Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery

by Tatiana Boncompagni

Emma hesitated. “No. Not that I know of. I only said that because she usually told me where she was going, so I figured this was something private, like a—you know—gyno visit.”

  “Did she take a company car to this meeting?”

  “I’ll have to check on that for you.”

  After our call, I broke for a cranberry seltzer and handful of salted cashews. Then I called Detective Ehlers under the guise of wanting to know if they’d found out who’d spiked my drink, although what I really wanted to know was how far along Rachel was and whether they thought her pregnancy had anything to do with the double—make that now triple—homicide. Ehlers didn’t get back to me, but Restivo did and not until I was halfway through another Marie Callander’s.

  “Good news first?” he asked.

  “Give me the bad.”

  There was virtually no way of telling who had drugged me. The surveillance cameras weren’t positioned to catch someone spiking my drink or following me into the bathroom, and no one from the catering company had been busted for anything more serious than petty larceny. There also weren’t any surveillance cameras outside my building, which was contrary to what the super had told me, but not entirely surprising. The cops had no idea who had tried to break into my apartment the previous night.

  I felt frustrated, but it wasn’t Restivo’s fault they had nothing. “What’s the good?”

  “You’re alive.”

  That much was true, but I wanted to shift the discussion to the case. “Can you answer something for me?”

  “Have you figured out what Olivia’s text message meant?” he asked.

  “No, but I’m working on it.” I pressed my temples, feeling another headache coming on. “Andrey Kaminski was in the building. He’s knowledgeable enough about the building’s storage facilities and security cameras, and was presumably having an affair with one of the murder victims who, it turns out, was pregnant. Why aren’t you taking a closer look at him?”

  “Who says were not?”

  In the background, I could hear the sounds of a busy precinct. People calling to each other, chairs scraping across the floor. It was Sunday night and there was another big football game on ESPN, Jets vs. Patriots. But these guys were putting in hours. Even if Restivo was being tightlipped, he was putting up with my questions. That meant he was in a good mood. It all added up to something: They had a lead. I popped open my Excedrin bottle and dry-swallowed two pills.

  “Is the baby Kaminski’s or the husband’s?” I was convinced Andrey was the baby’s father. The question was why he’d lied to me about being dumped by Rachel. If he was the killer, he would know that it was only a matter of time before Rachel’s body was found and her pregnancy revealed. He would also know that there would be physical evidence on her corpse disproving what he’d told me—and presumably the cops—about the status of their relationship.

  “You know I can’t answer that,” Restivo said.

  “Well, how far along was Rachel?”

  Restivo gave a low chuckle into the receiver. “That will be in the autopsy, Ms. Shaw.”

  “Which is not currently available.”

  “Correct.”

  “When will it be?” I pounded on my chest to help the pills on their way.

  “Can’t say. Why don’t you ask the ME?”

  “You’ll call me as soon as it comes in?”

  “You got it, lady. Because I got nothing better to do.”

  Monday

  Monday

  Monday got off to a rough start. Diskin reamed me out for losing the Rockwell pregnancy scoop to GSBC. Then Jon Wallace yelled at me. And then Alex. None of them seemed to remember or care that all this had happened after I’d been drugged at a company function and explicitly banned from the office by Georgia. I was almost grateful once it was time for our weekly storyboard meeting, which was preceded by a morning of making phone calls that were never returned and putting together a package that was entirely made up of regurgitated news and too many question marks. That got me to lunch.

  In the afternoon we taped an interview with Olivia’s housekeeper, Ilsa Chavez, but she was old news, and basically had nothing to add except that she hadn’t noticed that Rachel was pregnant. Alex dug a little, and the housekeeper revealed that Rachel had been wearing an oversize pajama top that could have easily concealed a nascent baby mound when she’d been introduced to her at Olivia’s apartment. Not my—or the network’s—finest hour, but we wouldn’t pitch it that way to our viewers. Shocking new information in the Kravis murder case was how’d we sell it. Our audience deserved better than a nightshirt that revealed nothing.

