Fatal Impressions

by Reba White Williams

  Six

  By five thirty Thursday morning, Dinah had eaten a light breakfast, dressed, and packed. At 5:45, Tom, Jonathan’s driver, picked her up in the Lincoln Town Car. Tom would drive her to the DDD&W office in the Fry Building, wait while she made a final check of last night’s installations, then take her to the airport in time for the nine a.m. flight to Los Angeles.

  They dropped Baker at his vet’s for the weekend and were on their way uptown by a few minutes past six. Dinah mentally checked everything she should have done. Her suitcase and carry-on bag were in the trunk, and she was dressed in a favorite travel outfit, a navy blue pantsuit and a crisp white shirt. Her ticket was in her bag, as were her sunglasses, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and cash in small bills to buy newspapers or magazines, and for tips. She’d remove the jacket when the plane arrived in warm LA. The New York weather was typical for March: cold, damp, and overcast. She smiled. In a few hours she’d be in sunshine, surrounded by the beautiful Bel-Air gardens, enjoying a loving welcome from Jonathan. Making up after a quarrel could be fun.

  At the Fry Building, she took the elevator to the thirty-third floor. She paused to admire the prints in the reception area, then hurried toward the dining area. But before she reached it, she noticed the door to the anteroom of the managing director’s suite was open. Hunt Frederick must be in. She’d invite him to join her for a tour.

  The door to his office was ajar. Dinah called his name but got no reply. Maybe he was on the telephone and couldn’t hear her? She tapped on the door and pushed it open. The carnage jumped up at her, a vision in a nightmare, and the smell was horrific—blood, urine, feces, and—oh, God—a whiff of Jungle Gardenia. The heavily carved bookshelves on the left had pulled away from the wall, and shelving and books lay all over the floor. Beneath the jumble of dark wood, red leather, and white pages splattered with blood: a body—and more blood, black against the red carpet. Blonde hair soaked in blood. A bloodstained beige platform shoe. A hand with purple painted nails.

  Dinah tiptoed into the room, avoiding the blood, and touched a white wrist: no pulse, and the skin was cool. Nothing could help the poor woman.

  Fighting nausea, she backed into the corridor and called 911 on her cell phone. “There’s b-been a f-fatal accident,” she said.

  Told to wait at the scene, she leaned against the wall. What should she do? She didn’t know anyone’s extension at DDD&W, and the telephone operators wouldn’t arrive until eight. She didn’t know how to reach the security people in the lobby. There was no point in calling Jonathan—it was the middle of night in California, and he couldn’t be here for hours, even if he left immediately, even if he could get a plane so early.

  She’d call Coleman. Her workaholic cousin was always in her office at ArtSmart by six.

  “Coleman,” she whispered to herself, listening to the phone ring on the other end of the line, “it’s Dinah. Please p-pick up, it’s an e-emergency.” Oh, hell, she was stammering. She’d stuttered as a child when she was upset but rarely since. Well, she had good reason: she was alone with a dead body.

  When Coleman answered, Dinah explained what had happened and begged her cousin to come to the DDD&W offices as soon as possible. “I’m in a st-state, I’m not th-thinking st-straight, I m-might throw up. I don’t know what to d-do. P-please, please c-come quick as you c-can.”

  Coleman, predictably calm and controlled, promised to hurry. Dinah felt as if she’d been on the thirty-third floor for hours, and it wasn’t even seven o’clock. She wished she’d gone downstairs to call 911 from her office. At least she’d be able to sit down. If only Hunt Frederick would turn up. Or his assistant. Anybody.

  She heard the sound of the elevator and looked down the corridor. Ellie McPhee hurried toward her. “Ellie, I’ve n-never been so g-glad to see anyone,” Dinah said.

  Ellie, wide-eyed, whispered, “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Something awful’s h-happened. The b-bookcases in Hunt Frederick’s office c-collapsed and fell on—k-killed—s-someone.”

  Ellie’s face paled. “Have you called for, like, uh, security?” she asked.

  “I called 911, but I d-don’t have n-numbers for p-people here. You don’t have your cell phone with you? No? Would you g-go d-downstairs and phone s-security, and anyone else you can th-think of? I have to w-wait here.”

