat. I didn't need him toppling over at his own party. "Drop off a business plan at my office and we'll take a look at your next round."
"A pleasure," Imogen said, then we both turned and walked through the room toward the floor-to-ceiling window.
"And there's a primer for you on how not to host your next Christmas party," I said, chuckling.
"Wow. And that chap is a friend of yours?"
"He's an acquaintance now. I went to law school with him."
"Back in the day," Imogen mocked.
"Yes, my dear. Back in the day."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The city lights that glowed through the windows on the top of the Gansevoort were magnificent. I was staring out of the window, Imogen on my arm, taking in the open view of upper Manhattan, admiring the beauty of the city, wondering why I had ever left NYC for the quiet suburbs. Maybe I had left because it was time to grow up, and that was what grownups did, right? They got married, moved out of New York City, had families, and built white picket fences around their quarter-acre plot. I admit that I had been tired of city life when I'd made my exodus. Maybe I was tired of living alone. Tired of the solitary nature of being one of eight million beings wandering through this town looking for something that was never going to materialize because it didn't exist. My millions had helped me to come to the realization that I wanted more out of life than money. Happiness was something that one should strive for. That was something that had eluded me, and when I realized that, I'd left. And that was when I met Imogen.
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