Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery

by Tatiana Boncompagni

  I stuck my phone back in my bag and gazed up at Rachel’s home. It was made of limestone, with an inward-curving façade divided by three Corinthian columns. Like the other homes on the street, it was secured behind ten-foot hedges and wrought-iron gates. The B-roll of the neighborhood would illustrate the high level of wealth of its inhabitants; we’d let schadenfreude do the rest.

  All the other networks would be doing the same regurgitation, but thanks to Panda, and barring a massive double-cross from Uffizo, we’d have an exclusive on the missing-person report filed by Rachel’s parents. I grabbed a pen, banged out a script for Alex, and waited for him and Jen to call in from Vanessa’s house.

  Fifteen minutes later, I had him on the line. “She’s on her way in to the studio,” he said. “No breath mints required.”

  I updated him on the missing-persons report and read him his new script. He didn’t say anything. No thank you. No good job, Clyde. “Well?” I asked.

  “Well what?”

  “If you have something to get off your chest, just say it,” I huffed.

  He sighed. “I’m just wondering which network is going to get to interview Rachel’s parents.”

  I knew what he was saying—that my scoop was meaningless, that the real coup of the day was landing her parents’ first interview and that I was incapable of delivering it.

  “I don’t like being on a losing team, Clyde.”

  “Neither do I, Alex.”

  I slammed open the van’s door. It was ten past five and there were still several hours before we were due to go on air. I headed down the street, hoping to hook up with Jen and work the streets with her. I walked about a quarter of a mile before I came around a bend and realized there was a large, undeveloped parcel of land situated directly behind Rachel’s house.

  I called Dino and asked him to meet me where I stood. We’d go together, get some footage of the backyard, and maybe knock on the back door. With any luck, Rachel’s parents were in there with the kids, and I’d be able to appeal to them directly to do an interview with Georgia. Screw Alex.

  I waited for a few minutes before I started getting antsy. Through the trees, I could just make out an oversize yellow umbrella, the kind people put up poolside. I decided to move in for a closer look while there was still sunlight, and pushed away some low-hanging branches. I had to step carefully to avoid tripping on tree roots, but as I got closer to the Rockwells’ house, my heels began to sink deeper into the soil.

  I heard a fallen branch crack, and called out, “Dino, is that you?”

  “No such luck,” said the voice behind me.

  The figure came closer, close enough that I could make out the tall, muscular build and slicked-back head of hair. “What are you doing here?”

  Michael Rockwell pointed to his house. “Same thing it looks like you’re doing. Trying to get in there. Only I’m not trespassing.”

  Perspiration beaded on my forehead and trickled down my sides. “Am I trespassing? I didn’t know I stepped over the property line.” I glanced behind me. There was no sign of Dino. “And if this is your house, why don’t you just use the front door?’ I asked Rockwell.

  “Too many reporters. But I’m actually really glad to see you. It’s Clyde, right? Like a man. Not Cornelia. I made a few calls after you left my office. Your cousin didn’t have particularly favorable things to say about you. Jack Slane, either. But he did give me some rather memorable visuals.” Rockwell took a step closer.

  It was darker than I realized, the sun falling fast behind the trees. I turned to run, but I was too slow. Rockwell held me by my wrist. “Let me go,” I yelled as loud as I could, trying to wrest myself free. But he was too strong.

  He pulled me to him, growling into my hair. “You think just because you’re a woman, I won’t take you down?”

  I stopped squirming. “Is that what you said to Olivia? Did you kill her?”

  “Clyde!” Alex and Dino’s voices carried through the wooded lot. Rockwell let me go, and without another word, took off for the house.

  Alex and Dino reached me a second later. I could barely speak, but I managed to point to Rachel’s house. “Roll tape now,” I instructed Dino.

  Dino aimed his camera and gave me the thumbs up. I released the breath I didn’t know I was holding and sank to the ground on my heels. Alex squatted down next to me. “Christ, Clyde. You’re shaking,” he said, wrapping his arms around me, hugging me tight to him, my face buried into his chest, until the trembling stopped. “Can you stand?” he asked.

