by Carrie Smith
He said nothing. Saying nothing was better than risking another diplomatic response that she would see right through.
“What if she finds out I lied?”
He wasn’t used to hearing anxiety in Margery’s voice. “She probably won’t,” he said. “I hardly think the police will be focusing in on you as a prime suspect. No offense.” He laughed. “But as imposing as you are, you’re no one’s idea of a psychotic killer.”
She didn’t respond to the humor. “But if they find out I didn’t tell them the truth, they might start probing, and other things might come out.”
“Other things?”
“You know.”
“They can’t find out about that unless you or I tell them, and we’re not going to,” he said. “That would be a disaster for both of us, Margery.”
“I know.”
“Listen to me. You’re about to unveil incredible research results. You’re going to get a lot of publicity for what you’re doing in the district. Lipsie’s going to take note. You’re going to get a big promotion out of this. We just have to sit tight and let this inconvenient little distraction go away. And it will go away. They had to visit you. It was pro forma, I’m sure.”
He heard her sigh. “All right,” she said.
“The last thing you should do is act guilty about something you had no part in. And what you do in your private life is nobody’s business but your own—and mine.”
“You’re right,” she said.
“Of course I’m right. Now are you going to be okay?”
She took a deep breath. “Could we meet for a drink later on?”
Chip looked at his watch. He hadn’t planned on seeing Margery again before his flight out tomorrow, but he couldn’t leave her questioning his commitment to her, not when the purchase orders for iAchieve still needed her careful review and signature. “I’ve got the PS 777 iAchieve demo at three forty-five. They didn’t cancel it. But I can duck out of here in about half an hour. Meet me at the hotel at two. We’ll talk there.”
“Make sure no one follows you,” she said.
“Listen to yourself.” He laughed. “You make it sound like we’re double agents or something. Ease up on the paranoia.” But in truth, now she was making him nervous, too.
Chapter 33
Haggerty returned to the precinct at 1:45. Blackstone was sitting on the edge of his desk reading the Post and sipping a Coke. It was probably his third or fourth of the day, thought Haggerty as he stared at Blackstone’s soda belly. He waved at Portino. Portino had the McFlieger-Walsh website up on his screen, and he was on the phone with someone about a fundraiser on Monday night. Muñoz was bent over his keyboard logging a video segment from the surveillance footage paused on his computer screen. Haggerty walked over to him. “You find anything on there?”
“Plenty, but it’s a blurry mess. Have a look.” Muñoz played back images of the three figures that might be related to Sanchez’s murder.
“Has Codella seen this yet?”
“Not yet. She said she’d be back in an hour.”
“Can I give you a piece of advice? Take a quick trip up to the laundromat before she gets here. See if they have a security cam inside. If there’s a camera in there, it might give us a better look at that face in the window. Codella will ask for that. You could anticipate her.”
Muñoz nodded. “I’ll go right away.” He stood and grabbed his jacket off his chair. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing.” Haggerty slapped his back and smiled.
As soon as Muñoz was gone, Blackstone sauntered over. “Nice of you to help out Rainbow Dick.” He slurped the last drops of soda in his can and tossed the can into a garbage bin next to Muñoz’s desk.
Haggerty walked away.
Blackstone chuckled. “Looks to me like Codella’s got herself two bag hags,” he called out.
Then Haggerty turned back, moved as close as he could without touching Blackstone, and said, “I think it’s real interesting how focused you are on Muñoz. I think maybe you’re into him, Blackstone. I think maybe you’ve got some urges you don’t know how to handle. You know what they say about guys who protest a little too much.”
Blackstone’s face reddened.
“Maybe in the spirit of department camaraderie,” Haggerty continued, “we should bring this up at tomorrow’s roll call. Maybe the other guys can help you deal with your unresolved issues.”
Blackstone pressed both palms into Haggerty’s shoulders and shoved him backward. Haggerty’s thigh hit the desk behind him and the feet of the desk skidded across the floor with a loud screech. Portino pushed out his chair and stood up as Haggerty shoved Blackstone back. Then Blackstone grabbed Haggerty’s shirt and yanked on it hard. “Fuck you!”
Haggerty laughed. “You see? You’ve got issues.” He tore Blackstone’s hand away from his collar. Then Blackstone threw a punch but it only swiped air. Portino came over and pulled Blackstone away as Haggerty turned and walked out of the squad room. “Go back to your corner,” Portino told Blackstone. “It’s over.”
Haggerty went to the evidence room and signed out Hector Sanchez’s laptop. Bag hag or not, he was going to help Claire.
Chapter 34
Jane Martin was wearing a steel-blue cable-knit sweater and skintight jeans when she opened the door to her fourth-floor apartment. “You found me. That means Dana must have let you in on our big lie.”
“There’s no room for lies in a murder investigation, Ms. Martin. She hardly had a choice.”
“So how can I help you?”
“I have a few questions.” Codella stared at Martin’s heavily veined, slightly discolored hands. She’s a sculptor, Drew had said.
“Ask away,” said Martin with apparent bonhomie.
“You had a meeting with Sanchez on Friday.”