  Ellie nodded and raced off. Dinah leaned against the wall again and closed her eyes. Time passed, but Ellie didn’t return.

  When Dinah began to think no one would ever come, all at once people were everywhere—two building security men, medical technicians, uniformed police, and the Lord be thanked, Coleman.

  At the sight of her cousin, Dinah was so relieved she nearly lost it. She forced herself to maintain control, promising herself she’d collapse later. With Coleman there, she could get through this. She wouldn’t let these people see her faint or go into hysterics, and damn it, she wouldn’t cry and she wouldn’t stutter.

  Hunt Frederick appeared with Theodore Douglas and a short bald man Dinah hadn’t met. They were trailed by a chesty woman whose teased black beehive, stiff with hairspray, looked like a bowling ball.

  “What are you doing here, Coleman?” Douglas asked. “And Dinah? You look awful. Are you ill?”

  “I’d like some answers, too,” Hunt Frederick said, glaring at Coleman.

  “Good morning, Teddy,” Coleman said to Douglas, before turning to Hunt Frederick. “Dinah came in early, and your door was open. The bookshelves have collapsed, and there’s a dead body beneath the rubble.”

  Hunt Frederick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right, and there’s an elephant in the dining room. Are you covering the—uh—events for your magazine?”

  Coleman stared at him. “Dinah is my cousin, and after she called 911, she called me. Excuse me, but aren’t you the CEO here? I repeat: there’s a corpse in your office. Shouldn’t you be attending to your duties instead of interrogating me?”

  Hunt Frederick flushed and addressed the security guards. “What do you know about this ridiculous story? Why are you here, anyway?”

  “When the ambulance and the cops got here, we come upstairs with ‘em,” the senior guard said, tugging his Groucho Marx moustache. “We got a call, too, but it didn’ make sense. We’d of come anyway, but these people got here first.”

  The medical team reappeared. “Nothing for us to do here; the woman’s been dead for hours. No one should go in there until the detectives arrive,” one of them said as they departed.

  The policemen and the security guards exchanged glances. “The detectives should be here any minute,” a cop said.

  “Detectives?” Hunt Frederick asked, frowning. “What are you talking about? There really is a body in there? Who is it? What happened? An accident of some kind? A heart attack? What’s going on?”

  “We had a call from a dame there’d been a murder here,” the senior security guard said, still tugging his moustache. “We told the cops.”

  Hunt Frederick glared at Dinah. “Were you the idiot who made that call?”

  “I did not. I called 911, and Coleman. That was it,” Dinah said. Thank goodness she’d managed to speak without stuttering. Hunt Austin Frederick had called her an idiot, and was treating her like a criminal. Well, he could go to the devil! It wasn’t her fault she’d discovered the accident. She wouldn’t mention Ellie. She wouldn’t subject that child to Hunt Frederick’s bullying. If Ellie had misunderstood and thought someone had been murdered, so what? It would be cleared up when they learned why those bookcases fell.

  “They’ll have tapes of those calls,” Hunt Frederick warned Dinah.

  Dinah sighed. “Yes, I know. I watch television, too. I was in your office for seconds. I saw the collapsed shelves, and the body. I have no idea what caused the shelves to fall. I assumed it was an accident,” she said.

  “Did you recognize the—uh—person?” Ted Douglas asked.

  Dinah shook her head. “I can’t be certain, but I thought
it was Patti Sue.”

  Hunt Frederick, still scowling, said, “What made you think so?”

  “Purple nail polish, platform shoes, bleached hair,” Dinah said.

  Coleman intervened. “I think Dinah should sit down, have something warm to drink.”

  The bald man spoke. “I quite agree. I’m Mark Leichter, the office manager. And you are?”

  Douglas looked at Hunt Frederick, apparently expecting the managing director to make the introductions. When Hunt, who looked dazed, didn’t speak, Douglas said, “Oh, sorry, Mark. Dinah Greene, our art consultant, and her cousin, Coleman Greene. This is Mark Leichter and his assistant, Naomi Skinner.”

  “I regret we weren’t introduced earlier, Ms. Greene,” Leichter said. “I’m so sorry you’ve had this terrible experience. If I can be of assistance, let me know. You’ll have to excuse me now. I have a great deal to do, as I’m sure you can appreciate. This sad death will create a lot of problems.” He departed, trailed by Hairspray Woman.

