Chapter Thirty-Eight
As they entered the Buonasola Grill, Parker continued the discussion. “Both Aphrodite and Hornsby confirmed the door was locked. Hornsby and Rieger had something other than murder on their minds earlier but one of them could have done it after sex, before leaving the building at eleven. Otherwise, the only suspects are Cummings, and, if the cleaning lady is telling the truth, the mysterious cop.”
“Actually, since the porter had to open the door for Aphrodite, we know it was locked about nine, but Hornsby only confirmed that she and Rieger assumed the door was locked,” said Corelli as they seated themselves at her favorite waterside table.
“You mean they saw what they expected to see?”
“Maybe. A mistake we need to avoid.”
“So, we still don’t know for sure if the door was locked after nine o’clook.” Parker opened her menu.
“Let’s order, then go through your notes while we wait for Watkins. Something has been on the tip of my tongue since we got back from Hope Falls. Maybe your notes will trigger it.”
Once they’d ordered, Parker took out her notebook. “Where should we start?”
“Day one.”
Parker turned to the first page and started reading her notes at a fast but easy to understand tempo. Corelli stared at the water, listening. Occasionally she asked Parker to repeat something. They were up to their meeting with Clara Lipkin when lunch arrived.
“Let’s eat and then continue,” Corelli said. She took a bite of her grilled chicken and began to replay the interviews in her mind. A few minutes later she pushed her sandwich aside. “Brett Cummings.”
“What?”
“She knew Winter was from West Virginia, but not even Gus knew that.”
“You think Cummings killed her?”
“I don’t see a motive.”
Watkins appeared and sat at the table. “Sorry to be late. I waited for Kim to print out some articles on Richard Grodine. Want to hear?”
The waiter took Watkins’s order and left.
“Before Grodine,” Corelli said, “do you have anything on Winter’s security firm?”
“Not much more than the name right now. But, Tess Cantrell, Brett Cummings, and Phil Rieger are pulling together as much information as they can find.”
“Okay, we’ll settle for the other stuff.”
“Richard Grodine committed suicide about twenty-three years ago. His company, Richard Grodine Brokerage, was small and very prosperous until he lost all of his biggest accounts and it failed. He was deep in debt and killed himself, leaving a wife and three children, Eric, five years old, Richard Jr., eight years old, and Laura, twelve years old.” He reached into his case and brought out copies of several articles. “I thought you might want to see these. Check out the pictures.”
Parker moved closer to Corelli. “Brett Cummings,” Parker whispered.
Sure enough, there was a young Brett/Laura, looking up adoringly at a very tall and lean man. Of course, you couldn’t see the coloring in the photocopies, but you could see that she was a softer, more feminine version of her handsome father. The same carriage, same features, and the same generous smile.
Corelli leaned back. “Cummings must have met Winter when she worked for her father. Maybe Cummings is her married name.”
“I called around and found some old-timers, people quoted in the articles. Winter left Grodine’s firm to start her own brokerage house and stole most of his customers. Not too long after Grodine’s firm went down the tubes.”
Parker pushed her half-eaten sandwich aside. “So Winter stole her inheritance and caused the father she obviously adored to commit suicide. That’s awful.”
“It sure is,” Watkins said. “It’s not unusual for a successful broker to leave and take his clients with him, but these were Grodine’s clients, not hers. She convinced them to come with her. You know, even though she’s dead, some of these guys hesitated to talk about her.”
Corelli cleared her throat. “As far as we know, Cummings was the last one to see Winter alive, and she admitted arguing with Winter about her plan to steal business from small firms. The very thing that drove her father to commit suicide.”
“She was a kid when it happened. Why wait so long? I think Gus has the strongest motive and we seem to be ignoring him,” Parker said.
“Cummings was in the office. Gus wasn’t.” Corelli knew Parker had taken to Cummings and didn’t want her to be the killer.
“Maybe she didn’t plan it. Maybe she lost control during that argument,” Watkins said.
Corelli stared out at the river, wrestling with the decision she didn’t want to make. She could feel their tension as they waited for direction. Cummings had sparked something deep inside her, and the physical attraction was profound. But, she was currently the most likely suspect and she needed to be cleared or charged.
“I don’t think we have enough for a warrant to search her apartment. When we’re finished here, you two drop me at One Police Plaza, do a little research on Cummings and then pick her up.” Seeing Parker’s face, she added, “The chief will have somebody drive me to the station.”
“Anything in particular we’re after?” Watkins asked.
“Where she grew up, how she dealt with her father’s death, whatever you can find out.”
Parker’s face darkened.
“What is it, Parker?”
“What about Gus?”
“We have to follow the evidence, Parker. Remember, unless we can prove the door was open, only Cummings and the cop had access to Winter. Let’s rule Cummings out while we try to find him.”
“We’re wasting our time.”