  I checked my watch. It was already six p.m. Time to get rolling if I was going to make it to the fundraiser on time. “You going home first?” I asked Alex, who was sitting next to me in the editing room.

  He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead. “Gonna change in the bathroom. You?”

  I got up from the desk. “Same.”

  He gave me another one of his quarterback smiles. “Holler if you need help with a zipper.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I said lightly. Letting myself out of the tiny room with my stack of papers tucked up against my chest, I marched my sorry mood into the ladies room, where I slipped on a black knee-length column that displayed just the right amount of cleavage and did some sort of voodoo on my waist to make it look half its usual size. Last, I strapped on the sparkly black stilettos I’d purchased at Olivia’s insistence; she believed every woman should own at least one pair of leg-lengthening, confidence-boosting shoes, no matter how much they cost or how much they hurt. These were sheer torture after fifteen minutes of standing, which explained why I barely ever wore them.

  I might consider wearing them more often, though, if Phil Drucker’s reaction to seeing me was what I could expect every time I slipped them on. He picked me up outside the FirstNews building in a hired Town Car and whistled. “That dress looks like it was made for you.”

  I touched my chignon. It had taken about twenty bobby pins and half a can of hairspray, but the results were better than expected. “I clean up all right,” I said, blushing a little.

  He held open the car door for me. “That’s a whopping understatement.”

  In the car, Phil asked me how work was going. He and I had corresponded a few times over the weekend—he’d actually asked me out for a drink on Sunday afternoon, a “pre-game warmup” for our big date night—and I’d begged off, using work as an excuse to stay home and finish recuperating in sweatpants. “Could be better, could be worse,” I said.

  He tapped his fingers on the faux-wood paneling on the car door. “Well, tonight should be interesting.”

  Our car pulled up outside the Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle. We checked our coats in the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental, and rode an elevator up to the thirty-sixth floor to the hotel’s ballroom. The space boasted eighteen-foot ceilings, three massive crystal chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows offering sweeping views of Central Park and the twinkling Manhattan skyline. But other than the magnificent view, and despite the best efforts of the event planner’s decorator and florist, the space couldn’t shake its sterile feel. We might as well have been dining in one of the FirstNews conference rooms.

  I found our table assignment while Phil hit the bar. He returned with a glass of Champagne for himself and a Coke for me. He looked sweet in his tuxedo, but if there had been any spark between us the other day, it was long gone. The day I’d met him at his office I’d been high on adrenaline, just coming from meeting Rockwell and trying to escape an old flame. Now, with the moment of danger well behind us, I saw Phil for what he was: A nice lawyer with a better-than-average sense of humor. Olivia would have loved him. I was pretty sure I couldn’t. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I fall for a good guy?

  He held out my Coke. “I just met Georgia Jacobs.”

  “Star-struck?” I asked, taking my soda.

  He flubbed his lips. “Who me? No
t at all.”

  I laughed at his self-deprecating humor. “What was she ordering?”

  “A martini, three olives. She also told me to take good care of you tonight.”

  “What did you say?”

  He took a sip of his Champagne. “I told her that you were more than capable of looking after yourself.”

  “Georgia has a habit of forgetting that.”

  “Here’s to not forgetting anything.” He clinked his glass against mine and took a second sip. I hesitated, remembering the Ketamine that had been slipped into my drink at the Maldone party.

  “Something the matter?” Phil asked.

  I shook off my paranoia and took a sip of Coke, scanning the room for potential sources and interview subjects.

  Phil peered over my shoulder. “I see one of my partners.”

  I turned around to find an overweight Persian man waving politely at us.

  “Let’s go say hello. I’ll introduce you.” Phil dragged me by the hand across the reception area. The man made a short bow and proffered a big, white smile, but his dark eyes looked distracted. “How’s your wife? Is she here tonight?” Phil asked.

