“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“How did you get in here?” he demanded.
I could hear the line ringing on the other end of his call. “Did you really get your wife’s trainer fired from his job?”
His face turned white. “This may come as a shock to you, but I didn’t return your calls for a reason. I have nothing to say, and I know nothing about this case.”
“Where is Rachel, Michael?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you spoke to her or saw her?”
He slammed the phone back down, booming at me, “I already told the police. She called me Saturday morning, but the call went to voicemail. And she didn’t leave a message.”
“Is there a record of that call coming in?”
“That’s a question for the police. Now could you kindly get the hell out of my office.”
“You’re leaving me no choice but to reveal some unsavory things about your marriage.”
“My marriage is already over,” he blustered, picking up his phone again.
I had to think quickly, buy myself some more time. “What about your career? I bet the partners here will love hearing about how you put a tracer on Rachel’s car. Let me tell you, once that stuff is out there, it’s out for good.” I stood up and took a few steps toward the door. “News cycles may come and go, but the Internet never forgets. You’ll never live that shit down.”
“Wait.” Rockwell picked up his phone and hit a button. “Ruby, move my eleven o’clock to five. Then bump the five to tomorrow at ten. Thanks.”
I slipped my business card across the hand-tooled leather of his desktop and took my seat again.
He studied my card. “Any relation to Bronson Shaw?”
“He’s a distant cousin,” I said, neglecting to mention that Bronson, a successful agribusiness lobbyist down in D.C., was part of the Shaw clan that liked to pretend I didn’t exist.
“I went to Harvard Law with him. Shall I tell him we met?”
“That’s entirely up to you.” If Rockwell was trying to intimidate or impress me with his ties to society—and my own distant kin—he’d pegged me dead wrong.
He removed a small voice recorder from his desk drawer and turned it on. “With your permission, I’d like to tape this interview and also have you state your name, media affiliation, and job title, and that this is an off-the-record interview, meaning that nothing that is said or suggested during the course of our discussion can be used in your reporting.”
“Actually I do mind. I thought we were having a casual conversation.”
“I record all my meetings, Miss Shaw. If you have an issue with this, or any of my terms, you are free to leave.”
I had to hand it to him; the guy had his bases covered. Typical lawyer. I repeated the information he requested and then asked my first question. “What does the name André Kaminski mean to you?”
He gritted his teeth.
“When did you find out he and your wife were sleeping together?”
Rockwell’s eyes lit up with anger, but he kept his voice steady. “It seems to me you already know the answer to that question.”
“The harder you make this, the longer it’s going to take. I’ve got all morning but it sounds like you don’t need me tying up your schedule any longer than necessary.” I let that sit with him for a second before plunging forward. “Did you know that after you had André fired from the gym, Rachel found a job for him at the Haverford—the building where Olivia Kravis lived? And that he was working the night Olivia was murdered and your wife disappeared?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. “That is news to me,” he finally said. It sounded like he was telling the truth.
“How would you describe Rachel’s relationship with Olivia?”
“They were social friends.”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
“They traveled in similar circles, had similar interests.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Again, silence. Rockwell was either completely stonewalling me, or he really did have no idea what his wife was up to with Olivia. Recalling one of Georgia’s favorite sayings—if the front door’s locked, throw a rock in a window—I took a more direct approach. “Were you at Olivia Kravis’s apartment the night of her murder?”
Rockwell gripped the edge of his desk, and when he spoke again his voice was stern and full of malice. “This interview is over, Ms. Shaw, and if you do make the mistake of slandering or libeling me or any of the members of my family, rest assured I will not hesitate for one second to ruin you.” He stood to his full height. “I can be very, very nasty when I want to be.”
I smiled sweetly. “If I had a dollar for every time someone threatened me with a lawsuit, I’d be richer than, well, you, Mr. Rockwell. You’ll have to try a hell of a lot harder than that to scare me.” Then I gathered my things and left. Behind me, I heard Rockwell’s door slam shut.
I was almost at the elevator when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I jumped, thinking it was Jack Slane or his mean-spirited secretary, but it was a man with a sweater in his hands. “You dropped this,” he said, handing it over with a lopsided grin. The man was on the short side, with a blond beard and thick black glasses—geeky but attractive in his own way.
Before I could say anything, I heard Jack Slane’s voice carry around the corner. He was looking for me. I needed to get out of there. “Is there another way out of here?” I asked the man.
“You in a hurry?’
“I need a place to hide. I promise I didn’t steal anything.”
He motioned for me to follow him. A couple of seconds later, I was in his office, the door closed. He introduced himself as Philip Drucker, and offered me water, coffee, and a muffin, all of which I declined. Then he sat on his desk and crossed his arms. “What’s your story?”
I picked up a paperweight on his desk. “Actually that’s why I’m here. For a story. I’m a journalist.”
He waited a beat for me to elaborate. I didn’t. “Can I at least have a name? Number?” he asked, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “I can’t ask you out on a date without one.”
