Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery

by Tatiana Boncompagni

  “Now I would like to introduce Naomi Zell. As one of the foundation’s board members, she has intimate knowledge of everything that we do, and is, as my sister was, a passionate advocate for children’s rights. This year she testified along with Olivia on Capitol Hill on behalf of Senator Epstein’s child-poverty bill; together they were lauded as a clear yet impassioned voice for underprivileged youth. I’d like for you to join me in welcoming Naomi here tonight.”

  Naomi took the stage, acknowledging Delphine with a quick nod before looking out over the podium and beginning her speech. She was of medium height and dressed in a black knit suit significantly enlivened by a large diamond and pearl flower-shaped brooch. Her dark hair was coiffed in a shoulder grazing bob and pulled away from her face with a pair of diamond combs. Everything about her was business, from her sensible mid-height heels to the tenor of her voice as she delivered a ten-minute speech that was about as forgettable as the starter course. By the time she left the stage, most of us had checked our email half a dozen times.

  Phil excused himself to go the men’s room. A second later Alex leaned into my ear. “Gee, I’m glad that’s over,” he whispered into my neck.

  “Stop doing that. It’s rude,” I said, admonishing him.

  “You’re no fun, Shaw. And not very nice, either.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He put his finger on the wrinkle between my eyes. “Your date. He’s clearly in over his head.”

  I batted his hand away and nodded at Sabine. “If anyone’s over their head, it’s her.”

  We both looked at her. She’d spent the dinner listening to Mike Fischer brag about his recently released drivel on the state of American politics, drivel that had spent eighteen weeks on The New York Times hardcover bestseller list. Fischer’s wife, meanwhile, had passed the hour staring at her husband with silent fury. “You haven’t said more than five words to her since we sat down.”

  Alex grinned wryly. “She’ll have my full attention later.”

  I held my hand up. “Spare me the details.”

  A fleet of waiters descended on the table, depositing platters of filet mignon and filling my red wine glass before I could tell them not to. The food was awful, and the wine was calling to me. Just one sip wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it? Everyone else seemed to be enjoying it. Sabine was on her third. I picked up my glass when I thought no one was looking, but apparently I was wrong. Georgia’s fingers snapped at me from across the table.

  “Having a good time?”

  We both knew what she meant. I set my glass down, hot with shame. “Best Monday night gala I’ve attended in years. How about you? Are you having fun?”

  She barked at me from behind her water glass. “Girl, the night is long, and so is my memory.”

  Diskin was oblivious to the subtext of my exchange with Georgia, but he had more of his own for me. “Speeches are over, Clyde,” he said. In other words: Get to work.

  Alex stood as I pushed my chair away from the table. Grabbing my evening bag, which was stocked with my phone, tape recorder, business cards, and a safety pin in case of a wardrobe emergency, I crossed the empty dance floor, glancing at the Kravis table. Charles Kravis was in a wheelchair, a nurse hovering behind him. Monica, his wife, sat next to him, clutching his hand. Delphine and her husband and Naomi Zell and her husband were also seated at the table. I jotted a quick note on a napkin, asking Delphine to come meet me in one of the meeting rooms behind the bank of elevators at the entrance, and handed it to a waiter along with a twenty-dollar bill. “For the woman in brown,” I said. “Delphine Kravis.”

  But it was Naomi Zell who waltzed into the meeting room five minutes later, waving my scribbled-on napkin in the air. She took a chair at the conference-room table and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m as close as you’re going to get to the Kravises tonight, Clyde. As I know you’ve been told, any press inquiries related to Olivia’s death come through me. I’m the family spokesperson. Now take a seat.”

  I stood standing. “How do you know who I am?”

  Naomi rolled her eyes. “Your name is Clyde Shaw. You work for Georgia Jacobs on Topical, and up until a few minutes ago, you’ve been doing a commendable job.”