  “She is.” The man arched his back, his stomach straining the gold studs of his shirt. “In fact, I must find her before the dinner starts. Enjoy your night.”

  “You as well.” Phil waited a few moments before murmuring low into my ear that Reza was usually a far more affable sort of man. “It must be because he’s worried about losing his client,” he said.

  “What client?”

  “The Kravis Foundation is a firm client. I thought you knew.”

  I took a step back. “How would I know that?” It came out sounding harsher than intended.

  Phil set his glass down and took my hand once again, leading me to a table at the front entrance where invitations and foundation materials were laid out in neat fans. Selecting a booklet filled with pictures of smiling children—recipients of the foundation’s largesse—he flipped to the last page. “We’re listed as one of the main sponsors,” he said, pointing to his firm’s name.

  “So you are.” I couldn’t believe I’d missed such a connection. Michael Rockwell worked for Bennett & Wayne, which worked for the Kravis family and their foundation. I’d bet anything Rachel had met Olivia through Michael, and I could only imagine how that made him feel. To a status-obsessed man like Michael, Andrey didn’t really pose much of a threat, but Olivia, with all her millions, sure did.

  “What kind of work does the firm do for the Kravises?” I asked Phil.

  “I suppose it’s public knowledge we represent the foundation. Much of the work is pro bono. We used to represent the corporate entity that controls the family’s holdings, but not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head at me. “You don’t give up easy, do you?”

  I repeated my question. “Why did the Kravises dump Bennett & Wayne?”

  “I don’t know for sure, since it’s not my department. But my understanding is that changes were made as Charles stepped away from management of the family’s assets. That’s not entirely unusual.”

  “If they fired the firm from doing the revenue-generating stuff, why keep working pro bono?”

  He shrugged. “Different relationships.”

  “Did Michael Rockwell work for Kravis?”

  He hesitated.

  “Phil, this could be important.”

  “He worked on a couple of acquisitions for them.”

  “Do the police know about this?”

  “I have no idea, Clyde, but I’d assume so. None of this is classified information.”

  The dinner gong sounded, clearing out most of the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Monica Kravis, Olivia’s stepmother, walking into the main dining room. Her platinum hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and she wore a conservative navy taffeta gown. Even after all these years, she was still a great beauty. Charles Kravis had written in his memoir that he’d fallen in love with her at first sight, across a crowded table somewhere in the south of France. At the time, he was still full of ambition and energy, eager to experience everything, conquer everything—including women. And while the book was surprisingly candid about Charles’ roving eye and “romantic nature” prior to meeting Monica, it led readers to believe that the affairs had ended with the start of his second marriage. I’d heard too many rumors over the years to believe that to be true, but if this woman hadn’t been able to tame the infamous hound, I doubt anyone could.

  Phil and I entered the main dining room, snaking around a dozen round tables to find Alex seated alone at ours. He was dressed in a well-cut tux, looking almost unfairly handsome. He got up and gave me a kiss me on the cheek, pulling back the chair next to his. “Keep me company.”

  I gestured at all the other empty seats as I sat down. “Where is everyone?”

  “Diskin’s making the rounds with Georgia.”

  “And the rest?”

  “No clue.”

  Phil sat down next to me as Diskin and Georgia and their respective spouses arrived at the table. I got up and walked around the table to greet Georgia, who, in floor-length raspberry and matching eyeglasses, was wearing enough perfume to kill a small dog. My eyes watered as I leaned into the cloud of her canary-colored hair. “Rockwell’s law firm used to do corporate work for the Kravis family. Rockwell, specifically, handled their account.”

  “You think that’s how they met?” Georgia turned to me, not bothering to lower her voice. The noise around us prevented anyone from overhearing what we were saying.

  “I’d bet my job on it,” I replied, but Georgia wasn’t listening. She was looking across the table, at my twenty-four-year-old assistant. Sabine. Sabine, who was Alex’s date. She looked incredible. Swallowing hard, I returned to my seat.

