Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery

by Tatiana Boncompagni

  He twisted off the cap of his orange soda and took a sip. Then he said, “You have something to show me?”

  “It’s an envelope.” I handed it to him.

  Restivo peeked inside. “Nothing’s in it?”

  I pointed at the embossing on the front. “It’s from Orchid Cellmark. They are one of the most highly esteemed labs in the world specializing in forensic DNA testing.”

  Restivo laughed. I could count his gold fillings waiting for him to stop. “Sorry Shaw, but every reporter I meet’s got a boatload of theories—none of them right. Now, thanks to you, we won’t be able to process this envelope for fingerprints.”

  A call came in from FirstNews on my cell, the third since we’d sat down. I pressed the ignore button and tapped the return address on the envelope with my finger. “But you can go to the lab and find out why Olivia was corresponding with them. They have a location in Princeton.”

  He carved off another triangle of his mushroom and sausage. “How about we talk about what you were doing at the Haverford last night?”

  I was better off telling him the truth. The worst they could book me on was unlawful entry since I hadn’t taken anything of value. If the case ever went to trial, which was unlikely, I would probably be able to plead out with community service.

  After giving Restivo a minute-by-minute PG-13-rated account of what had happened the previous night, he asked me a few questions about my brief but revealing conversation with Andrey at the end of the night. I filled him in on everything as best as I could remember, and at the end Restivo closed his notebook. He removed the napkin under his chin and wiped the corners of his mouth with it. Then he drained the last of his soda before slipping on his sunglasses, stuffing his notebook and the envelope from Orchid Cellmark in his pocket, and getting up from the table. “You know if it were up to me, I would’ve read you your rights hours ago. You’re lucky the Kravises aren’t pressing charges.”

  I followed him outside. “Why would they not—”

  “Apparently they consider you a family friend, which is kind of funny because where I come from, friends don’t break into your house.”

  Although I should have felt relieved, I didn’t. The only reason the Kravis family hadn’t pressed charges was because of the firestorm of press coverage that would have been ignited if they had. Getting me fired, conversely, could be done completely under the radar. I was screwed.

  Restivo and I walked back down the block to my apartment building. The female officer had joined Rivera on the stoop. The crime-scene techs were upstairs and I had to find somewhere else to stay while they swept the place for evidence. “How long will that take?” I asked.

  Restivo shrugged. “A day, maybe more. It’s not safe for you here anyway.”

  “Then give me protection.”

  “We’re not the FBI. I can’t put a team on you 24/7.”

  “What if I make a formal request?”

  “By all means, do it. But you’re gonna get the same answer I just gave you.” Restivo got into his car, popped open the passenger’s side door. “You want a lift to the Haverford? I’m going back there now.”

  I shook my head. “They already took me off the case.”

  He pulled the car door shut and fired up the engine. “Not for nothing, but you might want to switch on the news when you get to wherever you’re going.”

  There’d been a break in the case. That’s why I’d gotten all those calls from FirstNews, and why the assignment desk had been relentlessly trying to reach Alex. “What happened?” I yelled, but he was already gone.

  I ran the whole way to Alex’s apartment building on Sutton Place, my overnight bag slowing my pace only minimally. Between deep breaths, I introduced myself to the doorman on duty. In response I got a smile that told me I wasn’t the first woman Mr. Amori had handed his keys.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said. “Alex and I work together.”

  He pressed the eleventh-floor button for me, his mouth still crimped in a smirk. “None of my business, Ma’am.”

  Inside Alex’s apartment, I threw my purse on the ground and flipped on the TV in the living room. It had been on ESPN. Typical. I clicked over to FirstNews and sat through a series of commercials and the latest headlines. Finally, Jean Chan, the afternoon news anchor, tossed the broadcast to Alex. He was standing in front of the Haverford. In the background, I saw a cluster of cop cars, their red lights flashing.