“It wasn’t my meeting, but yes, I was there.”
“Why?” asked Codella, with an exaggerated expression of confusion. “Why did you show up for that meeting after Ms. Drew had broken things off?”
Martin gave an amused little smile that covered whatever she was really feeling. “Dana doesn’t want it to be over,” she said. “Dana’s just confused right now.”
“Confused?”
“About how she feels. Haven’t you ever been confused?”
Codella ignored the attempt to deflect her scrutiny. “How long did the meeting last?”
“Forty minutes or so.”
“How did Sanchez seem?”
She shrugged. “Same as always.”
“Which is how?”
“Businesslike.”
“You knew him well?”
“Dana knew him better.”
“Did he mention any problems at the school?”
She snickered. “There are nothing but problems at that school. I’ve been telling Dana all along to get Zoe out of it.”
“Who left the meeting first?”
“Dana and I did. Hector and Sofia stayed behind. They had some other things to discuss, I think.”
Codella stared at Martin’s inscrutable face. The girlfriend is just her latest diversion, Christine Donohue had said. When we met two years ago, I thought she would be the one, Dana Drew had told her. Codella knew that her straightforward questions would only get her safe, succinct answers. She had to switch tactics. “When you left the meeting,” she asked calmly, “did you and Ms. Drew have your fight right outside the school where you could see people coming and going?”
Martin shifted from one foot to the other and didn’t hide her annoyance. “My personal life has nothing to do with your investigation.”
Codella pressed harder. “Did anyone leave the building while you were holding on to Miss Drew’s arm firmly enough to cause a bruise?”
“What’s your game, Detective?”
“I’m not playing any game. I merely asked you a question, and I’d like an answer.”
“No. I didn’t see anyone leave.”
“While you were holding onto
your partner’s arm firmly enough to cause a bruise?”
The eyes narrowed. The arms crossed over the chest. “Are we done here?”
“Not quite. Where were you on Monday evening between four and seven PM?”
“Well, I certainly wasn’t with Hector, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking for a straight answer. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course. And I’ll give you one. Since you insist. I was at my studio. I’m a sculptor. But I’m sure Dana told you that, too.”
“Where’s your studio?”
“In Red Hook. In a converted warehouse.”
“Where exactly?”
Martin gave the address and Codella touch-typed it into her iPhone. “You drove there?”
“That’s right.”
“In your car?”
She nodded.
“Did anyone else see you while you were there?”
“I share a space with two other artists, but neither of them was there.” Martin shrugged. “I guess you’ll have to take my word.”
Codella had no intention of doing that. “Okay,” she said. “I appreciate your time.”
She returned to the building’s lobby and phoned Drew. “What kind of car does your ex-partner drive, and where does she park it?”
“It’s a Volvo S60. It’s mine, actually. It’s in the Rapid Park on Ninety-Seventh Street. Why?”
“Did you take it out on Monday?”
“No. I haven’t used it for weeks. A driver takes me to the theater and back.”
“After you told Martin it was over, did you tell the garage not to give her access to the car anymore?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“So she could still be driving it?”
“I’m sure she is.”
Chapter 35
As soon as Dressler got to his hotel room, he ordered Margery’s favorite Veuve Clicquot rosé from room service, but when she arrived ten minutes later, she wanted straight scotch instead, so he unscrewed the top on a bottle from the minibar and poured the amber liquid over ice.
She took a long sip and said, “I should never have hired that man.”
“It’s too late to worry about that.”
“He really picked an inconvenient time to get himself murdered.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Dressler. “It could be a blessing in disguise. You and I both know he was going to poison as many principals as he could against the program. You could see that at the meeting on Monday. If anything, this was a convenient tragedy.”
“I suppose.” She drained the scotch and set the glass on top of the minibar. “Ironically, just before the meeting, he told me I’d have to implement the program at his school over his dead body.”
“He said that?”
“His exact words, Chip. And now he’s dead. Doesn’t that seem strange? And you and I are bound to get on somebody’s radar. The minute they zero in on iAchieve, they’re going to start looking at me and you—and us. We had a motive.”
“You can’t arrest people just because they have a motive. They need evidence, and they’re not going to find any because there is none.”
“People get wrongly charged all the time. Sometimes they’re even convicted. If the police start digging around and our relationship comes out, I’m through.”
“And so am I,” he said. “You know that. But it’s not going to come out, because we’re not going to tell them.”
“That could be easier said than done. You didn’t get the visit from that detective. She kept asking questions. She grilled me about my afternoon. She wanted exact times.”
“And I’m sure you answered everything satisfactorily.” He prayed that she had.
“Almost everything. But then she asked if Hector had called me Monday afternoon. I told her no. I didn’t know because I ducked out of the office to come here. But after she left my office this morning, I checked Karen’s log, and he had called me five minutes after I left.” She rubbed her eyes. “Dammit! If I’d just stayed put a little longer.”
He came up beside her and rubbed her shoulders. “Relax, Margery, the police aren’t looking for you. They’re looking for a murderer.”
“And where do I say I went if they find out I left the office? I can’t tell them the truth.”