  “Great dress,” she said to me, leaning across Alex’s lap, her silky brown hair dangling into his groin. Her abbreviated black frock exposed a generous amount of creamy thigh.

  “Sabine, I’d like you to meet Philip Drucker,” I said.

  Sabine waved at Phil, who gave her a polite, but disinterested nod. Alex put his hand on Phil’s shoulder. “He’s her dinner companion.” The way he’d said companion, I knew he’d already pumped Phil for a backstory, which was as short as Sabine’s skirt.

  Diskin fluffed out his napkin and addressed Phil. “My apologies in advance. Shaw needs to work this thing tonight. I’m afraid you two aren’t going to be seeing much of each other.”

  Phil shrugged good-naturedly. “That’s OK by me. As long as I’m the guy who gets to take her home tonight.”

  “Shaw, as soon as the speeches are over, I want you to go make the rounds.” Diskin gestured at the two unoccupied seats at our table. “Where’s Mike?”

  I’d thought the night couldn’t get any more awkward. Mike Fischer hosted the political show that led into Topical Tonight. He was also the reason I could never show my face at Coyote Cinco’s again. I’d had two margaritas and five shots of tequila the first time we hooked up in the men’s room; the second time, I can’t even remember. My only consolation was that Mike would be seated next to Sabine, and knowing him, he’d have a hell of a time keeping his eyes off all the skin on display.

  “I made the seating arrangements,” Georgia announced, winking at me.

  “Cheers,” I said, lifting my water glass to her. At least someone had my back.

  Diskin looked at his watch as Mike and his wife finally arrived. She was painfully thin and pale, with short auburn hair and a brittle smile. Mike sat down, forgetting to pull out his wife’s chair. “Sorry I’m late, Mitchell. Linda forgot to order a car.”

  Phil hopped up to help Linda into her seat. “So nice to see you again,” I said to her across the table. She held her wine glass up to be filled, ignoring me.

  Everyone seated, we could all dig into the starter course, a cheese soufflé and salad plate that was remarkable only in its near-total lack of flavor. I gave up after
a few bites. Alex nudged me and nodded toward the stage, where Delphine Kravis was standing behind a plexiglass podium. She was dressed in a brown-lace, knee-length gown, her thick hair pulled back in a coordinating headband. “Good evening and thank you all for coming,” she said into the microphone. Her voice was clear and assured.

  Public speaking was one thing I’d never come close to mastering. I’d tried going in front of the camera once, early in my career, and it had been a disaster. I’d stuttered, broke out in a cold sweat, and forgot my own name. The producer who had given me the on-air shot avoided me like the plague from then on, and it took the better part of a year for my colleagues to forget the incident. Personally, I’d never gotten over it.

  Delphine, by contrast, sounded like an old pro thanking the crowd for their charitable donations, which, she informed the crowd, had totaled over $2 million and would go to feed, clothe, and educate underprivileged children in the poorest communities in the United States and around the world. She stepped away from the podium, waiting for the applause to die down before continuing.

  “As some of you may know, my stepsister, Olivia, was going to speak this evening. I know Olivia was very much looking forward to tonight, to telling you all about the good works the Charles S. Kravis Foundation has helped fund this year through your generosity and support. Many of you know that for the last ten years my sister played an integral and tireless role at the foundation, directing grants and helping organize tonight’s event and other fundraising efforts throughout the year. But what many of you may not know is that Olivia was also personally involved in many of our missions, accompanying our volunteer doctors, relief workers, and teachers on several trips each year. She was a shining light, a role model, and a loving friend to all who had the privilege of knowing her. In her memory, we have created the Olivia Kravis Grant, which will be awarded annually to an individual or group working with children in need in Central America.”

  Delphine paused again for applause as the entire room rose for an ovation. My thoughts ran to Olivia, and how much I wished she could be here to see this. Pushing away a tear with my forefinger, two white cotton handkerchiefs appeared in front of me. One from Alex and one from Phil. I waved them both off as we all returned to our seats.