Murder.com

by David Deutsch

  The trees that lined the road were still capped with snow and there were patches of white covering the usually lush greenery that lined the parkway. Ginny and I continued on our drive to the exit, at which point we exited the parkway. We made our way through the back streets, and before we knew it we were heading toward our respective homes.

  As the sun finally finished rising into the morning sky, we arrived at our neighborhood. I passed my house, Ginny's house, and then we pulled slowly around the corner to Raleigh Drive. I parked at the end of the street, next to the curb, and killed the engine.

  "We're here," I said.

  "Now what?"

  "We wait."

  "For what?"

  "I'm not sure. But we'll find out."

  We were far enough away from Kitty's house that she would be unable to see us parked. And if she happened to look down this way, she'd think one of her neighbors had just decided to park on the street. But we were also far enough away where I would be unable to see Kitty clearly should she decide to come out on foot.

  "I brought my binoculars," Imogen proudly said.

  "Imogen Whitehall, private eye extraordinaire."

  "You're welcome. At least one of us is prepared," Imogen said as she searched for her binoculars. Frantically now, she rummaged through her Louis Vuitton tote bag. "Where are they?" she mumbled to herself as she moved everything around in the bag. Panicked, she had both hands in the bag now feeling around for the binoculars, as if that would help. Finally she resigned herself to the fact that they were not in there. "I forgot them."

  "Imogen Whitehall, mediocre private eye."

  "Max, you're such an asshole."

  The morning was slowly moving along as Imogen and I sat in my car staring at Kitty's house. One thing about our hometown, and this block in particular—the houses were spectacular. Kitty's house was stately looking, white, with pillars extending to the roof past the second floor, making it appear like a house right out of the 1860s. It should have been sitting on a plantation. There was a long, winding red brick driveway that led to the manor. It was here that I expected Kitty's Bentley to come rolling out shortly.

  "Jesus, Max, I'm bored."

  "Welcome to the art of the stakeout."

  "Yeah, it's quite an art," Imogen sarcastically added. "More like the art of sitting. And how long do you expect us to remain stationary?"

  "As long as it takes, my dear. Mrs. Baxter will most assuredly leave her humble abode at some point today."

  "We've been sitting here for two hours."

  "We might be here for two more, so settle in."

  "I need to stretch my legs. I'm getting cramps."

  "You know what's going to happen, don't you? As soon as you get out of the car, Kitty is going to come rolling out of her driveway and we're going to lose her."

  "You're so dramatic. I'm getting out." She opened the door, turned in her seat, and lifted a leg out of the door—and I saw a glimpse of the powder-blue Bentley convertible inching down the driveway.

  "See! Get in."

  Imogen changed course, pulled her leg back in the car, and shut the door. "Shite."

  "Hold on." I watched the Bentley pull out of the driveway and make a left onto Seymour Drive. I watched the car round the bend and then started my pursuit. I cruised through the streets, going about twenty-five miles per hour, keeping a good distance between Kitty and myself. I didn't want her to see me in her rearview mirror.

  She navigated the back roads for a bit then turned onto a two-lane highway on her way to Nyack. Once we were on the semi-congested road, it was easier for me to follow her without being noticed. She cruised along, heading toward the town.

  "Have you ever been to Nyack?" I asked Ginny.

  "Once. It's cute."

  "Antique shops, bars, and restaurants. I like it down here. Do you know the song 'Escape'?"

  "No."

  "Yeah, you do." Then I sang the chorus.

  "Oh yeah!" Ginny smiled. "I love that song."

  "Yeah, me too. Rupert Holmes wrote it. He's from Nyack."

  "You know the bar in the song?"

  "Of course."

  "I always imagine that's the place." I pointed to the bar as we headed down toward the Hudson River.

  "Brilliant!" Ginny was smitten.

  "She's heading down toward the mansions on the water. I'll show you some lovely houses."

  I kept an eye on Kitty as she continued toward the water. She hung a left. That was odd. North Broadway ended at a park. It wasn't a through street. Was she visiting someone down here?

  We followed slowly.

