Vortex

by Catherine Coulter

  Sherlock continued. “We ran a computer search of real estate deeds of private homes in your name or either of your ex-husbands’ and of course didn’t find it. However, when we searched further afield, we found a property at 743 Black Street NW, owned by a Mrs. Mary Gilbert. As you very well know, she’s the mother of your first husband, Martin Orloff. The name isn’t the same because she remarried. This first husband, Martin Orloff, was murdered, too, his killer never identified, but that’s not what we’re addressing here today. You no doubt visited that lovely little cottage in Washington with your first husband, and it appears you wanted it.

  “After Mr. Orloff was dead and buried, you renewed your relationship with his mother. Mrs. Mary Gilbert was living in a nursing home in Albany, New York, suffering from Alzheimer’s. We know from the facility’s records you spent a lot of time with her before her death last year. You consoled her for the tragic death of her son, long enough for you to manipulate her into turning control of the cottage over to you, or rather to an LLC we traced back to you. The LLC has been making quite a nice profit over these years from the cottage, as a short-term rental, without sharing any of that profit with Mrs. Gilbert, the real owner. That is, when you weren’t there yourself or with a lover, most recently, Dr. Madison.

  “Our agents visited your cottage with a search warrant and found your caretaker, Mrs. Jernigan, very helpful. Our agents came away with personal items that belonged to Dr. Madison as well as photos of the two of you.”

  Sherlock lined up the three photos side by side in front of Storin. “It appears you have a very different look when you’re in Washington, Ms. Storin. Look at that red spiky hair, the flamboyant makeup, the black stiletto boots, the short leather skirt.”

  Storin stared down at the photos, said nothing.

  Clooney shoved the photos back toward Sherlock. “You have no proof that woman in the photos is Ms. Storin, and if it is, what of it?”

  Angela Storin interrupted him. “No, she’s right, it’s me in the photos.” She shrugged. “Who cares? I enjoy changing my look. I’m certainly not causing harm to anyone. A different wardrobe, a fun wig, and using Mrs. Gilbert’s house doesn’t make me guilty of murder.”

  “True, but it helped us realize why none of the gun ranges we contacted to find out where you honed your shooting skills recognized our photos of you.”

  Sherlock turned to Clooney. “Your client practices at Curly Johnson’s Bivouac, a gun range outside of Plankton, Connecticut, about a half hour from the New York border. Curly looked at these photos and grinned from ear to ear. He said, ‘That’s our girl, Misty Lee, the biker chick, a little long in the tooth, sure, but you should see her shoot. She roars up on her Harley and usually takes some of the guys’ money, but they don’t mind too much because she buys them all beers afterward.’

  “So, hi, Misty. I really like your look, it’s an amazing transformation. I imagine it must be very liberating for you to travel to Washington or Connecticut and shed your dowdy professional image, become Misty Lee, and sling your leg over the seat of your Harley. It must have been fun for Dr. Madison, too, I imagine, to see the proper Ms. Angela Storin transform into wild-as-the-wind Misty Lee.

  “You keep that Harley in a storage locker somewhere, but we’ll find it, along with Misty Lee’s clothes and that cute red wig.”

  Sherlock leaned toward Storin. “Tell us, Ms. Storin—or Ms. Lee—is there a reason you play at being two vastly different people, or is it really simply for the fun of it?”

  “I don’t have to say anything.”

  Kelly continued before Clooney could object. “After Curly Johnson identified you, we presented him with a search warrant. It turns out you keep a locker there, Ms. Storin.”

  Kelly leaned down and opened a small box on the floor beside her. She pulled out a labeled clear plastic bag with a Walther PPK inside it and held it up. “You really shouldn’t have kept the murder weapon in your locker at Curly’s gun range, Ms. Storin. I know you never imagined we’d find out about your identity in Washington, and even if we did, we’d have no reason to think you were an expert markswoman.” Kelly leaned toward Storin, and smiled. “It appears we’re not as incompetent as you seem to think.”

  “Agent Giusti—” Clooney began.

  Kelly shook her head at Clooney, continued in a rapid-fire voice. “It was your arrogance in keeping it there that brought you down. You should have tossed the gun in the river, where you doubtless tossed the jewelry and the wallets you took from the Madison house.”