  I nodded, looked up at Dino. “Did you get it?”

  Dino grinned. “Full three seconds. The asshole broke in through his own back door.”

  Back at the van, Alex poured me a cup of coffee from his thermos and told everyone what happened. Jen wanted to call the police on Rockwell, but I assured them I’d do it myself once Alex’s package was done.

  But then my phone rang.

  It was Frank Uffizo.

  Rachel’s mother and stepfather were ready to talk.

  I called Georgia to let her know we were going to have to once again re-jigger the rundown for that night’s broadcast. We finished shooting Alex’s package in front of Rachel’s home, and hightailed it back to the bureau to get ready for the arrival of Roseanna and Vernal Hart. I asked everyone to keep an eye out for Michael Rockwell, but none of us saw him again that night.

  The interview almost didn’t happen. At the eleventh hour, Uffizo demanded we keep any discussion about Rachel’s sexual orientation off the table. Georgia refused and Uffizo threatened to walk, but I wasn’t about to lose my exclusive to his cronies at NBC. While Georgia kept Uffizo busy in Conference Room B, I barricaded the Harts in the green room and convinced them that the Today show and every other network were going to demand total access, and the only difference between answering questions now or the next morning was ten hours, ten hours they didn’t have to wait to tell the world about Rachel’s disappearance.

  Georgia pulled rank on Alex and demanded that she do the interview with the Harts; Alex was given the Vanessa Cox interview as a consolation. I overheard him grumbling a little, but he knew the score.

  We opened the show with the Harts. After an intro, the camera panned wide to Roseanna, a generously shaped woman with her daughter’s long black hair and wide-set eyes, and Vernal, Rachel’s stepfather. He held up a picture of Rachel, tears forming in his deep-set eyes.

  Georgia introduced the couple. “Ms. Hart, can you tell us why you waited this long to file a missing-persons report with the police? It’s been five days since anyone has seen or heard from her.”

  “We thought… hoped… she would come back home.” Roseanna’s voice was so soft, her mic barely picked it up.

  In my earpiece, I could hear Jon Wallace, Georgia’s EP, yelling at the sound techs in the control room to raise the volume.

  Georgia’s face remained placid despite the cacophony of voices in her left ear. “Has Rachel disappeared before?” she asked.

  Roseanna shook her head. “She would never leave her children.”

  Georgia softened her expression. “I know this is such a personal question, but what can you tell us about Rachel’s relationship with Olivia Kravis? Is it true they were lovers?”

  “We knew nothing about what she and—” Roseanna faltered. She looked to her husband.

  Vernal put down the photo of Rachel. “We love Rachel no matter what. We just want to know that she’s safe,” he said stoically.

  Georgia glanced down at her notes. “Your daughter’s husband filed for divorce amid reports of infidelity. She was, according to sources, sleeping with her personal trainer at the time. Did you know anything about that?”

  Roseanna shifted in her seat. “No.”

  Georgia looked incredulous. “She never talked to you about another man?”

  “No.”

  Stymied, Georgia flipped to another notecard. “Did Rachel ever seem worried about her safety? Did she worry that Michael would h
urt the children?”

  “As far as we know, he never laid a hand on her or the boys,” Roseanna replied.

  Georgia leaned forward. “Did he ever threaten to?”

  Roseanna opened her mouth to speak, but Vernal beat her to it. “Actually, yes. He did.”

  The color drained from Roseanna’s round face as she turned to face her husband. Vernal had gone off-script, putting his and Roseanna’s access to their grandchildren in peril. To go out on such a limb, Vernal had to believe that Michael could be responsible for Olivia’s death and his stepdaughter’s disappearance.

  “Mr. Hart, what do you mean by that?” Georgia asked.

  “Before they separated, Michael once told her that if she ever crossed him, he’d make sure she’d pay for it in blood.”