  "There's Helen Hayes' house," I said, pointing to the mansion.

  "No way! I love her."

  "She's the poster child for Nyack. On the way down here we passed the Helen Hayes Theatre."

  "Oh yeah, I saw that."

  "There are a bunch of homes down here on the water that were owned by famous people."

  "Really?"

  "A ton of them. Actors, musicians, artists. It's quiet here. People leave them alone."

  Kitty continued to drive toward the park. Where was she going? I happened to know who owned the last house, next to the park. It belonged to the family of my ex-girlfriend Jennifer. We had been dating in high school when she'd taken me to visit her grandparents. They lived in Nyack. When we'd arrived at the mansion on the water, my jaw had dropped. It had been quite a house for a seventeen-year-old to visit. I'd been awestruck. There'd been an elevator! We'd spent the afternoon swimming in the Olympic-sized pool, overlooking the Tappan Zee Bridge and lower Westchester, surrounded by the spectacular foliage that sat on the cliffs and hills of Rockland County.

  I was now driving at a snail's pace. I watched Kitty pull up to the last house on the road before the park, and then she kept going into the park. I pulled off to the side of the road, turned around, and then drove a bit back toward a house that was on the opposite side of the road. I backed into the driveway and waited.

  "Max, we can't stop here! This isn't our house."

  "It doesn't look like anyone's home. We'll just be here for a few."

  "What if someone sees us?"

  "No one cares."

  Moments later, the Bentley passed us. Did Kitty think that someone was following her? Was that why she had stopped in the park? Did she know it was me?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Kitty had driven into the park and then immediately turned around. The car was obstructed for a moment as she drove past the manned gatehouse that guarded the road that led down to the waterside park. After a minute or two, I watched her emerge from around the gatehouse. She inched back out onto North Broadway and then took off, going at a speedy clip. This was a twenty-five mile per hour zone at best. Imogen and I watched her pass then let another car, which was creeping along, drift in front of us. Although Kitty was driving too fast, we could still see her car clearly, as this road was only a two-lane country road that led through Upper Grand View to the Tappan Zee Bridge. If speeding on a country road was her idea of an evasive maneuver, she was failing miserably.

  As we entered Upper Grand View, you could see the homes that appeared as if they were etched into the cliffs that lined the Hudson River. As we rolled through the town, the Hudson on my left, heading toward the entrance to the thruway, I was transported back to my childhood days of riding in my father's boat up the Hudson River and thinking how the landscape of the Hudson River Valley looked almost untouched from the days when the Native Americans roamed this area. One could easily imagine paddling a canoe up the river five hundred years ago and enjoying the same scenery. The cliffs, the hills, and, in autumn, the colored leaves that spread along the river like fire.

  "Max!" Imogen shouted at me.

  I must have been daydreaming.

  "Turn left! What are you doing?"

  I immediately turned left, the car skidding and the tires screeching. I tried to hide my complete incompetence. Once we were back on the right track, I asked, "What are yo
u getting all excited about, my dear?"

  "Well, Dutch, just a thought here. You might want to pay attention if you're the driver. I'm sitting here watching Kitty's car turning and you're looking out the window, eyes glazed over. Get with it."

  "Duly noted." I had once again located Kitty as she started her drive across the Tappan Zee Bridge. The bridge was old, and it only had three lanes heading southeast at this time of day. I started to speed up so that I would not lose her once she exited the bridge. We were four cars behind her off to her right. I could see Imogen looking south, over the bridge across the Hudson, toward Manhattan. On a clear day, which this was, you could see lower Manhattan jutting out into the river. It was a beautiful view.

  We tracked Kitty across the bridge, through Westchester, and into the Bronx. Where is she going? Yankee Stadium was off to my left and Manhattan was off to the right. She exited the thruway onto a small service road and then across the Macombs Dam Bridge into the city. I liked it—no toll. Not only was Kitty rich, she was thrifty. I'd have to remember that.