  “I’m here in Manhattan, at the Haverford, an exclusive Upper East Side building where just this morning authorities made an arrest in the murders of Olivia Kravis, Rachel Rockwell, and Ms. Rockwell’s unborn child. According to our sources, Andrey Kaminski, a building worker here at the Haverford, was taken into police custody just a few hours ago.”

  I felt my knees give out and sank to the floor. Andrey was the killer. My best friend’s killer. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d been alone with him, feet away from where he’d hidden his girlfriend’s body. My God, my God, Clyde, what have you done? I rapped my knuckles hard against my forehead. I’d never forgive myself for this.

  Alex’s face filled the television screen. “Olivia Kravis, the stepdaughter of Charles Kravis, this network’s founder, was found dead in her apartment early last week. The body of Rachel Rockwell, a mother of two from Greenwich, who was estranged from her husband, Michael Rockwell, an attorney at a prominent New York City law firm, was found in the basement of the building several days later. The two women were believed to have been romantically involved. It was revealed just two days ago that Rachel was pregnant at the time of her death. Sources tell us that Andrey Kaminski, the man the police have arrested, met Rachel in the Rockwells’ local community of Greenwich, Connecticut, and was rumored to be having an affair with her long before he took a job as the overnight doorman at the Haverford. Police aren’t releasing any more details about the arrest at this time.”

  I pulled myself up from the floor to the couch. The broadcast jumped back to Jean Chan. “Has anyone suggested that this is a case of a love triangle turned fatal?”

  The screen split between Alex on the scene and Jean in the studio. “There’s been speculation that Kaminski was the father of Rachel Rockwell’s unborn child,” Alex said. “But none of the investigators have given us an official word on the matter.”

  “Thank you so much. Keep us posted on any further developments?” Jean said from behind her desk.

  “Sure thing, Jean.”

  I muted the television and stood up on shaky legs as another wave of fury and disgust hit me with full force. My hands balled into fists at my sides, my nails dug into the flesh of my palms. I’d been with a murderer.

  Alex’s place was outfitted in typical bachelor fashion, except the kitchen was six times the size of mine and stocked with expensive-looking gadgets: a KitchenAid mixer; Vitamix blender; bread-making machine; and a Nespresso coffee maker. The cabinets were filled with spices and gourmet crackers, bottles of olive oil, Swiss chocolate bars, and homemade granola. Only thing missing was what I needed most at that moment: a stocked bar. A quick search through the kitchen cabinets yielded only an opened bottle of wine that had turned to vinegar and some cooking sherry. The freezer, which held a bag of ice, a vat of cookies ‘n cream and a few packs of chicken, was no better. “C’mon, Alex. Nothing? You’ve got to have something,” I muttered to myself.

  In his bedroom I found a pile of dirty clothes, an unmade bed, and an open box of condoms on his bedside table. There was an en-suite bathroom with a Travertine tub, and a small half bath off the combined living room/dining room. There wasn’t a guest bedroom. My bed, I presumed, would be the leather couch.

  I sat back down on it and buried my head in my hands, forcing myself to get it together, to see that it was better like this, not getting drunk. I reached for my phone. I’d missed three calls and had one new voicemail. I tentatively hit play.

  “Cornelia Shaw, this is Catherine Feinberg from the human-resources department. I have been
trying to reach you for the better part of the day. I’d like for you to come directly to the eighteenth floor tomorrow morning at eight a.m. The receptionist will be expecting you. Mitchell Diskin and Hiro Itzushi from our legal department will be present for the meeting. If you have any questions, I can be reached via email.”

  Catherine Feinberg, a woman I’d never met in person but knew from the umpteen thousand memos I’d received from the HR department over the years, spoke quickly and with a strong upstate accent. If there had been any doubt in my mind as to the fate of my job at the network, her message had it sealed. I was history. Knowing the efficiency of the FirstNews legal department, I could safely assume that my termination contract had already been worked up, my key card deactivated, and computer Intranet access shut down. After the meeting ended, I would be handed a booklet explaining my rights, options, and temporary benefits and turned over to a security guard, who would take me to my desk to collect my personal effects and then escort me out of the building. All this would take place before most of my colleagues arrived at the office, thereby avoiding any disruption of work and productivity. Those assholes had it down to a science.

