I continued to gaze at the tiny lighted skyscraper windows somewhere in the distance around Midtown, lost in my thoughts, when Ginny grabbed me, turned me around, and escorted me over to a couch. "Have a seat, Max." We sat and I had another drink. Ginny was chatty.
"I saw this show last night on the telly," Imogen said.
"I didn't realize that you were still up," I said.
"I was lying on the couch, and this docu came on about some woman who was around my age, not married, and wanting a baby."
"So, she got married and had a kid?" I asked.
"Not quite. She realized that she was getting older and that her chances of meeting someone and having a child were quickly fading away. So she came up with an idea. And no one around her was supportive. Not her family, friends, strangers. But she was determined to do it."
"Do what?"
"Have a baby."
"And how was she going to do that?"
"She was going to have the baby via in-vitro fertilization. She had the injections to prime the womb, then the fertilization—"
"And she filmed all of that?"
"She did. It was fascinating and also terrifying. At least, that's what I felt. Then she got pregnant and had the baby. She filmed all of that too. Then I realized that I was crying. Lying on the couch crying at one in the morning." She paused. "Max, I'm already forty! I don't want to be that woman."
"You just turned forty! I wouldn't worry about it, Ginny."
"I'm not getting any younger, and you still haven't popped the question. Time is running out."
"Whoa, why are we jumping to conclusions here?"
"You're not. I am. When are we tying the knot?"
I took a sip of my champagne. Glass number two. I needed glass number three immediately.
"Listen, Ginny, this is going to happen. I just can't be rushed on the timing. There's a lot going on right now, if you hadn't noticed. I've got the POP stuff, I'm on the verge of being arrested, we're in the middle of investigating a murder and—"
"Excuses. That's what I'm hearing. Give me some hope here, Max!"
What Ginny didn't know was that I had acted on my initial inclination to head over to Whistler. I was now in full-blown planning mode. And on the agenda was a New Year's proposal in British Columbia. I had even picked out the ring. It would be ready in another week or so.
"Ginny, I can promise you one thing for sure."
"What's that?"
"Engagement by Q3 next year."
I was out to torture poor Imogen. It would make the proposal more of a surprise. Or so I concluded, but Ginny's face dropped. Her beautiful facial features slumped, as if gravity was weighing extra heavy on her being.
"Q3! Who says that? I hate you, Max."
"Hate's a strong word, Ginny."
"Well, maybe not hate. More like loathe. I loathe you, Max, and with that attitude I might not be around until Q3!"
"Stick around, kid. You won't be sorry."
I pulled Ginny a little closer to me and rested her head on my shoulder briefly.
"We'll get there, my dear. Have a little faith."
"Five years is certainly a demonstration of my faith, Max. Get this show on the road."
She picked her head up off my shoulder and finished her drink. She placed her empty glass down on the mini-table that was sitting in front of us. "Let's mingle. This is a party, after all."
I felt my arm being tugged and then pulled as I placed my own glass down and proceeded to stand. I felt a quick head rush from getting up so quickly. Maybe it was just from standing. I shook it off, and then Ginny and I proceeded to stroll through the party.
I grabbed another drink from one of the wait staff and took a sip while I surveyed this assembled group. It was no mystery as to why I had received an invite. Jake was looking for more money. Everyone had an agenda. I glanced over the guests and then homed in on one in particular. There was Mike Miller. Of course he was here. Jake was looking for money from him too.
Mike caught my gaze. I was trapped. I was also with Imogen, which meant that Mike would now be privy to the fact that Ginny and I were more than just colleagues. I couldn't quite calculate the ramifications of this revelation, if any, at this moment. All I knew was that I had to go over and say hello.
We walked back across the room toward the bar, Ginny holding my arm, making it clear to anyone looking that we were indeed a couple. We walked over to Mike.
"I see you got the invite as well," I said to Mike, extending a hand to shake.
"I certainly did. Did you the get the full-court press yet?" Mike met my hand and we shook. I chuckled.
