by Lowe, Sheila
He’s rich enough to buy his way out. And arrogant enough to believe he’s above the law.
By three thirty, Claudia was dizzy with exhaustion. She powered down the computer, turned off the lights, and went back to bed.
Ninety minutes later, someone was again knocking on her door.
Chapter 30
Detective Izzy Perez. Standing outside her hotel room at five in the morning, looking grim.
What the hell is he doing here?
For the second time that night, Claudia undid the locks and opened the door.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms. Rose. May I come in? I need to talk to you.”
She stepped back, pulling her robe tighter around her, disoriented from being awakened. “What’s going on?”
Detective Perez walked in and flicked a glance around the room, not answering her question. “I suppose you are acquainted with Dr. Donna Pollard, seeing as she was at the party last night?”
Even half asleep, she resented his subtly condescending air. “Yes, of course. You know we’re both consultants for Elite Introductions.”
“How well do you know her?”
“Not well at all. I met her for the first time last week. We’ve spoken a couple of times since then.”
“When was the last time you saw Dr. Pollard?”
A homicide detective coming to her hotel room before dawn and asking questions was a bad sign. Claudia could feel her heart rate speeding up, preparing for bad news. “She showed up here earlier, a couple of hours ago. Why, has something happened to her?”
“What time did she leave here?”
“I think it was a little after three. What’s going on, Detective?”
“The station house got a call from her about an hour ago. She left a message for me to see you. She said she’d given you some information that might have a bearing on the Elite Introductions case.”
“And you’re here before it’s even light to ask me about it? I don’t understand. I suggested she call you. Why didn’t she just tell you herself?”
“Dr. Pollard has committed suicide.”
“What?” That couldn’t be right. He couldn’t have said what she thought she’d heard. But then his mouth was moving again and words were coming out, and she knew she had not misheard.
“She phoned the precinct and told the dispatcher she’d already taken pills and alcohol, and that by the time we got someone out there it would be too late, so not to hurry. But she asked for me to contact you. Dispatch took it seriously.”
I’m really still asleep and this is just a lousy dream.
“She called the police to say she was committing suicide?”
Perez lifted his shoulders in a pragmatic shrug. “Suicidal people do all kinds of strange things when they’re feeling up against it. What she told dispatch was she didn’t want her body stinking up the apartment for days and someone having to come in and clean up after her, so she wanted to let us to know in advance.”
Claudia thought of how Pollard had become enmeshed with Jessica McAllister and the girl over whom she’d lost her license. And she thought of her handwriting. Putting other people’s needs ahead of her own was characteristic of Donna Pollard’s type. Even in planning how to handle her own suicide, she wanted to cause as little inconvenience as possible to the people who would have to handle her body.
With a sense of unreality Claudia said, “That sounds like what I knew of Donna. Did the dispatcher at least send someone over to try and save her?”
“She was calling from a cell phone,” Perez said. “Refused to give an address. By the time dispatch got it pinned down, they sent a bus over, but she was gone.”
“A bus?”
He gave a slight smile. “Ambulance. Sorry, that’s what we call ’em. We send a bus.”
It wouldn’t sink in. “But she was just here. I don’t understand. She never said—”
But she had said something. She’d talked about having some last things to say. Without warning, Claudia’s legs gave out and she plopped down onto the bed with a groan. “I should have picked up on it. I should have . . .”
Detective Perez went into the bathroom and came back with a glass of water. “I’m sorry,” he said, handing it to her, his tough features softening a trace. “I know it’s gotta be a shock, especially coming so soon after last night, but have you got any idea why she would do something like this? Did she have any involvement in what’s been going on at the dating club? Something she felt guilty about?”
Claudia sipped the water, trying to comprehend what she had just learned. “No, it’s not that. When she came here this morning, what she told me was she’s been practicing without a license. With everything that’s been happening at Elite Introductions, especially after the party, the investigation into Andy Nicholson’s death and all, she figured it was going to come out and she would be in big legal trouble. I guess she couldn’t face it. Oh my god, I can’t believe this.” She wiped her hand over her face. “Does Grusha know yet?”
Dark shadows tinted the bags under Perez’ eyes. He looked as worn out as Claudia felt. “I’ve tried all Ms. Olinetsky’s numbers, but nobody’s answering. Ms. Rose, I need you to tell me everything Dr. Pollard told you last night. What she was referring to in her message.”
“Yes, of course. Oh my god.” Her head was buzzing. She felt as if she’d slammed headlong into a wall.
She told him about everything, including Grusha’s sex change, just leaving out her incarceration, which he either knew about if they’d fingerprinted her, or he could discover for himself.
“Dr. Pollard had pointed me toward Dr. McAllister because of his behavior toward his daughter. She’d been seeing her for therapy. Like I told you before, he also scared the crap out of me when I had dinner with him and he acted like a crazy man. And his handwriting had some red flags, but it’s impossible to predict that someone is going to act out on potential for violence.”IT
“Okay. And what about the other guy’s handwriting, Marcus Bernard?”