“You tell me,” he challenged. “Think of something. Right now. If anyone can think their way out of a box, it’s you.”
He watched her open the minibar, remove another miniature of scotch, and pour it over her melting ice cubes. She took a long sip and paced back and forth. Eventually she stopped between the minibar and the bed and turned to face him. The alcohol was starting to take effect, Chip observed. A little of her confidence was returning. “I went looking for a scarf,” she said.
“A scarf?”
“A silk scarf to wear to Cipriani. I ducked out of the office, and I didn’t want Karen to know where I was going, so I told her I had a meeting.”
“Where did you go?”
“Saks. But I didn’t like their selection, so then I went to Bergdorf’s.”
“What floor at Bergdorf’s?” He quizzed her like a cop trying to catch her in a lie.
“Third,” she said evenly.
“Tell me about the scarves.”
“There was a Roberto Cavalli, but it didn’t quite match my dress. The Emilio Pucci was a little too garish. I liked the Alexander McQueen, and a sales clerk tried to talk me into that one, but it wasn’t a perfect match for my dress, and for that kind of money . . .” She trailed off. “Finally I was running out of time, so I just got in a cab and went down to the dinner.” She shrugged.
Chip clapped. “Now that’s the Margery I know. Stick to that story. The detail is perfect.”
“You think so?”
He got behind her and pressed his thighs against her buttocks. “Yes. Now relax.” He kneaded her shoulders until she let out a deep sigh.
“You’re right.” She turned around to kiss him on the mouth. “We’ll laugh about this a month from now, won’t we?”
“Of course we will.” He kissed her back, and she pressed her tongue against his and he felt himself respond. He put his arm against her lower back, guided her toward the bed, and pushed her gently onto the mattress.
“Let me go to the bathroom first.”
“I don’t want to wait,” he said because the last time he had waited in bed for her, she had taken five minutes, and in that time, Charlene had called his cell. Her smiling honey-skinned face had filled his cell phone screen and then he couldn’t get her out of his mind as he had unbuttoned Margery’s blouse and cupped her large breasts.
“Chip,” she whispered, now with obvious desire.
He unbuttoned her cashmere cardigan, unfastened the side zipper on her skirt, and pulled the skirt down over her thighs and legs, along with her panties. And then he lowered himself onto the mattress between her legs and buried his face in her bikini-waxed pubic hair. His tongue found the warm hidden flesh, and she said, “What are you doing?”
“Relaxing you.” He braced her thighs with his strong hands. He’d never given oral sex to Margery before, and he was sure her aging orthopedic surgeon had never done that for her.
He let his tongue explore the passage to her vagina. Her head was back against the pillow, and her eyes were closed. He wet his index finger and found another passage to explore. Margery voiced a quick protest to that, but her body certainly didn’t protest. He inserted the tip of his finger ever so slightly, and she said, “Oh, God, Chip,” and that was all he needed to hear. He had found another one of Margery Barton’s secret and probably unfulfilled appetites. He slowly slid in deeper and she came so hard that he felt the pulsing all around his finger. “Oh God,” she said.
Then he climbed on top of her and entered her and rocked to her pace. When she was about to come a second time, he pounded her hard and deep so they both screamed out, and it seemed to go on and on. Then he fell
to the side of her, sweaty and sticky and certain. If Margery were forced to lie, she’d give a convincing performance that would save them both.
Chapter 36
The 171st Precinct detectives’ squad room still felt more like home to Codella than any room at Manhattan North. As soon as she walked through the door, Haggerty approached. “Can I show you something, Claire?”
He had signed Sanchez’s laptop out of evidence, and it was sitting on his desk. Her first reaction was outrage. He was just like McGowan and Fisk, she found herself thinking. They were all looking for a way to yank the case out from under her and deny her the opportunity to prove herself. In the next instant, she could feel him reading these thoughts on her face.
“I went to see those teachers,” he said. “One of them—Imogene Burke—has dementia. I can’t even imagine her in a classroom. The other one—Ronald Davis—is a first-class jerk, but he has a solid alibi. I came back here and figured I’d pitch in while I had a couple of hours.”
She looked around the room. Portino and Muñoz were on their computers. Schugren was watching them from his desk across the room. Blackstone wasn’t there, thank God. She wanted to say, I don’t need your help. But she did need help. She just didn’t want his help. Instead she said, “Show me what you’ve got.”
He leaned forward and tapped the track pad on Sanchez’s computer. An instant later, an image filled the high-resolution Retina display.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” she whispered.
“I know.”
They stared in silence at the familiar faces filling the laptop screen. The faces were only an inch apart. The eyes were locked. The lips appeared to have just parted from a kiss. The woman’s left fingers were combing through the hair at his neckline. His right fingers were brushing her cheek softly.
“I blew up the faces to make sure there was no mistake,” he explained. “Here’s the original image.” The next photo showed the figures standing on the front steps of Sanchez’s 112th Street building, about to go in. It had been taken, Codella noted, from a vantage some hundred or so yards across the street. The woman’s right hand rested on his chest, and his left palm, placed well below the small of her back, was pulling her into him.