  Roseanna’s shoulders shook as fresh tears cascaded into her lap. Vernal Hart regarded his wife sadly before turning his weathered face back to Georgia. “All we want is for Rachel to come back home.”

  Only time would tell if they’d ever get their wish.

  Thursday

  Thursday

  At eight o’clock on Thursday morning, I opened the green-painted gate to the Peter Detmold Park, narrowly missing a head-on with a golden retriever. The dog brushed against my leg instead, throwing me off balance and making me spill the two coffees I’d brought for my sit-down with Panda. He didn’t have a dog of his own, but his mother, who lived in one of the condos overlooking the East River, had a ten-year-old Dachshund he’d walk for her when her sciatica was acting up.

  “How’s Dax?” I gestured toward the little dog. He was chasing a Jack Russell with a tennis ball in his mouth.

  “Forget Dax. How are you?”

  “I’ve been worse. Did you see Topical last night?”

  “No, but I got an earful about it this morning from Ehlers.”

  “He had to have known Rachel’s parents were going public.”

  Panda ran over to clean up after Dax, flipping the plastic baggie into a green waste bin on his way back to me. He sat down on one of the benches and motioned for me to join him.

  I handed one of my coffees to Panda and took a sip of mine. “Neal, level with me. Is Rachel missing or is she a suspect? I’ve had enough of this person-of-interest bullshit.”

  Panda removed the lid of his coffee and blew on it. “Rachel’s not a suspect.”

  That left me with two theories. One, Rachel was dead, murdered alongside Olivia and disposed of somewhere other than the crime scene. Or two, she’d witnessed the murder, freaked out, and taken off. Maybe she was hiding from the killer, maybe the cops. Either way, what Panda had just told me confirmed that the PD didn’t have enough crime-scene evidence to book her, let alone name her as a suspect. “What about the tissue you found under Olivia’s nails?”

  “It wasn’t tissue, Clyde.”

  “What?”

  He waited, watching my face for signs of comprehension. “Vaginal fluid,” he said at last, giving up.

  “Oh Jesus.” There were things I’d rather not know about Olivia. And yet I had to ask myself, how was this any different from hearing that the ME had found semen in Olivia’s vaginal cavity? It wasn’t. Maybe this was why Olivia rarely spoke to me about her relationships. It wasn’t punishment for the things I’d said to her in Guatemala, but that she’d known I wasn’t comfortable discussing her sex life. I grabbed Dax’s muddy tennis ball and hurled it across the park, but it did nothing to dissipate the frustration I felt building in my chest. “Why didn’t you just tell me what it was?”

  He set his coffee on a bench and gave me a fatherly pat on the back. “Remember what I said about the Kravises putting pressure on the PD? Well, this was something they had considerable concerns about leaking to the press. I gave you what I could, but that was completely off the table.”

  “What else have they taken off the table?”

  “Beats me. The topic came up after we established the nature of the relationship, and once we did, the Kravises intervened to make sure certain information stayed under wraps.”

  I handed over a white paper bag. In it were two cream-filled beignets from a little café up a block on First Avenue. We sat on the bench, eating and watching Dax chase the Jack Russell around the dog run. I got up to toss the bag and my empty coffee cup. “What does Ehlers think? Is Rachel hiding or missing?”

  “We don’t know, but his money’s on missing.”

  If she was missing—as in abducted or dead— the woman with the yappy dog’s story about seeing someone who looked like Rachel on the street the night of Olivia’s murder was a bunch of bullshit. It also meant that Rachel couldn’t have called Michael the next morning. “Does Ehlers think the killer used Rachel’s phone to call Michael Saturday morning?”

  He nodded.

  “Were there any other calls made from that phone?”

  “No.”

  “Does that make Michael seem more or less guilty to you? We’ve already established that he had threatened Rachel. What if he went over to Olivia’s apartment to exact some revenge? He kills Olivia, abducts or kills Rachel, and then the next morning uses Rachel’s phone to call himself, thinking that the call would be enough to convince the police that she’d killed Olivia and had gone into hiding?”