She told him what she had seen—the signs of a charming con artist. “I can see him contracting someone to do the dirty work for him, but I don’t know whether he would do the killings himself. Except for Shellee Jones. I guess he could somehow have gotten peanuts in her food. But then, Ian was there, too, just a few minutes before she died.”
Perez checked his notebook. “Mr. Bernard and Dr. McAllister were both questioned with everyone last night. So far, there’s nothing that ties them—or anyone else—to spiking the drinks. In fact, we have to wait for the tox screen to see what was in the glasses that were recovered. I’ll talk with them both today, see if they have alibis for the other deaths. We’ll still need some physical evidence that these people didn’t die accidentally. Otherwise it’s a circumstantial case. Circumstantial cases are hard to make.”
“What if I’ve got it all wrong and it’s neither of them? What about John Shaw, the photographer? He’s definitely on a different plane than the rest of us. He might find a way to rationalize killing.” She gave him a troubled look. “I’ve even wondered whether Grusha herself might be behind the whole thing. She brought me in, but she’s obstructed me at every turn. I’ve asked myself whether she could be setting someone up. But I can’t think of a reason why.”
“That’s why we do an investigation.”IT
“If it’s Marcus, he’s good at walking away from things. I looked up the lawsuits against his company.”
“A civil lawsuit is one thing. If he’s involved in homicide, ma’am, we’ll do everything we can to get him; I can promise you that.” Perez stifled a yawn. “Don’t let it drive you nuts, Ms. Rose.”
Claudia managed a weak grin. “Right now, Detective, that would be a short drive.”
Chapter 31
Sunday. The day after Andy Nicholson jumped to his death. The day Donna Pollard had killed herself. Claudia had been in Manhattan for nearly a week, and she wanted to go home. Leave Grusha and her problems to the cops. T
heir problems now.
The hotel room seemed like a cell. At nine, she called Susan Rowan.
“Jesus H. Christ, Claudia,” Susan exploded through the phone. “What the hell happened? I saw it on the news last night. Were you there?”
“Unfortunately, I was about ten feet away when he went over the edge.”
“I can’t believe it—Andy Nicholson dead! What happened? Channel seven said he was hallucinating.”
“He wasn’t the only one. Somebody put acid or something in the drinks.”
“Too many coincidences, Claudia. I told you something weird is going on in that company.”
“No lie. Well, the police are involved now. They’re looking into everything—the deaths you know about and a couple of others, too.” She didn’t mention Donna Pollard. She just couldn’t. “Listen, I need to get hold of Grusha. Do you have a number for her outside the office?”
“Yeah, I have her cell. Hang on, I’ll get it for you.”
Susan was back in thirty seconds and recited the number for her.
“Thanks, Susan.” Claudia gave a short laugh. “I was gonna say I owe you one, but considering it was you who got me into this mess, I think you owe me!”
“Jeez, if I’d known how it was going to turn out . . . Hey, take care of yourself.”
Grusha’s cell phone went straight to voice mail. Claudia left a message, then phoned the office number. After five rings she got an answering service, where she left an urgent message for the matchmaker to call her.
The last few days had left her edgy and anxious. By ten, she had to get out of the hotel for some fresh air. She changed into jeans and a turtleneck sweater, buttoned herself into her corduroy jacket and boots. A long walk to Central Park would give her time to clear her head. Breakfast wasn’t on the agenda. All the death had taken away her appetite.
Out on the street, cold air slapped her in the face, feeling good. Like a tortoise withdrawing into its shell, Claudia pulled her woolen scarf over her nose, shoved her hands into her pockets, and turned left from the hotel. Sunday morning; the streets were teeming. People going in and out of restaurants, people riding bicycles, people filling the sidewalks, walking, Rollerblading.
As she started walking up the block she spotted a black town car that was parked across the street pull away from the curb and merge into traffic, driving slowly. The car pulled ahead of her, then moved to the side of the road. Nobody got out. Maybe the driver was waiting for someone to come out of a building. Maybe he was waiting for her.
Claudia, you’re getting paranoid.
Moving quickly past the town car, Claudia darted a look, but the tinted windows blocked her view. She passed a Thai restaurant, hurried to the end of the block and crossed at the light. At the right edge of her vision, she could see that the car was back in traffic, going through the intersection, still with her.
At Seventh Avenue she turned left toward Central Park and started walking faster. The avenue was a one-way street and she was walking against traffic. The black car couldn’t turn with her.
She passed the bagel shop where she and Susan had breakfasted a few days earlier. Someone was walking close behind her. Too close for comfort. Stories of muggings filled her head.
Moving close to the wall of the nearest building, she stopped and pretended to look for something in her purse, waiting for whoever it was to pass her by. A gaggle of teenage girls and boys shuffled past, teasing one another, and Claudia laughed at herself for her attack of nerves.
Across the street from Carnegie Hall now, only a block from Central Park. She entered a construction scaffolding shed that covered the sidewalk—there seemed to be construction on every other block in this town. Puddles of water dripped from above the poorly lit shed, and she was glad to come out the other side.
With a jolt of recognition Claudia saw a black town car. It was driving toward her, traveling in the far right lane, on her side of the street. She started to cross the street, but the traffic was heavy and fast.
