by Arlene Kay
“Jesus, lady, what’s your problem?” A jogger in coordinated running gear sprinted ahead, giving me the finger.
Bad manners aside, his question was worth considering. I examined my conscience, cleaned up after Cato, and tugged him toward my building. Suddenly he stopped, guard hairs straight up, growling softly as strong arms encircled my waist, and a familiar scent enveloped me.
“Are you crazy?” Deming asked. “Wandering around a deserted street at midnight when a murderer’s loose?”
I touched his sleeve, feeling the soft, luxurious cashmere of his jacket. Lust seeped through my pores like a noxious gas. I banished the superlatives flooding my mind and played it cool.
“What a surprise. Not stalking me, are you?”
He nuzzled my hair and whispered. “I was worried. Couldn’t stay away with everything so crazy.” His lips feathered kisses up and down my neck. “I thought if I kept watch, at least you’d be safe.”
I forgot my pact with spinsterhood and fury. I forgot everything but the gentle touch of his lips and the strength of his arms.
“If you came upstairs I’d feel much safer. No strings.”
Deming grunted as he towed me and Cato toward the lobby. “You don’t get it. I’m sick of fighting you. I want strings, damn it. Chains even.”
I bit my lip to keep from babbling. He was the most mercurial man I’d ever met! Gruff yet tender, controlling but distant. My mind and lower body parts roiled with fear and expectation.
Deming frowned as my front door swung open. “Good thing you’ve got CeCe’s place now instead of this thing.”
“It’s adequate. Cato and I are comfortable.”
“Don’t get touchy. CeCe’s building has more security. That’s all I meant.”
“If you say so.” I stifled a yawn. “Look, I’m really tired, and tomorrow’s a big day.”
“I’ll hold you ’til you fall asleep. Then I’ll leave.”
Fat chance. We both knew exactly what would happen, and that was fine with me.
I LEAPT UP AT six a.m., energized and action-ready from a good night’s sleep. After some wrangling, we’d agreed on a plan, one final move in this deadly chess game. At first Deming refused, but eventually he’d succumbed to a potent blend of sex-laced logic. We’d be a team again just like in the old days, two musketeers fighting to avenge the third.
He was still dozing, snoring with that steady masculine hum I’d missed so much. Our union last night had been passionate, filled with unspoken words and fiery promise. I tried to dampen my hopes, even as my feelings for him grew. I couldn’t say the word even to myself. Love. How could one word—four letters—have such power? Deming was kryptonite, capable of destroying me with one misstep. All those years we’d danced around each other, sniping and trading barbs instead of acknowledging the truth. My whole being would implode if he discarded me even though we were wildly mismatched. Deming was a practiced lover; I was a rank amateur, leading with my heart, unable to dissemble.
“You’re the early bird,” he said, gliding into the kitchen. “Any chance for espresso, or is this Maxwell House?”
“Funny. You missed your calling.” I handed him a cup of the precious brew. “I think we should show up together. At the firm. You know, united front.”
He grinned as he sipped his drink. “Still posing as my fiancée, are you?”
I felt the blush flaming up my face. “Don’t worry. Not much longer. I’m positive the murderer is linked to that law firm. The same person who threatened me.”
Deming made a noise somewhere between a growl and a hiss. “I don’t like you meddling. It’s dangerous.”
“Breathing is dangerous these days. Besides, you’ll have my back.”
My plan was simple but elegant. I’d amble back to Sevier, Miles and Swann to capture their fond memories of CeCe. In the process, I hoped to capture something more: damaging admissions. Someone who knew CeCe well, someone whom she trusted, had betrayed her and lured her to the rooftop. Following the clues we’d gathered so far, I surmised that my pal had sprinted out to that roof to confront an adversary. “Head games” sounded like CeCe’s code for her shrink. She probably thought he’d turn over those tapes and free Anika from blackmail and torment. Either Wesley Townsend had a confederate at the law firm, or someone knew about the sleazy shrink and traded on CeCe’s devotion to her mother. Someone with ambition, a rook bent on capturing the queen. Motive was another thing entirely. The stakes had to be incredibly high to dispatch a prominent player like Cecilia Swann in broad daylight. My money and hopes rested with Pamela Schwartz, a barracuda with the strength and will to subdue an army. I had absolutely no proof, except a mile-wide streak of jealousy. I could live with that.