  “Then why—”

  Naomi held up a plump hand. “My impression is that for you this is both personal and professional. But you have to respect the family’s privacy. If you don’t, I will have to take certain steps. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  She wanted me to back off. “I’m just following Diskin’s orders.”

  “I will be happy to discuss the situation with him.” Naomi called the shots. Until the deal with Maldone Enterprises was etched in stone, she controlled the network; she controlled Diskin; and she controlled me.

  She straightened her posture, pulling at the hem of her knit jacket. “Now please take a seat. I have some questions of my own for you.”

  I remained standing. “What do you mean, questions for me?”

  “What’s your connection to this family?”

  I told her about my childhood friendship with Olivia, and how she had helped me get my job at the network.

  “Before last Monday, I’d never heard of you. Now I’m spending my time meeting with lawyers about you getting drugged at a company party, and not just any party, but a party celebrating the pending merger of FirstNews with Maldone Enterprises.” She paused, studying my face. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what were you doing there?”

  It was a fair question so I gave her an honest answer. “Georgia asked me. She thought I could meet a man there. I’m single.”

  “Ah.” She nodded in comprehension. “Did you?

  “The only man I talked to was Prentice Maldone, and he only wanted to talk about the case.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing we haven’t already reported on air.”

  “Good.” Her mouth curved into something approaching a smile.

  “Ms. Zell, is there something I should know? Is Olivia’s death related to the merger?”

  “Call me Naomi.” She again motioned for me to take a chair.

  This time I obliged. “Was Olivia opposed to the sale?”

  “Olivia was adamantly in favor of the merger. She knew her father was ailing and she wasn’t interested in taking on a larger role herself. She actually was quite involved in making sure this all happened now, as opposed to later when economic conditions could be more favorable for a sale of this magnitude.”

  “What about you? Is this what you wanted?” I asked.

  “All good things must come to an end, Clyde. In terms of what was best for the company, the board ultimately reached the consensus that this was the right decision. This was the best scenario we could have hoped for.”

  The way she was talking made me think that there had been a fight to keep the company in Kravis hands. “Who was against it? Who stood to lose from it?”

  “In every merger there are those in favor and those who aren’t. In fact, it wouldn’t have been normal if everyone had been in perfect agreement.” Naomi folded her hands in her lap. “I know what you might be thinking, but until we are notified to the contrary you should assume that Olivia’s tragic murder and the network’s pending merger are two separate and distinct events.”

  “And what about what happened to me at the party to celebrate the merger? Is that a separate and distinct event, too?”

  Naomi regarded me through narrow eyes. “This has all been off the record, you know.”

  “I did not know that. Who opposed the merger, Naomi?”

  She shook her head in disappointment. I wasn’t the team player she’d pegged me for. “You know what, on second thought, I think I’d rather see Olivia’s murder go unsolved than risk the life of another valued member of the FirstNews family.” She plucked a business card from her jacket pocket and held it out for me. “Now that I have a better understanding of you and the situation, I’m going to
advise Diskin to reassign you. This case will be handed to another producer.”

  “Who opposed the deal with Maldone?”

  She put her card down and stood up. “I understand your motivations, Clyde. I do. But you are going to have to trust me that my primary concern is for the health and longevity of this network. Idle speculation along the lines of what you are suggesting could put FirstNews and its thousands of employees in financial jeopardy. Can you imagine what Wall Street would do if they even got a whiff of scandal coming off this deal?

  “I don’t care about that.”

  She blinked. “And that is why as of this moment you are no longer assigned to Olivia’s case. Is that understood?”

  I pounded the table with my fist. “You can’t do that.”

  “You may not like it, but this is the way it’s going to be.”

  On my way back to the ballroom, I made a bad turn and ended up down a hall of small meeting rooms. I heard a voice, then a giggle, and being the nosy journalist that I was, couldn’t just forget about it and continue on my way like a normal person. Crouching low to the ground, I stuck my nose around the doorframe.