"You could say that, yes." I smiled.
"Ah, Miss Whitehall, a pleasure to see you again," Mike said, eyeing Ginny.
Ginny grinned and was about to speak when I interrupted. "Where's Kate?" I asked, noticing that Mike was alone.
"Home. She wasn't feeling well."
"Pity," Ginny said. "I quite enjoyed her company the other night."
"She enjoyed yours as well. She did make an effort to come tonight, but as she was getting herself ready she felt terribly ill and had to lie down."
"Oh, I do hope she's all right."
"Yes, thank you, Miss Whitehall, she should be fine. Probably just one of those twenty-four-hour things, you know."
Mike certainly didn't come here alone. I was wondering who had escorted him. Was it Kitty? That would be something, wouldn't it?
"Enjoying yourself, Mike?"
"Mildly." He made a dismissive face, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips as he raised his drink to his mouth. "It's a necessary inconvenience, I guess."
"I can't say Jake didn't try. Look at this place." I was still taken with the decor.
"All they're missing is Rudolph in the corner autographing headshots."
Ginny and I both laughed. Look at this—Mike had a sense of humor after all. To reward himself on a quip well told, he raised his amber glass once again and smugly sipped his drink.
"I can't imagine I'm staying too much longer," Mike admitted, after lowering his glass once again.
A man approached Mike from his rear. He was in his mid-sixties, full head of straight gray hair, sky-blue eyes hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in a suit complete with bow tie. He was tall, a bit lanky, and gave off the air of a professor, but one who was certainly very well dressed. His face was intense, and showed its age with deep ridges around his eyes, between his eyebrows, and across his forehead. His skin was well tanned, as if he had just returned from St. Barts, which was very possible. It was Ken Clarke.
Ken approached slowly, carrying a martini in his hand complete with three olives, all aligned neatly on a red and green toothpick leaning against the side of his glass. He raised his other hand, forming an L with his arm, as he approached. Either he was making a left turn or was attempting to wave at me.
"Max Slade. Here in the flesh."
"Hi, Ken. Good to see you. I see you got my messages. You must have known I was going to be here." I was still annoyed that Clarke had ignored all my attempts to contact him. He looked at me a little peeved and a little embarrassed by my comment calling him out on his inattentiveness.
"Aren't you funny. I didn't know that about you, Max," he dryly retorted.
"I'm a regular comedian."
"I've been busy. End of year and all. Sorry I didn't get back to you, but I'm glad that I had a chance to run into you here," he said with a smile, although his face expressed nothing but contempt for me.
"My condolences about Ted." I finally had a chance to mention Ted directly to Ken. This was probably my only chance. I was going to take full advantage.
Clarke lowered his head, eyes slumped toward the ground, face drooped. "So unfortunate."
"Indeed. Tragic. And how it happened, I mean, Jesus, Ken. It was shocking, to say the least." I did my best shocked impression without going overboard.
"It was horrific, Max. I don't even know what to say. Murder. It's unheard
of! It was a shock to the system, I can tell you that. I'm still trying to get over it. To have your friend killed in his own home. His own home! It's terrifying."
Clarke was animated as he described his feelings regarding Ted's death. This was definitely not how Mike had described Ken's feelings. He had made it seem as if Clarke couldn't care less. He was still going on. "I'm sure Mike told you that we're really broken up over here at BMC over it. It took me a few weeks to even get back to normal. We spent weeks talking to the police about it. Every day with their questions, reminding me what had happened. It's hard to move on when you're constantly being asked questions. Do you know what I mean, Max? Hard. So very hard." Ken's emotions were clouding his speech, as he was beginning to ramble a touch.
Did I know what he meant? Try being thrown in a cell, Ken. Questions were easy. Pleading for your freedom, now that was a trick I'd like to see him pull off.
"I understand. It must be hard. I'm so sorry."