“You look different today,” Deming said, holding me at arm’s length.
“Better or worse?”
He lowered his eyes and sighed. “Different. You fixed your hair and put on makeup.”
“I have my moments. Remember, I’m playing a role here.” I patted his cheek. “Wouldn’t want a frumpy fiancée, would you?”
I’d done my best to master Harpo’s hair and makeup regimen, but it was an uphill battle. Still, my curly mop had been subdued, and my face had a certain glow to it. I’d never win any prizes, but at least I could compete.
“Come on. Cato’s sleeping.” We tiptoed past the spaniel, found the Porsche, and took off.
“Stay with Malcolm,” Deming said. “While you beguile the staff, I’ll see Lieutenant Bates.”
“The cops! They’ll screw up our plan.”
His piercing scowl was a bad dream from childhood. “Have sense, Eja. I’m an officer of the court. Bates has to know about that key.”
He was right, but I still didn’t like it. “What about Jem’s lawyer? Can’t Pamela handle that?”
Deming snapped his fingers. “Good idea. I’ll take Pam with me. Makes it more official.”
I sagged back into the soft leather seat, cursing my big mouth. Jealousy was foreign to me, but without CeCe’s soothing presence it had become a habit.
“Dad made all the arrangements,” Deming said. “They still jump to his tune at the firm. Do I have to tell you to be careful? You take some wild chances.”
“I’m not a child, you know. Stop lecturing.”
He gave me a look that hiked my thermostat skyward. I’d always fought my own battles, but self-reliance paled in comparison to this. I glimpsed another life where Deming cosseted and protected me like Bolin did Anika. It was an intoxicating fantasy, a sweet, seductive respite from reality. I pinched myself and broke the spell.
“Let me handle this,” I said. “Downplay your involvement.”
His eyelids flickered. For a moment I saw pain, until the snarky Deming Swann came roaring right back.
“Suit yourself. I’ll check on you later.” Deming wrenched the Porsche to the curb and hopped out. “You have my number if you need anything. I’ll find Pam and liaise with the cops. It may take us all day.”
MALCOLM WAS WAITING for me, wearing his Brooks Brothers suit like armor. His expression was set on neutral, impossible to read or decipher. I’d given that some thought. To keep my cover, I’d need to focus on CeCe’s reaction to adversity and her dealings with the other principals. My objective was to narrow the possibilities and find out who had access to her cases. That might entail a serious charm offensive and girl talk over drinks with her paralegal.
“Jem Russell told me the strangest thing today.” I lowered my voice to whisper level. “On the morning she died, CeCe got a text setting up the meeting. That’s why she went on the roof. She used that dimwit’s key.”
Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “Dimwit?”
“Jem! For heaven’s sake man, keep up. Anyway, they’re tracing her phone log right now. Hopefully we’ll find something.”
>
He folded his arms and stared at me with a puzzled look on his face. “There’s no mystery there. I sent CeCe that text myself.”
“You!” I choked out the word despite my shock. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Malcolm shrugged. “No one asked. Everyone, especially the police, seemed confident that it was suicide. I never thought . . .”
I gave him my insect larvae stare. “Tell me everything.”
“There’s not that much to tell. I texted Ms. Swann that morning around seven to remind her about an appointment.” Malcolm held out his hand like a traffic cop. “And before you ask, the meeting popped up suddenly after Ms. Swann left Friday evening. I was worried that she might not check her calendar on the weekend.”
“Sunday. Unusual time for a business meeting, no?”
He shook his head. “It was personal, not business. I kept both calendars for her, but the off-duty one was secret. She obsessed about privacy. Couldn’t bear the idea of anyone scrutinizing her life, especially Ms. Schwartz.”
“Who was she meeting?” I spoke with a stranger’s voice, flat and unemotional.