  After a beat of dead silence, Sherlock said, “Tell us, were you Angela Storin or Misty Lee when you killed your two ex-husbands?”

  Storin stared at Sherlock, slowly shook her head. “I have nothing more to say.” She paused, a rictus of a smile on her pale mouth. “You are all so common.”

  Kelly rose, looked down at her. “I’m arresting you for the murders of Mrs. Ellen Madison, Dr. Douglas Madison, and Mr. Stanley La Shea.” And Kelly read Storin her rights.

  Clooney slowly rose, placed his hand on Storin’s shoulder. “I wish to speak to my client.”

  As she was leaving the conference room, Sherlock looked back to see Angela Storin staring after her. Sherlock was relieved the Walther wasn’t loaded, or Storin might have tried for it.

  38

  Mia

  Alex Harrington Campaign Headquarters

  Forty-Ninth at Sixth Avenue

  Thursday afternoon

  Mia walked through the controlled chaos of Alex Harrington’s campaign headquarters for the second time in three days, but it seemed much longer. So many people’s voices clashing, sending the noise level to record levels. And everyone was moving, carrying pizza boxes, piles of bumper stickers, laptops, posters of Alex Harrington’s face.

  She gave little waves to people she’d seen on her first visit, and they smiled, nodded to her. Evidently she belonged or, more likely, everyone had been told she was a reporter and to be nice. She spotted Miles Lombardy in what seemed very serious conversation with Cory Hughes, Harrington’s campaign manager. She wondered briefly if Miles had been part of the ambush last night, if he’d known what would happen when she left the bar. She prayed he’d been Alex’s dupe for the simple reason she liked him. He didn’t come over or acknowledge anything might be wrong.

  Mia hurried past them, nodded and smiled to Mrs. Millicent seated at her post, guarding the candidate.

  “Hello, Ms. Briscoe. We weren’t expecting to see you today.” Mia saw through the glass-fronted office Alex was on his cell, his back to her. Mia nodded toward him. “I know he’s terribly busy, but I was hoping Alex could give me five minutes?”

  “I don’t see why not. He should be off the phone in a minute. Why don’t you go on in.”

  As she quietly opened the door, she looked back to see Miles and Cory looking at her. She gave them a wave.

  Mia listened for all she was worth, but she could only make out his voice, not his words. Alex ended his call, turned back, and froze. Then he was on his feet, coming around his desk, smiling at her. “Mia! What a nice surprise on an insane Thursday afternoon. It’s good to see you. Wait, what happened to you?”

  He was good; the surprise on his face would have convinced the pope. Mia smiled back at him. “Oh, the bruises—they’re not so bad, I’d forgotten about them. I guess I still look pretty scary.”

  He took her hand gently in his. “What happened?”

  “Probably something that happens all too often, I imagine. I was walking to the subway last night after meeting with Miles for drinks, and out of nowhere some drunk or drugged-up idiot nearly hit me. I’m okay, really, I just look a bit on the edge, but nothing’s broken, only some bruises. Don’t worry, I’m fine.” She waited a beat, added smoothly, “When the police asked me if I had any enemies, someone mad enough to try to run me down, I told them I was a political reporter, and they laughed. But then I told them I couldn’t think of anyone.”

  “Did they get the guy?”

&nb
sp; “He freaked out at what he’d done and screeched out of there, fast. It’s too bad I couldn’t identify the car or the driver, but the police held out hope they’d spot him on the CCTV cams.”

  Alex lightly touched her arms. “We can hope. Thank heaven you’re all right. Can I get you some water? Coffee? Help you off with your coat?”

  She smiled. “No, thank you, I’m fine. I think I’d just as soon leave my coat on. I won’t take up much of your time, Mr. Harrington—”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She laughed. “All right, Alex.”

  “That’s better.” He gently guided her into a seat, walked around his desk, and sat down to face her, his hands clasped in front of him on the desktop. “What can I do for you, Mia?”

  “You remember I flew to Boston and Bennington Prep yesterday for interviews. I hoped you’d have a spare five minutes for some follow-up questions.”