  Within moments we were on the Harlem River Drive, racing downtown. Kitty was flying down the drive. I looked down at my speedometer and realized that I was driving ninety miles per hour. The scary thing here was that I was pretty much keeping up with the traffic. Kitty must have been going 110 miles per hour. She raced down the FDR, which meant we were now out of Harlem and had made our way in mere minutes into upper Manhattan. She sped to 42nd Street, exited the FDR, and then zipped west.

  "Bloody hell! Back to the bloody city. Don't tell me we drove all the way to Rockland only to be back here!" Imogen was annoyed. "Why, Kitty? It's your fault, Max! Let's follow her, Ginny. See where she goes, Ginny. We'll get to the bottom of this, Ginny."

  "We still might yet, my dear."

  "Oh, shove it, Dutch."

  We were a couple of cars behind Kitty heading west on 42nd Street.

  "She must be heading to Mike's office," I said.

  "Goody gumdrops."

  We had been in the car for nearly five hours by the time we watched Kitty pull her Bentley into the underground parking lot at the bottom of the BMC offices.

  "Now what?" Imogen asked. "My legs and back are killing me."

  "Keep the faith, my dear. I'll pull over there." I pointed to the open spot four buildings down across from the BMC offices. "What does that sign say?" I directed Imogen's attention to the street sign that was leaning at a distressed angle off its post.

  "No parking. Loading and unloading only."

  "OK, we're loading and unloading. Unload yourself out of the car for a minute."

  Imogen opened the door and the cold air rushed in, hitting me like a swift punch. "Ahh," she said, as she exited the car to stretch her legs. She leaned into the open car door, both hands on the roof, stretching and staring at me. "Feels good."

  "Yeah, the freezing cold air feels great," I said sarcastically.

  I kept my eyes on the garage in front of the office. Imogen was busy stretching as if she were about to embark on some sort of exercise routine. I half expected her to start doing lunges, and then I saw flashing lights approaching in my rearview mirror. Moments later, I realized that the lights were for me.

  The cop got on a loudspeaker and was clearly addressing me. "Move your car." Thank God. I didn't move. I had thought that that was it. That they had come for me. That I would be in cuffs momentarily. That Sergeant Williams had won. Imogen remained out of the car. "You. The black Audi. Move. Now." The he flipped his siren a few times for good measure. He was definitely talking to me.

  "Imogen, enough with the stretching. Get in the car," I said.

  "C'mon. My legs are sore," she screamed back to the cop while taking a half-step back into the car.

  "Now! I'm not going to tell you again," the cop screamed at me and Ginny over his loudspeaker.

  "That's our cue, my dear. Get the hell in the car," I said.

  I rolled my window down and screamed back to the cop, "OK. We're moving. I need a second. She has to get in the car."

  Police officers in New York City, and probably in most places, do not like to be yelled at. The loudspeaker echoed again throughout 42nd Street. "Ma'am, get in the car now. You have ten seconds before I get out of this car." With that, the cop popped his siren quickly just for added intimidation.

  I did not want the cop to get out of his car. A cop walking over to my car with his ticket book in hand would not end very well for me, Imogen, and, more importantly, this investigation.

  Imogen got in the car. "Great! Now we're going to lose her. After all of this." She slammed the door shut, and I pulled back onto the street heading west.

  "Don't worry—we'll go around the block." I made a right at the light and then proceeded to drive in a circle back to the BMC office. When I came around the corner, the cop was now sitting in my spot, waiting. I slowly drove forward, passing him. He shook his head at me as we passed. I most assuredly would not be able to park and wait. As we passed the BMC office, out pulled the Bentley. "Shit! She's behind us."

  "Can you see her?" Imogen asked, peering into her side mirror. "I can't. I only see a little blue peeking out from the side of the white van behind us."

  We approached the light. "Same here. What do I do? Right or left?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, we need to pick a direction now. The light is green."

  "Right? She might be heading out of the city. Right gets her to the FDR."

  We turned right at the light and quickly pulled over to the northeast corner, preventing some cars from turning. I only had a second before the cop would notice a traffic jam. We both sat watching for the Bentley. Horns blared. Cars backed up. As Kitty approached the light, she turned left, and away she went down Park Avenue. There was no way we could catch her now. I pulled back onto Park and headed uptown.