  But I could only blame myself. I’d broken the law, messed around with a source against my better judgment, and ignored everyone’s advice to back off the case. Tomorrow, I’d have to take my punishment. Except, I still had one card to play, and it happened to be buried at the bottom of my bag.

  Prentice Maldone’s office was located in a Midtown commercial building known for its architecture and exorbitantly high rents. One of his willowy assistants—Val, a different girl than the one who had found me passed out in the gallery’s bathroom—offered me a bottle of water, which I declined with what I thought was a reasonably funny joke about the safety of beverages at Maldone Enterprises. She wasn’t amused. “It’ll be a few minutes before he can see you,” she said tersely. “But feel free to wait.”

  Val let me in an hour later. I didn’t care; I had nowhere else to be. Prentice greeted me and led me to a long couch at the opposite end of his gigantic office. It featured a broad view over Fifth Avenue, several seating areas, and what looked like some fine Chinese antiquities. He settled into a grommet-studded armchair facing my perch on the couch. “Shouldn’t you be down at the Haverford?” he asked. “I was just watching the coverage.”

  He motioned to the TV monitor mounted on a wood-paneled wall.

  “I’ve been pulled off the case.”

  “By whom?”

  “Naomi Zell.” I took a deep breath. “She told me last night at the gala that I should assume Olivia’s murder wasn’t connected to the merger, and when I pushed a little and asked who on the board of directors had been opposed to the deal, she said she was going to have Diskin reassign me. It’s obvious she’s afraid of me uncovering something.”

  Prentice stood up. “Tell me exactly what she said.” I summarized my conversation with Naomi Zell. He sat down again and ran a hand over his bald pate. “So that’s everything?”

  I gulped. This was the part I was dreading. “After Olivia threatened me, I went to the Haverford to see Andrey Kaminski.”

  “They guy they just arrested?”

  “Yes. He took me to the super’s office, where I stole Olivia’s apartment key, which I then used to break into her apartment. The police aren’t going to arrest me because the Kravises have declined to press charges, but I just got a call from HR asking me to come in tomorrow morning—early. I suspect I’m going to be fired.”

  “And you want me to intervene?”

  “I was doing my job, and now I’m getting fired for it. If it was your friend who got murdered, you wouldn’t give up so easily, either.”

  He gave a rueful chuckle. “I don’t have many friends at the network now, Cornelia. There’s a limit to what I can do.”

  “They’ll listen to you.”

  Maldone walked over to his desk. He buzzed his assistant. “Get me Naomi Zell.”

  Then he looked up at me. “Would you mind waiting outside?”

  I let myself out and tried to sit down and relax but found myself on my feet again, pacing the room, checking my phone for messages and the latest news updates on Kaminski’s arrest on the Internet. I was hitting the refresh button when he came back out.

  This time he didn’t invite me into his office but stood standing in his doorway. “This is more complicated than I thought,” he began, and I knew what was coming next. FirstNews was going to fire me and none of the national networks would touch me, not if people found out why I’d been canned. And they would. These things always got out. “Call me in a couple of months. I may be of more help then,” he said, but we both knew he didn’t mean it.

  I returned to Alex’s apartment to find him at his kitchen counter, unloading a sack full of groceries. “Why are you here?” I asked. It was only five o’clock.

  “Thought I’d grill us up some steaks after I get back from Topical. My butcher gets beef from a farm in Pennsylvania. You can’t believe this meat. I also picked up some new potatoes but the deal is you have to prep them for me.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at the bureau?” I asked him.

  “Georgia wanted me to check on you.”