A hard knock on the door interrupted us. Phil excused himself and opened the door a crack, and then, seeing who was on the other side of it, stepped outside and closed the door behind him. There were muffled voices, a crackle that sounded like it was coming from a walkie-talkie, and then a man’s voice escalating to almost a shout. Suddenly the door opened.
On the other side stood two security guards and Jack Slane. He pointed a finger at me. “There she is, guys.”
He was fatter than I remembered—a nice big spare tire where his six-pack used to be—and he had less hair. Most everything else was the same: wide shoulders, narrow eyes, smug, pretty-boy face. Looking at him now, I couldn’t believe I’d wasted one moment of my life pining for him and berating myself for losing him to another woman.
“Is there a problem?” I asked, playing dumb. I was on his turf, but I also had the upper hand.
“She’s trespassing,” Jack yelled. “She lied and she’s up to something. Get her out of here.”
One of the guards coughed, and with an apologetic glow in his eye, turned to address me. “Mr. Slane says you have a sweater of his in your possession.”
“This is my fault,” Philip Drucker said, his hand encircling my waist. “She wanted to surprise me. It’s my birthday today.”
The second guard took a step back. He looked flustered. “Happy birthday, sir.”
Jack glared at Philip.
“OK, Mr. Slane,” the first guard said. “Mystery solved. Sir. Ma’am. Sorry for the trouble.”
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” I cooed, not being able to resist the opportunity. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your day.”
His eyes flashed to me before he turned to leave. “The fuck you didn’t, you whore.”
“Are you OK?” Philip asked, closing his door.
“I’ll be fine,” I said, looking down at my shaking hands. “Thanks very much for covering for me.”
“It’s none of my business, but what happened between you and him?”
“Once upon a time I did a little damage to his apartment. Would you believe me if I said he had it coming?”
Philip laughed. “He is a prick.”
I cocked my head. “It’s not really your birthday is it?”
“Actually it is. Do you have plans tonight?”
I think I may have blushed. “I do. Work. I’m a producer for FirstNews. But if you aren’t busy next Monday, there’s a fundraiser at the Mandarin Oriental I have to attend. Black tie. I know it’s short notice.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Lucky for you, I’m free and I just got my tuxedo back from the dry cleaners. What time do the festivities commence?”
“Seven and we have to be there on time. No showing up half way through the salad course.”
“It’s not a problem. I’ll change into my tux here. May I arrange a car for the evening?”
“Please don’t go to the trouble.”
“But it’s no trouble.”
“OK, then.” We exchanged phone numbers and he walked me back to the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby once it arrived.
“See you next week,” he said as the doors slid closed.
I spent the rest of the day at the office tracking down and talking to a few of Olivia’s coworkers at the foundation. All of them told me basically the same thing, which was that Olivia didn’t have any enemies, and that she hadn’t been acting differently in the months and weeks before her death. There had been no strange meetings, unexplained days off, or other red flags. No money had randomly disappeared from the foundation’s coffers, and none of the grant recipients had shown up on the trust’s doorstep with complaints. I didn’t come away totally empty-handed, however. After some pestering, Olivia’s assistant, Emma Reiter, a recent college grad with blue-shock hair and multiple facial piercings, said she’d let me into Olivia’s office if I came by after everyone else went home.
Emma called me at six o’clock. I walked over to their offices on Thirty-seventh and Madison, right across from the Morgan Library. I handed my identification to the security guard, got a building pass, and rode the elevator up twenty floors to the foundation’s offices. Emma was waiting for me behind a pair of glass doors. “You’ll be quick, right?” she asked with an anxious frown.
I sailed past her, making a beeline for Olivia’s office. “As quick as I can.”
One wall of Olivia’s office was covered with awards she’d received on behalf of the foundation, the other of photographs she’d taken of the children the foundation had helped over the years. Her desktop was crowded with framed art and pottery kids had made for her, but something was missing. “Where’s the laptop?
“The police took it.”
“Were they in here early yesterday morning? Like around seven?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I got a call from her line.”
“From here?”
“Yes.”
Emma was quiet before responding. “I got here at maybe five past eight. Doors were locked. The police hadn’t arrived yet.”
“Does anyone else have keys?”
“Sure. Lots of people. But nobody was in yesterday besides me and a couple of other folks later on. I was here alone most of the day.”
I could tell she was spooked. “I’m sure it was a mistake,” I said, trying to assure her. “Maybe the cleaners came in and mistakenly hit redial. Can we check the last calls that came in to her phone on Friday?”
“Oh gosh,” Emma stammered. “The system only stores a limited number of calls, and I’ve been fielding calls from donors at her desk since yesterday.”
I pulled open the top drawer. “Where’s her agenda?”
Emma looked at me like she didn’t know what I was talking about. “I keep track of her schedule electronically.”
“Olivia keeps a date book at work. It’s green. Leather. Did the police take that, too?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
I rifled through Olivia’s desk drawers and file cabinets. There was no agenda anywhere. “I give up,” I finally said, throwing my hands in the air.