  "Did you see her?" Imogen asked.

  "Not only did I see her, I saw her with someone."

  "I couldn't see anything."

  "You're not going to believe who she was with. It's a doozy."

  "Doozy. Really?"

  I dialed John Carrington.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  It was D-Day. Tonight we would be heading to the BMC holiday party. The soiree was going to be held at the Baxter, Miller & Clarke offices on the thirty-second floor in The Club. The Club was a private executive bar that was built on nearly the whole floor. It looked like something out of an Edwardian gentleman's smoking room. There was a bar that stretched the entirety of this dark, wood-trimmed space. Manly brown leather couches and club chairs were scattered about. Massive bookshelves lined the walls, housing what most likely was every book you could care to have read, although I was sure that anyone who worked at BMC did not have time to read for pleasure. There must have been some rare books thrown in there as well, but I was certainly not any sort of rare book aficionado. Any book with an old, weathered-looking spine was a rare book to me. A bartender and additional attendants were always staffed at The Club, as partners and other BMC employees would often entertain clients or have informal meetings in this over-the-top environment.

  Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, dimly illuminating the scattered Persian rugs that covered the mahogany floor. There were clay smoking pipes that lined one of the walls, each with a number on it, corresponding to the owner of said pipe. When one was invited to The Club, they could purchase a pipe to smoke, or one would be purchased for them by a partner at BMC. From everything that I had ever heard or seen, partners always purchased pipes for their business associates. Pipes cost somewhere in the range of $5,000. At least, that was the price the last time that I was there, about seven years ago. Ted had purchased one for me. I was number 572. Pipe tobacco and cigars were provided gratis, as were cocktails. Cigarette smoking was prohibited.

  There was also a scotch list that stretched as far as the eye could see. They carried everything from Glenfiddich 18 (one of my favorites) to some of the priciest and rarest scotch a
vailable: Macallan 1939, Glenfarclas 1955, Glenfiddich 1937, just to name a few. The rare ones were reserved for Ted, Mike, and Ken, and most likely some business associate or partner-to-be that was going to make them millions.

  Ted, Mike, and Ken had offices just off The Club. Part of the thirty-second floor was closed off by enormous French doors that opened into The Club from the office side. These were the only three offices located on this floor. This was where Imogen and I had met with Mike. He hadn't invited us into The Club that day.

  We were greeted at the reception area of the thirty-second floor by none other than Santa himself, who directed us through the large mahogany French doors and into The Club. The usually masculine club seemed to have received a woman's touch with some festive decorating. Mainly some tasteful winter decor and some colored lighting. Most definitely some overzealous secretaries charged with the task of trying to impress Ken and Mike. There was a jazz quartet off to the side of the room, playing unrecognizable songs, creating mood music that one might find at a black-tie wedding cocktail hour.

  "Into the lion's den we go," Imogen said. I looked over to her and acknowledged her apprehension.

  She took my arm, we walked through the doors, and were immediately greeted by an attendant in a tuxedo and white gloves brandishing a tray carrying champagne and white and red wine. I grabbed a white. Ginny took a red.

  "This is delicious," Ginny said as she took a sip.

  "They don't mess around here when it comes to alcohol. Just look at the bar. Everything is top notch."

  We scanned the room surveying the guests, looking for the men of BMC. I didn't see Mike or Ken, although I did see a whole host of businesspeople that I knew. They were all mingling about. Sipping their drinks. No doubt angling for ways to make more money. Buy more things. I watched them for a moment. Sipped my own drink, looked at Imogen, who was bored to pieces, and then stared blankly. As I turned my head to continue to survey the room, I saw another familiar face. Perhaps the most familiar of all. There was Kitty. Although she was playing the part of the demure widow, she was in all her glory. Smiling, talking to several well-dressed, attractive men, sipping her wine. After a moment, she noticed me staring and gave me a dismissive wave, flicking her fingers twice, as if she were petting a kitten. After acknowledging me, she turned and continued her conversation.