I hope you’re right. “It’s what we have to do.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Like Watkins, Chief of Detectives Harry Broderick’s attempts to tap into the grapevine were fruitless. The threats of retribution had silenced everyone. And except for the police guard for her family, Harry had no solution. When she got back to the oh-eight, she considered calling FBI Agent Trillums, the guy who had set up the undercover operation, but she decided it would be futile. The FBI was denying the operation existed so it was up to her to figure this out. And for the next hour she obsessed about how to save her job, stay alive, and protect her family, but there didn’t seem to be a way to accomplish all three. Then, resigned to holding the press conference, her anxiety about the threat morphed into anxiety about the pending interview. Head in hands, she searched for the strength to control her feelings and deal with Cummings professionally.
She paused at the door to the interview room, took a deep breath and walked in. Cummings turned, her face dark and furious. Corelli smiled, more a physical reaction than an expression of happiness. Parker had gone sullen. Corelli stepped on Cummings’s feet as she settled into the empty seat facing her.
“Sorry,” Corelli said, blushing.
Cummings retracted her legs and sat up. “It’s my fault,” she said, polite even in her rage.
“Well, Ms. Cummings—”
“Brett.”
“Brett. We’ve determined that Connie Winter wasn’t from the Midwest as she claimed.”
“What has that got to do with me?”
“How did you know she was from West Virginia when even her husband didn’t know?”
“But I didn’t. I barely knew the woman.”
“Detective Parker, please read your notes from our first interview with Ms. Cummings.”
Parker found the place in her notes and read aloud. “Why in the world would someone kill the poor ugly duckling from West Virginia who came to the Big Apple and built an empire with brains and hard work?”
“I said that?”
“Yes,” Corelli said.
“She must have told me sometime or other, maybe one of the nights we had dinner together when she was recruiting me. I don’t remember. Why does it matter?”
“Don’t you find it odd that she told you the truth and lied to her husband?”
“Connie said whatever served her purpose at the time.”
“So you didn’t know this when you started working for her?”
“Where she came from? Absolutely not.”
“Maybe you could help me out with something else then.”
Cummings shifted in her seat and some of the tension left her body, perhaps feeling that she had gotten by the lie and could relax. She brushed her hair back and leaned toward Corelli, smiling. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Good. Please tell me if you recognize anyone in these pictures.” Corelli handed Cummings the newspaper clippings that Watkins had collected. Cummings’s smile drifted away and her face lost its color. She wrapped her arms around herself.
“How did you…Where did you…I—”
“Was Richard Grodine your father, Ms. Cummings?”
She stared at the articles in her hand.
“Brett?”
Cummings lifted her head and their eyes locked. “Yes.”
“Yes, he was your father?”
“Yes, he was my father. But this has nothing to do with her death.”
“That’s not how it looks, Brett. Do you want to explain?” I’m so sorry to cause you pain.
“There’s nothing to explain. He trusted someone who didn’t deserve to be trusted. He killed himself because he made some stupid mistakes and couldn’t fix them.” She put her head in her hands. Her fingers massaged her forehead, and she seemed to shrink into herself. Corelli filled with a flood of contradictory feelings, the desire to reassure Brett competed with the cop’s need to get to the truth. She didn’t know if she could continue.
“You need coffee or tea?” Corelli wasn’t sure which of them Parker addressed the question to, but Cummings answered. “Please. Coffee, milk and sugar. And some water. Is there a ladies’ room I could use?”
Parker opened the door and asked Shaunton to escort Cummings to the ladies’ room.
Corelli stood. “I need the ladies’ room myself. Be right back.”
Noting the disapproval on Parker’s face, Corelli smirked. “Don’t worry. I won’t go in with her.”
Corelli placed wet paper towels on her forehead and on the back of her neck, trying to relax. She had never felt so vulnerable, so out of control. Her attraction to Marnie had never interfered with her ability to function. Of course, Marnie had never been a suspect in a case, so this was different. Maybe she was different. She’d never faced the kind of threat she was facing now. And her attraction to Cummings was much more intense. Whatever the reason, attraction to a suspect was unacceptable. She needed to marshal her self-discipline and be clearheaded, objective. She didn’t want to believe Cummings would kill, but she had motive and opportunity. And Corelli understood, as she had never understood before, that anyone could kill in the right situation. But Winter was no threat to Cummings. And Cummings was smart enough to know that beating her in business was the way to hurt Winter. As she left the ladies’ room, she wondered if she was losing perspective and making the case against Cummings to compensate for her feelings.
Ten minutes later they settled down again. Cummings seemed revived. Corelli resolved to remain in control. “Brett, this doesn’t look good for you, so I would advise you to not hold anything back.”
Cummings sipped the hot coffee, brushed her hair behind her ears and cleared her throat, but she didn’t speak. Corelli’s heart wrenched at the pain in her eyes, but she forced herself to maintain eye contact.
Cummings sighed. “You’re right. I knew she was from West Virginia because she worked for my dad, and he always referred to her as the ugly duckling from West Virginia. I remember hearing him say to my mother, ‘She’s amazing. A poor, ugly duckling from West Virginia and she’s smarter and works harder than my Ivy League graduates who are making five and six times as much.’ He was very much taken with her, nothing sexual mind you, just admiration.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“It didn’t seem relevant at first, and then I knew it would look bad. It does, doesn’t it?”