  “It’s not a bad theory, Clyde. But it’s just a theory.” Panda called to Dax and the little Dachshund came running, his short legs carrying his body as fast as they could.

  I patted the dog’s smooth head as Panda clipped on his leash. “It’s more than that. There’s something I haven’t told you yet,” I said.

  While we climbed the steep stairs back in the direction of the apartment building where Panda’s mother lived, I told him about my run-in with Michael Rockwell in the woods behind his Connecticut house. Panda’s concern was no longer about the case, but about me. “Why don’t you come to the station with me and make a statement? We could get some security on you.”

  I had a gut feeling Rockwell had only meant to scare me. This sort of thing had happened to me a few times before, once in a Detroit parking lot by a suspect in a sex-abuse case, another time on a beach in Florida by the parent of a murder victim. It was always frightening, but I’d come to accept it as part of the job. A job I couldn’t do if I was tied up filling out paperwork at the one-nine. “I don’t have time to make a statement,” I said.

  “If that’s how you feel, I can at least make sure Ehlers is up to speed,” he said. “We’ll keep a closer watch on Rockwell. And you, I want you to be careful. Watch your back, Clyde. I mean it.”

  We finished climbing the stairs from the dog run. Panda bent over to rub his left leg and catch his breath. It had been more than a week since my last workout, but I was barely winded, thanks to my regular sessions.

  I hadn’t always liked exercising. The gym reminded me of the worst parts of high school and singles’ bars combined, and my breasts made it nearly impossible to run, no matter how many sports bras I layered on over my double Ds. But a couple of years ago, I started swimming laps at a municipal pool near my apartment to help manage my stress levels and found that it also helped me stay in pretty decent shape. I wasn’t about to quit my job to become a swimsuit model, but I could clock a respectable time for a 400-meter freestyle.

  “How’s the knee?” I asked Panda.

  “Knee’s old.” He hauled out a handful of Bit O’ Honeys from his pocket and handed me one. Ever since he’d quit smoking he’d developed a massive sweet tooth. He’d also packed on about twenty extra pounds.

  I popped a candy in my mouth and chewed. “Rockwell got an alibi for Friday night?”

  Panda lifted his arm and hailed me a taxi. “You know, it’s not your job to actually solve the crime.”

  “So make sure your guys do it.” I slid into the taxi’s backseat. “The alibi?”

  “I’ll look into it.” Panda closed the door, and I noticed his tie for the first time. This one featured rows of piano keys against a bright green background.

 
“Too easy.” I rolled down the taxi window, nodding at his neck-wear. “Key lime.”

  “You nailed it, kid,” he said, waving me away.

  At work, word had spread about my sunset encounter with Michael Rockwell in the lot behind Rachel’s house, and everyone wanted to hear a firsthand account. I indulged one retelling, and was at my desk, studying the overnights, preparing a new to-do list, when Georgia called. She wanted to see me in her office, pronto. Another pep talk to keep me on my toes, I assumed, waltzing into her corner digs. Georgia was seated behind her desk, reading a book, her hair in hot rollers.

  “Knock, knock.” I picked up a throw pillow embroidered with an old Groucho Marx quote—Anyone who says he can see through women is missing a lot—and took my seat.

  Georgia held up the book she was reading for me to see. “It’s a galley of Charles Kravis’s memoir.”

  “Sure to be a bestseller,” I said, slipping the pillow behind my back. “Are they holding the release?”

  “To the contrary. They just pushed up the pub date.”

  “How can they?”

  Georgia laughed. “You obviously know nothing about publishing.”

  “I know bookstores are closing, book sales are down, and everything’s going digital.”

  “The business is in the shitter. And some asshole is into this book for $1.5 million. That was Kravis’s advance. So now, you’re the publisher, you’ve got an author whose about to croak, can’t do publicity, but his daughter’s murder is the biggest story of the day. What you going to do? The right, moral thing, or the thing that’s gonna save your ass when heads start to roll?” She slammed the book shut and passed it to me across the desk. “I want Alex to do a segment on it for tonight’s show.”