"I can tell you this, Max—I hope they find whoever did this and string them up," Ken said, with such malice in his voice that even his drink was shaking.
"I think we all hope they find the killer. We all need some closure. Haven't the police found anything that might help them yet?"
I had to dig. See if he had anything. Anything that could help.
"We just don't know," Mike interjected. "They don't tell us anything. I know I haven't even seen a cop in weeks."
"Besides asking me irrelevant questions, nothing, Max. Nothing. I don't know what the hell they're doing over there."
"I'm sure they're working on it. You can't catch a killer overnight, right? There's probably a lot to sort through. I'm no expert on homicide investigations. They must take a long time." I paused briefly, took a sip of my drink, and then continued to lie: "Do you have any thoughts on what happened? Who could have done this?" I was hoping that Ken would offer up his theory on the killing. After all, he must have had one.
"I haven't the foggiest notion. It's simply too shocking. Some insane psychopath I guess. Ted died. He's gone. This was someone's life we're talking about here."
Not exactly what I was hoping for from Ken, but his emotions seemed genuine. He was angry.
"I don't mean to upset you, Ken. I know this is hard."
"I know. Well, I'm a few of these in," he said, lifting his glass, "and, well, being at parties and around people celebrating life…" To my utter disbelief, Ken seemed to be choked up with emotion. His eyes began to well up with tears, although they didn't break the levee of his eyelids. He tried to regain his composure and then continued, "Anyway, enough of this depressing talk. I apologize if I've upset you."
"Don't be silly, Ken."
"If you'll excuse me, I'll go grab myself another drink." He lifted his glass up again, and this time he shook it slightly to demonstrate that he had drained it. "Can I get any of you anything?"
"No thank you," I said.
"Well, merry Christmas to you, Max." With that, Clarke popped the miniature wood spike containing the three olives in his mouth, closed his lips, and pulled out a clean toothpick. He turned and walked toward the bar.
Mike informed us that he would be joining Ken. We wished each other a merry Christmas, and both Imogen and I expressed our hopes that Kate should make a speedy recovery from her twenty-four-hour virus. He thanked us and then walked toward the bar. Ginny and I looked at each other, finished our respective drinks, and wandered toward the exit.
"One more for the road?" I asked, pulling another glass of champagne off a meandering waiter's tray.
Ginny grabbed another wine and then we stood silently, eyes closed, sipping, clicking our ruby-red heels together. Wishing that we'd be home soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Our hope for an early exit was fleeting, as I heard Ken's voice above the fray calling for me. I opened my eyes and saw him moving toward me from the bar area. Imogen shuddered. This time he had someone walking with him.
"Max. Max!" Ken called as he continued to approach.
The man walking with Ken was dressed a bit more formally than myself. He was about fifty years old, had on the same uniform as me, but was sporting a tie. He was tanned, had a shaved head, sky-blue eyes, and soft facial features. He was a good-looking guy.
"I'm taking a walk. I can't bear to listen to these two." Imogen was opting out of this meeting. I couldn't blame her. In fact, I wished I could join her. She turned and walked in the opposite direction of the dynamic duo.
I stared forward, watching Ken and his sidekick approach me slowly, each holding a drink. I finished off my third glass of champagne and peeled my eyes, looking for a roaming waiter carrying a tray of filled glasses. Nothing.
"Max. I'm glad I caught you. There's someone I want to introduce you to," Ken said, as he finally arrived in front of me. He introduced the man as Seth Cohen, a fellow venture capitalist, as if we were all part of some weird fraternity. We shook hands as I tried to grasp why Ken had made it a point to introduce me to him. "Seth's out in California."
"So, what brings you to New York this time of the year? I'd be heading out your way if I had my druthers."
"Business. It's always business dragging me to New York."
"Even if that means braving the snow, huh?"
Seth laughed.
We joked a little bit about the differences between New York and California. Always a fascinating topic of conversation. While we were talking, Ken had managed to disappear. I was now stuck with Seth. At least until Imogen reappeared. She had a habit of saving me.