He spit out the words like a robot. “I don’t know. She used code names. Byron. He’d called her before. On her private line.”
“Are you sure this Byron is a man? CeCe was unconventional, after all.” I racked my brain, dredging up every esoteric scrap about Lord Byron. His poetry was electric, but his sex life jolted eighteenth century Brits from their prudish perch. Was that why CeCe dubbed her friend Byron?
Malcolm blanched. “I never actually spoke with Byron. I just assumed . . .”
“Where did you keep her private calendar? I want to see it.” Maybe I’d find something, some clue that would have meaning to me alone.
“Lieutenant Bates already got everything. I printed out the whole year for her.”
Malcolm slipped behind his desk and tapped the calendar icon. “See for yourself. She didn’t list everything. Just after-hours meetings. Mostly social. You know how lawyers are about billable hours.”
I scanned CeCe’s social calendar for the past six months. It was cryptic, just as Malcolm predicted. The names Eja and Raven figured prominently on the pages, but Byron only appeared once: the morning she was murdered.
“What did she say when you spoke with her?”
He winced as if I’d inflicted a wound. “Remember, Ms. Kane. I texted her. That’s what she preferred on her free time. Believe me, Ms. Swann got enough calls during the workweek. She needed a break from talking.”
The man was maddening! One more evasion, and I’d shake him like a rag doll. “Okay, did Ms. Swann respond to your text?”
Malcolm shook his head. “I never heard from her again. If only I’d known . . .”
I prayed he wouldn’t get maudlin. Who needed a hysterical male shedding tears all over a Brooks suit? I patted his well-tailored shoulder. “That’s okay. Tell me once more what it said.”
“Meet Byron on Sunday at forty-five Province Street to consummate deal. Rooftop garden, 8:30 a.m.” His voice was listless, devoid of inflection. “That was it. I was the murderer’s accomplice.” His voice broke, and he grasped the edge of the desk for balance.
“Unwitting accomplice. Remember that, Malcolm. You couldn’t have known.”
“That address! I should have recognized it as Jem Russell’s.” A light went on in his eyes. “I wondered about that meeting place. Her acrophobia was no secret. Kind of an office joke, actually.”
“This deal must have been something special,” I said. “Sounds more business than personal. Are you sure you can’t connect Byron to any clients?”
He shook his head. “I’ll try again. Meanwhile, I’ll call Meribeth over. She really has more inside scoop than I do when it comes to court cases.”
“Hold on,” I said. “What was CeCe’s reaction? After losing the cases, I mean.”
“I couldn’t say. Ask Meribeth.”
I clenched my fist to keep from giving Malcolm the universal hand sign. “I’m asking you. You saw her every day, and I know for a fact that CeCe told you everything. Now cut the crap and tell me—unless you have something to hide.”
His face grew even more pale than usual. “Me? I loved Ms. Swann. I’d never hurt her.”
“What then? You’re shielding someone.”
Malcolm sank into his desk chair, his legs trembling. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “At first she was devastated. You know how she hated to lose anything.”
“And then . . .?”
“When it happened again, she grew calm, analytical. She traced every step in the process, who had information, who knew what when.” Malcolm hesitated, as if the memory was too painful to recount.
“Go on. She probably figured there was a mole in this office. Who were her suspects?”
Beads of perspiration bracketed Malcolm’s forehead. “You understand, Ms. Swann was under enormous pressure. Mr. Michaels blew a gasket. I heard him shouting at her one afternoon. That never happened before.”
“Answer my question. Who were her suspects?” I gripped my pencil so hard it snapped in half.
More hesitation from Malcolm. The bustling, confident man of yore had vanished, leaving a quivering stranger in his place. He reached for his water and took measured sips.
“She’d narrowed it down to three people. That last Friday, she planned to confront them. Then she got the news about her nomination and kind of lost focus.”
My eyes pinned him like a laser beam. “For God’s sake man, who were they?”
Malcolm’s lips parted as angst gave way to acceptance. “She told me herself who they were: Pamela Schwartz, Meribeth . . . and me.”