  “Why don’t we go in the dining room?” Douglas said. “There should be coffee by now. The—uh—detectives can talk to Dinah there.”

  “I’d like to go to the restroom first,” Dinah said.

  Coleman nodded. “I’ll go with you.”

  When they were alone, Coleman said, “I phoned Jonathan and Rob. They’re coming home as soon as they can. We’re all going to meet at your place this evening at seven.”

  Dinah splashed her face with cold water and patted it dry with paper towels. “I’m glad,” she said. “Thanks for calling them.”

  “Rob and Jonathan and I think you should have a lawyer. If this is murder, you could be a suspect, if for no other reason than that you found the body. I’ve read that maybe 80 percent of murders are committed by the person who ‘discovers’ the corpse. And if it’s Patti Sue who’s dead, you told me she’s been threatening to get you fired ever since you arrived here, and quarreling with you even before then. I’m sure everyone here has heard about it. A lawyer will make life a lot easier for you,” Coleman said.

  Dinah, who had applied fresh lipstick and was brushing her hair, shook her head. “Oh, Coleman, you read too many mysteries. It isn’t murder. It’s bound to have been an accident.”

  Coleman didn’t answer. She hoped Dinah was right, but she’d learned to be prepared for the worst.

  “Where’s Dolly?” Dinah asked.

  “I left her at home. As you know, I formed an unfavorable impression of the Cowboy when we met in Texas, and I thought he’d have Dolly and me arrested if I brought her—I’m sure this office has a no-dog rule. Anyway, Dolly’s a snob. She wouldn’t like it here. She might even bark to let the world know what she thinks of the place.”

  Dinah smiled. Dolly, six pounds of adoration focused exclusively on Coleman, had been taught not to bark, partly because Coleman took her everywhere, including places she might not be welcome, and partly because her bark was so piercing it hurt the ears. In the four years Coleman had owned Dolly, as far as Dinah knew, the little dog had barked only three times, always at Coleman’s command.

  “Come on, let’s go face the police,” Dinah said.

  Seven

  Coleman hadn’t eaten breakfast, and the dining room smelled down-home: coffee, toast, bacon. But there was nothing cozy about the two enormous men waiting for Dinah. They looked like they’d come off The Sopranos set, and their expressions were hostile. Had they picked up attitude from Hunt Austin Frederick? And why had he been so nasty? And where was he? Frederick and Douglas had both disappeared.

  Coleman wasn’t surprised. In her experience, corporate types were rarely brave, and their chivalry didn’t run deep. She’d known Ted Douglas for years, and he’d never struck her as a hero. As for Frederick, he reminded her of a big bullfrog on a lily pad, croaking away, telling the world how important he was but disappearing under the dark water at any threat or challenge.

  An overweight blonde Amazon appeared, carrying a huge tray of coffee and doughnuts thickly frosted with chocolate, vanilla, and pink icing, and plate-sized pastries oozing cherries, pineapple, and cheese. Her top-heavy figure reminded Coleman of Mad Men’s Joan. What a bosom! The giantess smiled at the cops and set the tray on their table. She left the room, ignoring Coleman and Dinah.

  Coleman rolled her eyes at Dinah. Another rude and hostile person. DDD&W should add Disagreeable to their list of D’s. She collected a glass of orange juice for Dinah and coffee for herself from the buffet before approaching the detectives. Neither of them rose or invited them to sit down. Coleman pulled out a chair for Dinah at a table near theirs and sat down beside her.

  “I’m Detective Ed Harrison,” the bald hulk said, “and this is Detective Joe Quintero. Which one of you found the body?” Quintero had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. A drinker? Or an insomniac? He smoothed back his sleek black hair, and Coleman caught a whiff of coconut. Hair oil? Yuck.

  “I did—I’m Dinah Greene. And this is my cousin, Coleman Greene.”

  “Why are you here?” Harrison asked Coleman through a mouthful of doughnut.