  The overheads were out, but there was enough light coming from the windows for me to make out Sabine’s face and Alex’s profile. From my vantage point, I could see that he had her up on the table, his face buried in her neck, his hands working beneath her short skirt. Sabine’s dress fell off her shoulder, exposing a grapefruit-shaped breast. She whimpered with pleasure as his mouth found her nipple. The next thing I heard was his zipper.

  I slipped back out, praying neither of them had seen me, wishing I hadn’t seen what I did as I stumbled back down the hall, passing the doors to the kitchen. A waiter burst through, carrying a tray of Champagne glasses. I sped up and pilfered two of them. Then I went into the bathroom and downed them both, one after the other, the bubbles tickling the back of my throat, tasting like heaven, warming my belly. I wanted more.

  “OK, so what happened?”

  Georgia and I were downstairs, waiting in line at the coat check. Husband No. 4 had left midway through the filet mignon, mumbling something about a conference call with Hong Kong, and Diskin and his wife had taken off immediately after the crème caramel. We were all free to go. “You look like a pig at a Memphis barbecue,” she said accusingly.

  I threw my hands up. “What does that even mean?”

  “It means, sugar pie, that your face is redder than the blood that used to come out of my hoo-ha every goddamn month and your breath smells like the peppermints they got in the ladies’.”

  I’d grabbed a handful of them in the bathroom after downing the Champagne. Then I’d hit the bar, sucked down a vodka tonic and a glass of red abandoned on a table in the reception area.

  “What the fuck just happened?” Georgia asked.

  “Naomi Zell and I had a tête-à-tête. I’m off Olivia’s case, and I’m not allowed to get within ten feet of any of the Kravises. The network is hiding something. Or they’re afraid I’ll uncover something that will mess up the merger. Why else would she pull me off the case?”

  Georgia took off her glasses. “You told her to stuff it, I hope.”

  “But I thought you didn’t want me on this case either.”

  “That ain’t the point.”

  Phil draped Georgia’s chinchilla cape over her shoulders. The fur was overkill given the evening’s mild weather, but Georgia flaunted her furs whenever possible. “That it?” She gave me a knowing look.

  I handed Phil the claim ticket for my black wool topper. “Would you mind?”

  We watched him file back into the coat-check line. Georgia linked her arm in mine and lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “Fess up, child.”

  Sometimes I loved that nothing got by her, other times, not so much. “If you must know, I caught Alex and Sabine going at it in one of the meeting rooms.”

  Georgia planted a hand on her hip, her eyes two thin slits. “Christ in heaven, you are so much worse off than I thought.”

  “She’s my assistant. I’m his producer. It’s normal for me to be weirded out.”

  She clucked admonishingly.

  “Everything OK?” Phil asked as he helped me into my coat. I shot Georgia a pleading look.

  “This girl is a workaholic. I’m always telling her she needs to get a life outside the office.”

  “Point taken,” I said.

  “Get her home safe,” Georgia said, giving Phil a meaningful look before leaving us to find her Escalade.

  “What was that all about?’ he asked.

  “I think she just really likes you,” I said lightly, as Phil led me to his Town Car. In the backseat, I slid a little closer to him, pressing my back against Phil’s body. “Thanks for coming tonight. I owe you one.”

  “No problem.” He gave my leg a fraternal pat in return. “Georgia’s a hoot.”

  I reached for the inside of his thigh.

  He pulled away. “I think you and I are in different places.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He took a breath, adjusting his glasses. “You’re beautiful, Clyde. And smart, and passionate about what you do, but I just don’t see this working out.”

  I couldn’t believe he was rejecting me. I pictured Alex and Sabine, remembering the sound of his zipper and her moans. God, how I missed that kind of sex. Urgent. Dirty. Dangerous. I looked out the window, suddenly furious. We were at a red light and about to turn down Park Avenue.