Emma offered to email me Olivia’s work schedule from the past weeks. With it, I’d be able to see everyone she’d met with recently, and start cold-calling the ones that seemed out of the ordinary.
“You have my email address?” I confirmed.
“I think so.”
“I’ll give it to you again, just in case.” I opened the top drawer of Olivia’s desk and found a pen and a pad of paper. I flipped through it looking for a clean sheet. Midway through, a piece of paper fell to the floor. I bent over to pick it up and froze. It was a Xeroxed copy of a birth certificate. My birth certificate. How did she get it? I’d never given it to her. The only copy I had was in a lockbox in my apartment, along with my mother’s death certificate and other important documents. My heart pounded as I wrote out my email address for Emma and handed the pad to her. Then I slipped my birth certificate in my purse without her noticing. Why, Olivia, did you have this? First the text and now this. Exactly how many secrets were you hiding from me?
I had dinner at my desk, watched Georgia’s show from the control room, and piled into the van with Aaron and Dino to go ambush André, otherwise known as Andrew Kaminski. We planted our van around the corner at half past ten. I spotted him about ten minutes later, coming down the street on foot, from the direction of the subway. This time he was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, jeans, and a beat-up brown leather jacket. As he came near us, two thoughts popped into my mind. The first was that André Kaminski was sexy enough to lure an unhappy Connecticut housewife away from her husband. The second was that our viewers would love him, no matter what he had to say—or what he’d done. A sick fact about the American viewing public: Good looks trump all. Take Scott Peterson, for example. He received two marriage proposals and bags of love letters after he was convicted of killing Laci, his pregnant wife.
I jumped out of the van, a mic gripped in my left hand. Dino slid out on the other side of the van, waiting for my signal.
“Hey,” Kaminski said, slowing to a stop. “I was hoping I might see you again.”
I motioned to Dino, who came out, the camera hoisted on his shoulder. He gave me the thumbs up sign with his free hand. Kaminski shaded his eyes from the bright light of the camera. “What the hell? What’s going on?”
“You don’t mind if I ask you a few questions, do you?”
He glanced toward the Haverford. “I thought I told you. I’m not supposed to talk to the press anymore.” His voice was low and edged with panic. “You’re gonna get me fired.”
“Is it true that you were sleeping with Rachel Rockwell?”
He glanced at the camera. If it hadn’t been there, I might have had a shot at hearing the truth. Instead Kaminski dug his hands in the front pocket of his jeans and tried to shoulder past me.
I moved to the side, blocking his path, and tried again. “I heard you used to train Rachel Rockwell in Connecticut. Is it true that you two were having an affair?” He pivoted, stumbling into the street. Two taxis screeched to a halt, the first nearly knocking him down. Once he’d made it safely to the other side, I called out to him, “I know your name isn’t Andrew.” He turned to look at me, just for an instant, but I knew I had him. He jogged the rest of the distance to the Haverford.
I turned to Dino. “You get that?”
“Sure did.”
“Good,” I said. “Sit tight in the van for a few minutes, will you?”
Dino lowered his camera off his shoulder. “He’s not going to talk, Clyde.”
Eyeing the front of the Haverford, I checked my watch. “We’ll see about that.”
Fifteen minutes later, Kaminsk
i appeared at the Haverford’s front door. I scuttled across the street and under the building’s awning before he could head me off. The pristine marble lobby glistened through the gilt and glass doors. “Not here,” he said gruffly, gripping my arm. “I need this job.”
“Then tell me the truth. Were you sleeping with Rachel?”
A forty-something woman with a fluffy white dog appeared behind the door. She rapped on the glass twice, her thin lips displaying her displeasure. “Sorry, Mrs. Himmel,” Kaminski muttered as she walked past us, disappearing into the night. “Go now. I mean it,” he said into my ear.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what you know.”
A vein surfaced beneath the skin of his neck. “I get off at seven. There’s a diner on Lexington a few blocks south.”
I knew the place, a diner on a busy corner.
“I’ll meet you there at seven-thirty.”
“And when I see you there, what will I call you? Andrew or André?”
“It’s Andrey. With a y instead of a w. They got it wrong at the uniform shop.”
Wednesday
On Wednesday morning, Andrey Kaminski was seated at a red-leather booth at the back of the diner, dressed in the same street clothes he had been wearing the night before.
I threw my bag in the booth. “Have you ordered yet?”
He nodded at his coffee. Even tired and disheveled he was hot.
I reached for my scarf. Suddenly he was out of his seat, helping me out of my jacket, lifting my hair gently at the nape. The gesture sent chills down my spine—the kind I shouldn’t have been feeling. No, I told myself, this is totally inappropriate.
He motioned to the waitress behind the countertop. She came over with a pot of coffee, leaning over our table to treat Andrey to a glimpse of her cleavage as she refilled his mug and splashed some in mine. “What ya want?” she asked, not even bothering to look at me. I went with my usual eggs and sausage. “Yours will be out soon,” she almost cooed to Andrey, evidently in no rush to get my order in.
Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery Page 10