  I slid him a sideways look. Had she told him to keep me away from alcohol? “You can tell her I’m fine,” I said. “Who else besides her knows I’m here?”

  He put the steaks in the fridge and set the vegetables in the sink. “Just Georgia,”—he paused—“and Sabine.”

  I got up and went for my purse. “I should leave. They’ve caught the killer. There’s no point to me being here.”

  “Just stay, OK?” He took my bag from my hands and held it tucked under his arm. “One night’s not going to kill you.”

  I wanted to be alone with my misery. I could find a shitty hotel somewhere. Maybe I’d go out to a bar and find someone to keep me company in the aforementioned shitty hotel room. Then I would sleep through my meeting tomorrow morning. Fuck Catherine Feinberg, whoever she was. I didn’t owe her anything. I grabbed for my bag.

  Alex pulled it away, tossing it on top of a bookshelf. “You’re not going anywhere. I promised Georgia I would look after you.”

  “Why do you care?” I asked hotly.

  “I feel responsible for getting you into this situation. I practically forced Diskin to give you the assignment.”

  “You did? Why?”

  He walked back into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. “I’d heard good things.”

  “It wasn’t because you wanted to get in my pants?” I asked, less angry now.

  He grinned. “The thought did cross my mind. But no, that wasn’t the reason.”

  I wandered over to the sliding glass doors. His balcony overlooked the Queensboro Bridge, and I could watch the cars as they whizzed across the span.

  Alex handed me the water. “The view’s better from out there.”

  “It’s good enough from in here,” I said.

  He looked like he was about to ask me something when he remembered the time. “I have to get back. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. You’ll be all right while I’m gone?”

  I nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Call me if you need me.”

  He was almost at the door when it occurred to me I should say something nice. “Alex,” I said, feeling suddenly at a loss for words. “Thanks for taking me in.”

  He grinned. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been trying to get you on my couch for a long time.”

  While he was gone I busied myself scrubbing the potatoes, making the salad and setting the table with plates, linen napkins, and silverware. I took a bath and changed into an old T-shirt and sweats I found in one of Alex’s clothes drawers. In my haste, I’d packed only a skirt suit, a few extra pairs of underwear, and toiletries in my overnight bag.

  Alex walked in at half past ten, took one look at the place and me and loosened his tie. “How are you doing?”

  “Reasonably well, consid
ering the circumstances.”

  “You watch the broadcast?” he asked, turning on the stereo. I nodded as I dimmed the overhead lights and lit a trio of candles in hurricane lamps. “You think we did OK?”

  “You did great,” I said, straightening a napkin on the table.

  Alex moved to the kitchen, rolling up his shirtsleeves to get to work. He seasoned the steaks with salt and cracked peppercorns and whipped together what he promised would be the best Béarnaise I’d ever tasted. “You like tarragon, right?”

  “Sure.” It was an herb, I knew that much. “Since when have you been such a cook?”

  “Since I realized that chicks dug it.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  He laughed. “Actually, my mom taught me. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted her Beef Wellington.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “D.C., which is why I want to get back there. My dad’s cancer came back.”

  “I’m sorry, Alex.”

  He turned back to the stove, where two filet mignons were sizzling on a pan. He flipped them over, picked up a whisk, and started emulsifying the eggs and butter together for the sauce.

  “Can I ask you something personal?”

  He started chopping the herbs on his cutting board. “Shoot.”

  I migrated to the couch. “Why Sabine? Aside from the obvious reasons.”

  He didn’t answer straight away. Finally, he asked with his head cocked to one side, “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m a journalist. I’m curious by nature.”

  He pointed his big knife at me. “And nosy.”

  “That too.”

  “You really want to know?”

  I nodded. “That’s why I asked.”

  “She’s easy. And I don’t mean it the way you think I do.”

  Easy, that was a good word to describe what most men wanted: pretty and uncomplicated. On a good day, I could pass for pretty, but I’d never be uncomplicated.