  The man looked as if he usually ate babies for breakfast. His bald head contrasted with his several days’ growth of black whiskers. He was sporting the need-a-shave look often seen on Hollywood hotties. Too many men cultivated stubble and thought they looked cool. It was nearly always a mistake. Precious few had handsome faces like those beneath the stubble of the stars—Harrison was no George Clooney. It would take more than a shave to make the cop look halfway decent. His eyebrows were bushy and unkempt, and the backs of his hands were furry. His hair was in all the wrong places. Maybe he was a werewolf?

  “I’m standing in for Dinah’s husband, Jonathan Hathaway,” Coleman said. “He’s on his way back from California. Do either of you know Robert Mondelli? He’s a former police officer and one of Ms. Greene’s lawyers. He’s on his way here, too. Mr. Hathaway and Mr. Mondelli expect me to stay with Dinah and, if I think she’s too tired or distressed in any way, to take her home.”

  Harrison raised his caterpillar eyebrows. “We need to talk to Ms. Greene alone. You’ll have to excuse us—ma’am.”

  Coleman smiled. So this was going to be power play time. Bully the women, right? The man was laughable. He sounded just like NYPD Blue’s Andy Sipowicz on a bad day. Sarcastic politeness. Tedious.

  She’d long since known that the best defense against sarcasm was to ignore it, or to pretend she thought it was sincere. “Dinah will not talk to you alone. If I leave, you’ll have to wait until her lawyer arrives to speak to her. And I suggest you let your supervisor know that Dinah Greene is Jonathan Hathaway’s wife and Robert Mondelli’s client,” she said.

  Both detectives glared at her. “Wait a minute,” Harrison said. “I reckanize you. You’re the one made a mess of things at that crazy art party in February, right? You interfered with the police investigation, screwed up a slam dunk. Keep your meddling hands off my case, got that? Or you’ll be sorry.”

  Coleman considered telling him that her “interference” had solved the case, but why waste time arguing and prolong their questioning? Her cousin needed to get out of there.

  Quintero was looking at Dinah. “How’d you happen to discover the corpse?” he asked.

  Dinah, sounding exhausted, explained again why she came in early and what she’d seen.

  “Did you tell anyone it was murder?” Harrison asked.

  “No, I told the 911 operator there’d been a fatal accident—they’ll have the tape—and I called Coleman. I made both calls on my cell phone. And I don’t think it was murder.”

  Harrison’s eyebrows rose to where his hairline should be. “No? Why do you think the cases fell? Magic?”

  She shrugged. “Poor installation, maybe. Or blasting in the neighborhood. Something like that.”

  “You identified the victim?” Quintero said.

  “I couldn’t see her face, but I thought it was Patti Sue Victor. She wears nail polish and shoes like those I saw,
and she has long, bleached blonde hair like the dead woman’s,” Dinah said.

  It was Harrison’s turn. “You got a key to Frederick’s office? Or his secretary’s?” he asked.

  Dinah shook her head. “I have a key to my office on thirty-two, and a key to the art storage room on the same floor. Both have conventional locks. Most of the offices here unlock with pass cards. I’ll only be here a few weeks, and my ID—it’s also my pass card—doesn’t let me in any of the offices.” She took the card out of her purse and handed it to Harrison, who glanced at it and put it in the pocket of his windbreaker.

  “I’ll keep this—you won’t need it. Can I look through that purse?” Harrison said.

  “Of course.” Dinah handed him her handbag. Coleman studied her face. The dark color of her jacket emphasized Dinah’s unusual pallor; she still looked as if she might faint. Small wonder. Her cousin had suffered a terrible experience, and these guys were inconsiderate buffoons.

  Harrison took Dinah’s diary out of her purse and skimmed through it until he must have reached today’s page. He looked up. “You planned to fly to California this morning?”

  “Yes, to join my husband.”

  “Don’t count on leaving New York for a while,” Harrison said, his lips pulled back in a grimace. Maybe it was his idea of a smile. His yellow teeth and the miasma around him suggested he was a two-pack-a-day man. He smelled even worse than Coconut Quintero—he must smoke both cigarettes and cigars. Coleman could hardly wait to hear what Rob Mondelli had to say about these creeps. Rob was a modern cop—law degree, polished manners, clean-cut and clean smelling. Just the opposite of these thugs. Drat, she hadn’t wanted to think about Rob. She’d have to deal with him soon, but not today.

  “As you see, I don’t have a pass card for those doors,” Dinah said.