  “Look, if things change—”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” My voice was jagged and sharp. I opened the car door and jumped out. Then I slammed the door behind me and ran for the curb.

  I stood there, angry and horny, an old, familiar feeling stirring deep within me, a hungry recklessness that had been lying there blessedly dormant. There was only one place I could think of going. Crossing Park Avenue, I hailed a taxi. “I’m going uptown. But first, I need to find an open liquor store.”

  Andrey opened the door to the Haverford. His jacket was off and shirtsleeves rolled up. I took his arm, tracing the scales of his tattoo.

  He smiled. “Looks like someone’s been having fun.”

  Not nearly enough. “I handed him the open bottle of vodka in my hand. Is there somewhere we can go?”

  “Not here.”

  I took the bottle back, pouting. “Fine. I’ll go then.”

  He pulled me back into to him, his hands pressing my body into his so I could feel that he was already aroused. “It’s not that I don’t want you,” he said.

  “Quickly then.”

  He took a key from his pants and bolted the front door. In the elevator I felt his lips on mine, his hands all over my body. We reached the basement floor. He pulled me into the hall, unzipping my dress to my waist, liberating my breasts from the satin cups of my bra. A second key led us to a small, pitch-black room. It smelled of WD-40, dust, and men’s cologne. Andrey pushed me down on a couch and stood over me. I reached for his belt buckle, dropped his pants, taking his cock in my mouth. For the next few minutes, I was happy. This is what I’d come for, what I’d wanted. But when he bent back down, stripping off my wet panties, positioning himself to enter me, I pressed my hand firmly on his chest. “Aren’t you going to use a condom?”

  “What?” His brow was slick with sweat, his breath loud in my ear.

  “A condom,” I repeated, but the moment was already over. I couldn’t do this. Not here. Not like this. Not even drunk as I was. Andrey was involved in my best friend’s murder. Even for me, this was too far over the line. What the hell was I doing? I maneuvered out from under him, adjusting my dress. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “You sure?” he panted.

  I nodded. “Maybe another time.”

  He stood to buckle his pants. Then he walked a few paces in the murky darkness and flicked a switch, flooding the room with fluorescent light. I rubbed my eyes, which were struggling to adjust to the light, and realized that Andrey
had taken me to the super’s office. There was a desk and a computer, a shelving system lined with toolboxes and toilet plungers, and at the back of the tiny chamber, where I was sitting, a silk-upholstered couch that had probably once belonged to one of the co-op tenants. It had seen better days.

  Andrey couldn’t bring himself to look at me, and I got a flash of the man who looked so vulnerable in the coffee shop, talking about how Rachel had left him once Michael filed for divorce. “Take your time getting out of here,” Andrey said, gesturing to the small fridge under the super’s desk. “There’s water in there if you’re thirsty.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just do me a favor and close the door to the office when you leave.” He pivoted on his heel, gave me an awkward salute, and was gone.

  I’d had more humiliating moments in more unlikely places. And yet sitting there, half-drunk, half-exposed, my bare ass on a ratty old couch I wouldn’t want to touch with a gloved hand, I felt incredibly ashamed and disappointed in myself. I’d worked so hard for my sobriety. Damn it, Clyde.

  Reaching under the couch for one of my shoes, I felt something hard and cool. It was a key ring. Each of the keys was clearly marked—Super’s Office, Roof, and so on. One was simply marked Keys. Andrey would be looking for these since he couldn’t unlock the front door without them. I quickly finished dressing and had my hand on the door to go upstairs when it dawned on me that I was in the super’s office—with keys.

  Despite my warnings from Naomi Zell to back off the story, I couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass me by. Olivia had been clobbered with a crystal vase; her pregnant girlfriend had been suffocated and stuffed into a garbage bag and suitcase, and someone thought I knew more than I did—why else would I have been drugged? Plus I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was somehow responsible for what had happened to these women. The text. If only I’d read it on Friday night. It’s time you know the truth.