The town car stopped beside her and a man in a dark Windbreaker jumped out. He wore a baseball cap and reflector sunglasses, but she recognized Marcus Bernard’s driver, Mike.
“Ms. Rose!” Mike strode over to her.
“Hey, Mike. What—?”
“Mr. Bernard sent me to pick you up.”
Claudia’s stomach cramped in fear. “I don’t have any appointment with Mr. Bernard this morning.”
“He’s with the baroness. She wants you—”
“I don’t think so, Mike. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He nodded, not at her, but past her.
After that, everything happened fast. Someone coming up from behind. Turning to see . . .
And all at once: a buzz like a bug zapper; the world exploding in a lightning bolt of pain; every muscle in spasm; an involuntary cry.
She dropped to her knees and started to topple. Before her face could hit the ground, she was grabbed by the arms, hoisted up. A man’s loud voice said something about a seizure. Powerless, she was aware of being carried a few feet, then shoved without ceremony into the waiting car.
Chapter 32
As her brains gradually unscrambled, Claudia became aware that she was sprawled across the backseat of Marcus Bernard’s town car. Mike was driving and another man was in the passenger seat—big, beefy, with a bull neck and a crew cut. Security. The one behind the stun gun.
Owwww.
She must have groaned out loud because Beefy turned and looked at her over his shoulder. “Hey, Mike, look who’s back.”
“That was quick,” Mike said. “I thought she’d be out longer.”IT
Beefy huffed. “Toldya the battery was low.”
If that was low battery, a full charge must feel like an elephant stampede.
“How ya doing back there, Ms. Rose?” Mike asked.
“Like . . . beaten . . . baseball . . . bat.” Her mouth felt stuffed with cotton and the words were coming out jumbled. She wasn’t sure whether the men up front understood what she’d said, but she was pretty certain that neither of them gave a rat’s ass how she was doing.
Little by little, the neurological activity that had been interrupted by the stun gun began to return to normal, allowing her brain to regain control of her muscles. One at a time, she stretched her limbs, felt the pain burn along every nerve ending, a massive case of pins and needles.
“Gimme your phone,” said Beefy, reaching his hand behind his head and waggling his fingers. When she was slow to respond, he said, “Pull over, Mike. Lemme juice her again.”
Claudia dragged herself into a seated position on the leather upholstery and took stock of her situation. There seemed to be no choice but to comply. It took some effort to control her trembling hand as she got the cell phone out of her pocket. “Fuck you,” she said, tossing the phone over the seat.
“Tsk, tsk, such a potty mouth,” Beefy sneered over the seat back. He leaned down to pick up the phone from where it had landed on the floor and dropped it into a gym bag at his feet, along with her hopes for getting help.
Mike swung the steering wheel and made a left onto Fifty-fourth Street. He glanced over at Beefy. “Call the boss.”
Beefy nodded and got out his own phone. He punched in a number, waited about fifteen seconds, said, “It’s me—we’re good. Yeah. Done.” Ringing off, he looked over at the driver, jerked his thick neck. “Back to the office.”
Looking out through the darkened windows, Claudia kept a watchful eye on the street signs as they crossed intersections, straining for landmarks, anticipating where they might be headed. Avenue of the Americas, Park Avenue. They were pointed east, traffic crawling now. She thought the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge was coming up a little north of their position. If she was right, it meant they were nearing the East River.
They slowed and came to a stop at a red light. Her chance to jump out and run, if she would be steady enough on her feet.
“Ya can’t open the doors from back ther
e,” Beefy said over his shoulder, as if he knew she was studying them for a way to escape. Claudia’s eyes darted over the blocks they passed, committing to memory the streets they were passing, assessing where she might go for help if she could free herself once they exited the vehicle.
The numbers of the avenues got lower the closer they came to the river, and the town car slowed. They were driving in a mixed-use area. Five-story apartment buildings next to skyscrapers. Business and medical sharing space with condos. Starbucks on one corner, a neighborhood grocery on another. A bank, a liquor store. More of the omnipresent scaffolding.
Mike applied the brakes at a padlocked chain-link fence and jumped out to open the gate. New construction. Sunday; nobody would be working. The building exterior was complete, but heavy equipment still sat in the locked yard. It hit Claudia that the office they were going to was the one where Grusha planned to transfer her headquarters. Pollard and McAllister, too.
Somebody else would be signing Pollard’s lease now.
Beefy twisted around and looked at her, his wide face set in a sneer. “Hey, how you doin’ back there? Comfy, huh?”
“Fuck you and your mother,” Claudia retorted, fed up with his sarcasm. Faster than she could blink, he was kneeling on his seat, brandishing the stun gun at her. For a man of his size, he moved like a rocket. Her bravado evaporated. She shrank into the corner, her palms slick with sweat, the blood rushing in her ears.
“Yeah, Ms. Smartass, that’s what I thought.” The smug satisfaction in his voice was an added insult.
Mike slid back into the car and looked from Claudia to his partner. He gave an irritable shake of his head. “What the fuck you doin’, dude? Put that thing away.” He put the car in gear and drove into the construction lot, pulling in between a Dumpster and a forklift.