"So, you up in Silicon Valley?"
"What gave you that idea?" Seth waited a moment for his bad joke to settle in. "Actually, yes. You know it?"
"I've been out there a bunch of times."
"I love it there. I love it so much that I borrowed the Silicon part for my company's name: Silicon City Ventures."
"Clever." Not my favorite way to name a company, but it was not mine so, really, who cared?
"Here, let me see if I have a card on me." Seth searched his front pockets first. Nothing. He then tried the inside lining of his suit jacket. No cards there either. "I'll find one, just give me a sec." He continued to frisk himself until he finally resigned himself to pulling out his wallet. He reached around and then dipped a hand into his left back pocket, and emerged with a brown Gucci leather wallet. He opened it and, lo and behold, there was the elusive card.
"Thanks." He handed it to me and I immediately put it into my pocket without looking at it, as was my usual custom. I looked around for Imogen. She wasn't anywhere in my line of sight. This conversation was bound to go on forever. Suddenly, Seth's demeanor changed. His face tensed and his shoulders looked like they were about ready to swallow his neck. He leaned over to me and started to speak as if we were in the middle of a black market transaction.
"Can I ask you something?" Seth's voice dropped to a whisper. He moved a little closer to me, invading my personal space. "What the hell happened to Ted?"
"Did you know him?"
"I should say so! I've been talking to Ted for months. BMC have been making overtures about acquiring my company, and Ted had been their point person."
"Good old Ted."
"Ted wasn't the problem. I told them I didn't want any part of it."
"Why not? It's none of my business, really, but selling out would make you a fortune."
"It's simple. I'm not interested. I've got enough money. They don't care about the portfolio. All they care about is the technology. I've got some patents. Some that they have a vested interest in."
Seth seemed a little more relaxed now that we'd broached the subject. His shoulders were back below Adam's apple level.
"So, tell them to take a hike."
"That's what I've been telling them—well, telling Ted, and I think he was listening. But it's a little more complicated than that. We've got sort of a relationship. With one of the patents, and, well… Anyway, last time we chatted he said he had straightened them
out."
That was odd. Yes, Seth was an odd guy, but this conversation was odd in a different sort of way. Why change the subject? Why even have this conversation with me in the first place? Certainly, I was the wrong guy to be sounding off against. What did I care about Seth?
"Straightened who out?"
"Mike and Ken. Then Ted goes and gets murdered. And now Ken and Mike have started in again." Seth's anxiety level was rising again. He nervously took a sip of his wine. "It's all too much to digest. Ted's murder seems a little too convenient to be a coincidence. I'm scared." He finished his glass of wine in one gulp.
"What are you scared of? You think if you don't go along with them you're going to wind up dead?" I said.
Seth leaned in close, looked me dead in my eyes then whispered with conviction and Pinot breath, "Yes."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Two days later, back at my office, I received an odd email. The sender was a random email address with an equally odd name. The subject was Ted Baxter.
From: Delator
Subject: Ted Baxter
To: Max Slade
You're on the right track.
Delator
I read the email, reread the email, called Imogen into my office to read the email, questioned why I was rereading a five-word email over and over, and then we both sat there confused.
"What the hell is this? Who would send this?" Those were Ginny's first questions. Mine were as follows: Who had my email address? Who knew that we were looking into Ted's murder? How did this person know that we were looking into Ted's murder? Why would they then contact me? Why contact me over email instead of in person? Were we in danger?
I asked Ginny who she thought knew about us playing detective. She sat back in the Aeron chair, crossed her legs, revealing more thigh as her black skirt rose a bit, while she lazily chewed on the top of a pen. "Well, we know Kitty knows." Imogen was using the pen as a pointer to accentuate her thoughts to the air. "She already had spilled the beans about that at your house. She also wouldn't play email games. She would just call or text or, perish the thought, show up. So I think we can rule her out."
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