  “I understand you were very thorough, and I appreciate it. We’ll take all the time you want. What can I clarify for you?”

  Mia opened her tablet, called up a page, pretended to read, then looked up, forcing a smile when in truth she wanted to smash her fist into his handsome face. Of course he wanted to know everything she’d done in Boston, what everyone had said to her. She said, “I also spoke to your former fiancée, Juliet Ash Calley. Reading over my notes, I realized I have some questions.”

  He cocked his head to one side, clearly puzzled. “Juliet? Whyever did you see her?”

  “You said you appreciated my thoroughness. Of course I saw her, she was a big part of your life. She’s a lovely woman, and so very talented.”

  Mia saw alarm, fleeting, but she saw it. Then it was gone, and she could have imagined it. Only she hadn’t. He said nothing, merely kept his head cocked, with that faint look of puzzlement.

  “She—Juliet—told me a bit about how you met, eventually got engaged, but she didn’t want to talk about why your engagement broke off. Was that her decision, or yours, or was it mutual?”

  Alex blinked at her. “What?”

  “Your fiancée at the moment, Ms. Barrett, believed you had called it off, but you decided to say it was mutual so as not to embarrass Ms. Calley.”

  His smile slipped, he stiffened, and for a moment he looked like he wanted to throw her through the office window.

  Then, the snap of the fingers, and Mr. Candidate was back. A dark eyebrow up in charming question, the practiced smile now firmly in place. He shook his head. “I can’t imagine why the electorate would care about a former engagement. It isn’t like it happened last month. It was more than two years ago.”

  “Alex. I’ve told you this before, your personal life will be endlessly fascinating to voters, and as you know, it all goes much smoother if you’re willing to be an open book and leave no unanswered questions. Believe me, people scent when you’re not being completely honest and open, and they’ll talk and wonder. Now, if voters read a former fiancée broke your heart, they will feel sorry for the pain you must have felt, empathize with you, admire your brave face. Hasn’t Cory mentioned to you it’s usually best to feed the beast?”

  “Yes, of course, it’s Cory’s mantra. It’s simply disappointing the electorate don’t dig into the issues, and leave the distant past buried.”

  Mia burst out laughing. “Sorry, but I can’t believe you—a politician—just said that. Alex, of course you know people are endlessly curious about a candidate’s past, transgressions and experiences, whatever.”

  “Yes, of course, particularly if there’s a meaty scandal, but, Mia, I can’t imagine there’d be much interest in an old engagement if Juliet weren’t so beautiful and talented, and more famous now than two years ago.”

  “That sounds a bit cynical, if you don’t mind my saying. I think people would have seen you and Juliet as the ideal couple, both picture-perfect. And when you didn’t marry, they would have been disappointed and wondered what happened. So let’s get it out of the way. Tell me, did you call it off? Or did she?”

  He tapped his beautiful pen on the cheap desktop, and Mia knew he was playing for time to think. Then he smiled, shrugged. “Feeding voters’ curiosity is one thing, but in this political climate, I can’t afford any hint of personal indiscretion out there, present or past. It could be the end of my campaign, if the wrong people disapproved. Very well, I’ll go out on a limb and tell you, but you have to promise me it will be off the record. You have to agree it doesn’t leave this room.”

  “If that’s what you want, sure. Off the record then.”

  He managed to look both ashamed and embarrassed, actually hung his head. She couldn’t wait to hear what he’d come up with.

  Alex tapped his pen on the desk again, dropped it, then shook his head, as if reaching a decision. “The oldest reason in the world, I imagine. I feel stupid about even saying it. I cheated on her. I know this will sound like I’m making excuses, but the fact was she was completely focused on her music, on her next concert, and not much else in the world. And that included me, her fiancé. I was annoyed because she’d broken another of our dates. I met someone, I got drunk, but it was only the one time. I felt like scum about it the next day. I couldn’t lie to her, not Juliet. She’s amazing, but she’s also terribly serious, something of a prude, like her mother, as a matter of fact, but the one thing I didn’t realize was how unforgiving she’d be. I swore to Juliet I’d never see the woman again—and I haven’t—but as I said, Juliet decided she needed only music in her life. If she said anything about all this, well, let me add I wouldn’t expect Juliet to cut me any slack. To her I’d gone beyond the pale, and there was no regaining her trust. When she broke us up, we agreed we would tell everyone it was a mutual decision.”