Twenty
I’VE NEVER HAD a poker face. When Malcolm spilled the beans, all I could do was gape and pray. Please make it Pam. It was unworthy of me, but I prayed anyhow. Pamela Schwartz, that sexy vixen, envied everything about CeCe. She was perfect for the quisling role. Making a few bucks on the side was just gravy.
“Did CeCe have any proof? She was a firm believer in proof. She’d never blatantly accuse anyone.”
Malcolm shrugged. “I never asked, and she never said. Anyway, she didn’t have to.”
“How come?”
“I was sick of deceiving her. I confessed right away.”
“You?” I gasped, thinking I’d imagined it. “But why? She trusted you.”
He grinned, and for a moment I recalled the old Malcolm, CeCe’s devoted scribe.
“It didn’t seem so bad at first. Corporate espionage. Kind of dashing when you think of it. My finances tanked, and I needed money. The other side made overtures, and I leapt at the chance. I told myself they wouldn’t blame Ms. Swann. Not with her connections.” Malcolm blinked back moisture. “A convenient fiction, of course. Most criminals delude themselves like that, I guess.”
“But she would have helped. Loaned you the money if you’d asked. Hell, CeCe would have given it to you.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe it.”
The confession diminished him both physically and emotionally. Malcolm’s raspy breathing and clenched fists proved that. “Don’t you see? I wanted her to admire me. To see me as a man for once, not just some needy employee.”
I got one of those rare aha moments. “Oh my Lord! You were in love with her! But you’re married . . .” The role reversal stunned me. Men often fell in love with their secretaries. Why should women be immune? It was possible if not probable.
He swallowed hard. “That would have changed in a flash if she’d wanted me. But she didn’t. Cecilia Swann let every loser in New England break her heart, but she never even saw me. Not that way. Maybe this Raven was worthy of her.”
I thought of Dr. Jake Harris, her best and final choice. “He was. Now what did CeCe decide to do
? About your activities, I mean. She was too ethical to let it slide.”
His eyes hardened into bright shards of Kilkenny coal. “I’ve already submitted my resignation. Management thinks I’m grieving, and maybe they’re right. Ms. Swann gave me an excellent reference. Told me to start fresh.” We faced each other over the battlefield of his desk. “You can scuttle that if you choose to, but either way, after next week I’m history.”
Who was I to thwart CeCe’s plans? She’d dealt with Malcolm as she saw fit, and I’d honor that. “I have to tell the Swanns, Malcolm. They’ll probably abide by CeCe’s wishes. You’d better tell Lieutenant Bates yourself. Don’t worry about me as long as you’re telling the truth.”
“I am. I suppose the cops will ultimately trace Byron’s call. Meribeth took it. Maybe she remembers something about the voice.” He dialed a number. “I’ll buzz her.”
“One more thing. Who was your in-house contact?”
He gave me a quizzical look. “What do you mean? No one. I was contacted directly by the other litigants, or more precisely, someone on their team. Word got around I guess. The same firm handled all three cases.”
“Hmm. Listen, tell Meribeth to meet me at Miel. CeCe told me you guys all love that place. I’ll treat her to lunch.”
Perhaps the combination of French fare and atmosphere might make her nostalgic. After all, Meribeth claimed to be CeCe’s close friend. I prayed that Amex was a forgiving institution that would stretch my credit line one more time. As I fumbled for a handkerchief, I felt an envelope in my purse. It was heavy ecru vellum with the unmistakable Swann emblem emblazoned on the flap. I recognized the handwriting immediately and shamed myself by flushing head to toe. Deming Swann strikes again!
Since Malcolm had retreated to his desk to make luncheon reservations, that allowed me to turn away and discreetly pry open the envelope. The contents fluttered to the floor, giving me five peeks at Benjamin Franklin’s face. Five hundred dollars! The engraved note card said it all. For incidental expenses. Go, Nancy Drew!
MIEL GRACES THE lobby level of the luxurious InterContinental Boston hotel. It’s stunning and way out of my normal price range. CeCe loved it, and I’d accompanied her there several times to celebrate minor social and professional triumphs. Come to think of it, we’d lunched there the day my divorce was finalized.