“Do you want to explain?”
She took a deep breath and tucked the wayward lock of hair behind her ear again. “I worshipped him, you know?” Her eyes flickered to each of their faces, seeking understanding. “We did lots of sports together—swimming, tennis, sailing, hunting, things like that. He taught me the brokerage business, and although I have two younger brothers, I was the one he wanted to run the business. In fact, I was supposed to start working with him the summer it happened.”
“What happened?” Corelli asked.
“As I said, Connie impressed my father. She started in the typing pool but made herself stand out. He knew what she was doing. She would find ways to get his attention, like timing her comings and goings with his so she could ask him questions. Nevertheless, he was impressed by her hard work, her persistence, and her brains. Eventually, he made her his assistant.”
Corelli couldn’t hide her surprise. “He was aware of what she was doing and still he promoted her?”
“He knew she was ambitious but he saw that as a good thing. I don’t think he ever imagined how ruthless she was. Over the next seven or eight years, he gave her more and more responsibility and eventually he let her deal with his clients. She urged him to take time off, to let her do more of the work, run the business. She was competent and loyal, he thought. She always seemed to be taking care of him. So he was lulled into letting go of more and more.”
Cummings paused and took a sip of coffee. “What he didn’t realize was that she was undermining him with his clients, pointing out how little time he was spending on the business. And, she was constantly flattering, praising, and seducing the clients—and him—until she was ready to leave. She rented offices, lined up people—his people—to work for her at extravagant salaries. She took most of his clients with her. He was the last to know.”
Her voice broke and she struggled for control. “Not only did she steal his business, she also spread rumors that limited his ability to attract new customers. He was forced into bankruptcy. When he asked her why she’d ruined him, she said she had planned it when she first started working for him ten years before, and it couldn’t have happened if he hadn’t cooperated. Needless to say, he was destroyed by the whole thing.”
“How did he react?” asked Corelli.
“Initially, he was in a rage and determined to rebuild the business, but when he talked to his old clients and tried to cultivate new ones, he realized that his reputation was ruined, and he despaired of working successfully in the business he loved. He became despondent, started drinking and became abusive to my mother. She left him. So deep in debt and alone, he put a gun in his mouth and killed himself.”
“You blamed Connie Winter?” Corelli asked.
“Damn right, I blamed her. I was devastated by my father’s ruin and even more so by his death. I was in a rage at her for what she had done to him and our family. I was a kid. I wanted to hurt her like she’d hurt us.”
“Did you fantasize about killing her?”
“Of course. But I mostly turned the rage inward. I started skipping school and doing drugs and hanging out with a wild crowd. Then, when I was eighteen, I was arrested with some marijuana on me, enough so that I could have gone to jail for a very long time under New York’s Rockefeller laws. But I was lucky. My father and I had hunted and fished with the police chief, so he knew me, knew my story and offered me a deal. If I went into therapy and stayed until the therapist discharged me, and if I didn’t get into any more trouble, he would drop the charges.”
“And did you?” Corelli asked.
“Yes. The therapist helped me see that Connie was right. She couldn’t have done it without his help, and the anger was replaced by a determination to make my own way in the business, to be a successful broker, and to do it honestly and fairly. And that’s what I’ve done. I even took my mother’s maiden name so that I wouldn’t be associated with him. Or her.”
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“Why did you go to work for her?”
“Curiosity? The challenge? To prove something to myself? All of the above? I don’t really know. But when I accepted the job, I refused to take my clients, which left me an out. As I told you, I decided over the weekend to take it. I planned to resign on Monday and go back to my former firm. I actually was feeling pretty good that I’d bested her. Very few people did.”
“And your fight on Friday?”
“I tried to convince her to go after the large firms rather than the small. But she wasn’t interested. She only cared about getting what she wanted, and it didn’t matter who she hurt. I was in a rage when I left because I could see that she was going to destroy that firm like—”
“And you picked up the nearest thing,” Corelli interrupted. “What was it Brett? You beat her to death with it, didn’t you? All your fantasies come true, at last.”
Cummings jumped up, knocking over the chair in her haste. Thinking she was getting violent, Parker bolted from her seat and grabbed Cummings around the waist. Cummings extended her hands palms-up toward Corelli, beseeching.
“You can’t think that. I planned to leave. Foiling her plans by warning the owner of the company that she was going to pillage was all the revenge I needed. You’ve got to believe me.”
Corelli pushed on. “It’s understandable, Brett. She destroyed your family and she was going to hurt others. She deserved to die. What did you do with the pyramid?” Corelli asked, pressing harder.
“I’m not a killer. Neither was my dad, or he would have murdered her instead of committing suicide.”
She collapsed into the chair. “I can’t believe this. She’s going to ruin my life like she ruined my dad’s.”
Corelli wanted to believe she was innocent. She avoided looking at Cummings and tried to shut out the profound pain in her voice.
A Matter of Blood Page 24