  “It surprises me she agreed to make it seem mutual if she’s unforgiving. I don’t suppose you told your current fiancée, Ms. Barrett, the truth about your breakup?”

  “Of course. We are completely honest with each other. I’m older and wiser now, Mia. To be honest, Pamela is everything to me Juliet wasn’t.” He shrugged. “What I mean is Pamela’s a realist, sees the world for what it is, warts and all, and faces things head-on. That’s exactly what a mayor’s wife needs to be, why she’s perfect for me.”

  “According to Ms. Barrett, Juliet couldn’t deal with your political ambitions, she was too sensitive and avoided confrontation at all costs; in other words, she runs from anything unpleasant. That made her unsuitable for you, and Juliet finally realized it, so you being unfaithful to her wasn’t the real crux of the problem.”

  He said evenly, “Pamela is right about that. Juliet usually shrank back from anything unpleasant. She was, and still is, from what I hear, much more comfortable with her piano than with the rancor of politics. Would we have married if I hadn’t cheated on her?” He gave a charming Gaelic shrug. “Two years ago—it’s a long time.”

  “So you’re saying Juliet wouldn’t stand up for herself if something bad happened to her? She wouldn’t say anything to cause comment, worry her parents, create a scandal?”

  “I hope Juliet didn’t hint anything bad had happened to her. I can’t imagine what it would be.”

  “No, certainly not. I just wondered. Thank you for clearing that up for me. I suppose you know your fiancée is very jealous of Juliet.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “I expect ninety-nine percent of women on the planet would be jealous of Juliet. You saw her face. Helen of Troy wouldn’t stand a chance next to her.”

  Mia knew he wanted to know what it was Juliet had said to her, but she wasn’t about to oblige him. “Thank you for your honesty, Alex. Next, I spoke briefly to the professors at Harvard, and as I expected, they were quite laudatory since you gave me their names.”

  It was time to dig in the spurs. Mia made a show of looking down at her iPad a moment, before saying, “I spoke with some of the departmental secretaries there as well, and they remembered you had quite a reputation with the girls. You partied with Kent quite a bit, even
went to other universities, some even out of state. Do you remember any of the girls you dated? I’d love to get an idea of what you were like in your twenties.”

  Impossible for him not to realize she was baiting him. He waved a dismissive hand. “You have to remember it was a different time, young men and women behaved differently, partied differently. Sure, I sowed some wild oats—most everyone did in my social circle—but I never went overboard.”

  “So you didn’t inhale,” Mia said and gave him a big grin.

  He pulled up a smile. “That’s right. I kept up with my studies and even excelled at them, well, most of them, as I think you found out.

  “I certainly hope these topics we spoke of today won’t be the focus of your piece. It wouldn’t be fair to me or to the people of New York. Don’t you want what’s best for New York, Mia?”

  She had to hand it to him, he’d batted the ball back at her quite well. She consulted her notes again, looked up. “Yes, of course, but let me finish giving you a rundown of my interviews. I also stopped in at Bennington Prep, met Coach Wiliker. I showed him a photo of you I’d happened upon that showed you with a torn earlobe. He remembered clearly when you were injured playing lacrosse. He made you out to be the wounded hero, quite a story. And you won the championship for Bennington, two years in a row.”

  “Yes, we did. But the ear was no big deal. One of my teammates hit me by accident with his lacrosse stick. It hurt like blazes, ripped my earlobe, and I ended up with a notch in my ear. I got it repaired three years ago. Ah, did the coach say anything else?”

  “He said you were an excellent leader”—she paused, looked again at her tablet—“that you always drove the bus, even with Kent, your best friend. Of course I’d heard that before. It’s appropriate the leader do the driving, isn’t it?” Mia rose. “I’m sorry if Coach Wiliker thought I was snooping. Lots of people do when all I ever want is to get something interesting. I imagine he called to tell you what a pest I was?”