by Dana Killion
I lifted Walter off of my lap, replenished my wine, then went to my office to take a call from my attorney, bringing him up to speed on the latest developments.
My anxiety partially allayed, I stared at the notes I’d tacked to my bulletin board on the Wright case, then added a few Post-its, new developments since I’d last been in the office. Sorting the notes into columns, I lay out what I knew about the female victims and their husbands.
What was the connection? The common denominator between the women seemed to be divorce, badly behaved husbands, and personalities that could best be described as feisty. But so far I’d found no indication that the women knew each other or had anything else in common. No mutual friends, no charity work, no professional involvement. Regarding the husbands, their connection still wasn’t clear.
I opened a browser window and went back into search mode on Oliver Hayes. An hour later, I’d fleshed out a few more tidbits about his professional background, but the tie-in between the men eluded me.
My phone buzzed. The doorman letting me know I had a visitor. Michael. I pulled the clip out of my hair and fluffed it loose, then went to the door. Was this going to be a “Let’s make up” or a “We’re done” conversation?
He stood in the entryway, his brown curls wet with fresh snow. My heart raced. Confused, anxious, I didn’t know where to begin to describe the emotions jumbling my mind.
“I hope it’s okay that I stopped by without calling. I was afraid you’d say no.”
“Of course it’s okay. Come in.”
I closed the door behind him and took his wet coat to the closet. Michael was on the couch when I returned. I sat next to him, tucking my legs underneath me. Walter parked himself on the floor by my feet, readying himself for attack mode.
“Are you still mad at me?”
“Did I say I was mad?” He tilted his head, and I could again smell the sandalwood soap I knew he used, bringing thoughts of tenderness and love and passion.
“No, but there were a few other indications.” I laughed.
“I think you’re right that this overlap of work and romance is getting a little confusing. I don’t have experience with this. My ex-wife certainly never asked details about my cases, other than when was I going to give up all the dangerous stuff and get a desk job. You’re challenging me, and I’m not used to it.”
His voice was measured, as if he weren’t experienced at sorting through his emotions. I watched him futz with the clasp of his watch as I battled my own emotions.
“And you don’t really like it,” I added.
“It frustrates me, would be more accurate. I love your independence, but…”
“Just not when it challenges your own work.”
“Maybe that’s it, if I’m being honest with myself. Maybe I just need time to adjust. Maybe you and I need to have different conversations about what we can talk about, what we can’t. I think I’ve been naïve about the complications. It’s something we probably both need to think about.”
He finally pulled his gaze up from his wrist and shifted his body, angling toward me. Getting the words out seemed to take the tension out of his shoulders.
“You know I would never push you to be someone you’re not,” I said, choosing each word as if it were the only one I’d get. “I respect you and admire your career choice. But I need you to do the same for me, even when it’s uncomfortable. Particularly when it’s uncomfortable. So, yes, I think we both have a lot to think about. It’s complicated, and we need to respect that.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded. “Don’t expect perfection, but I’ll try.” He squeezed my hand and didn’t let go. “What were you doing tonight before I invited myself in?”
“Working, what else?” We both laughed. “I know you don’t really want to talk about this, but I have a hypothetical question.”
“Hypothetical?” This time he shook his head, sighed, and rolled his eyes. “In the spirit of goodwill and communication, go ahead.”
“I’ll preface it with a statement, which you won’t react to. Okay?”
He nodded, looking at me skeptically.
“I believe Elyse Wright and Skylar Hayes were probably killed by the same man. But one of the things that confuses me is how their husbands would have gone about finding the same guy to do the deed. So far, I can’t find any other connection between the men. You don’t have to comment on that theory; I’m just laying it out as groundwork. But, assuming I’m correct, how would a professional man like Gavin Wright go about finding someone he could pay to kill his wife? How is it done, theoretically? It’s not like there’s a killer-for-hire category on Craigslist. How would Gavin Wright begin to know where to look? As a cop, educate me on what you’ve seen, how these things work.”
“That’s like asking a nature-versus-nurture question.”
“I’m asking because I can’t imagine it. What do you do, sit at a biker bar in a rough part of town, hoping you get lucky and the right guy just happens to come along? That’s absurd.”
“It shouldn’t be surprising to you, but a lot of people have shady individuals in their past. Someone who knows someone, who knows someone, who knows someone. It’s this behind-the-scenes informal referral network, for lack of a better way to put it.”
“So, Oliver Hayes had a coke habit. He might have inquired of his dealer, who inquired of someone else, and before you know it, the wife is dead. Hypothetically, of course.”
“Yeah, more or less. You just keep uncovering the rocks until eventually you find a snake underneath.”
“So do you know who Hayes’s dealer was?” I couldn’t resist and had to slip in the question.
“That’s a ‘no comment,’ Ms. Kellner. You’re not keeping to hypotheticals.”
My eyes went back to Michael’s wrist. The bracelet. Elyse Wright’s bracelet was missing. “Michael, was Skylar missing anything? A personal item—jewelry, perhaps? Something that she normally wore every day.”
“Where are you going with this? I see your mind running off into uncomfortable territory again.”
“Humor me for a minute.”
“Apparently, she wore a necklace that her mother had given her. A thin gold chain with a single drop pearl. It wasn’t found on her person or anywhere near her body. Her husband asked about it, said she never took it off.”
“Remember how Elyse Wright had a missing bracelet? I’d be willing to bet that that necklace is in the same place as Elyse Wright’s bracelet.”
28
It wasn’t yet 8:30, but already I felt as though I’d put in a half-day of work. I’d sent a copy of the video I’d captured following Gavin Wright’s arraignment to Borkowski for editing, along with my write-up, then I’d followed that with round two of the conversation with my attorney. We’d spent nearly thirty minutes clarifying a strategy. Although it depended on how aggressive Ramelli and company decided to play, my contract and ownership position gave me a fighting chance.
I couldn’t control whether Ryan was going to make a run at the business, with Ramelli’s participation, of course, but I didn’t have to accept their terms. And with legal help, I could put enough obstacles in their way to prevent the takeover from being a sure thing. It didn’t answer the question of what I did want, but it helped me obtain time and space for choices.
For the moment, dealing with Borkowski’s actions would have to satisfy me. I grabbed my tea and headed straight to the back corner. Borkowski would be expecting me. But he may not be expecting the fury he had unleashed.
Raquel shrunk visibly when she saw me approach her desk.
“He’s waiting for you,” she managed to mumble. I had a feeling that the minute the door was closed she’d have a sudden urge for a long coffee break.
He was sitting at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled, tie loose, papers strewn over the surface, and a red pen in hand. It was one of Borkowski’s holdovers from his newspaper days. Editing via paper printout and red ink.
“Sit,” he said, not look
ing up. “I’ll be just a second.”
I slid into the chair and leaned back, crossing my arms. I’d walked in the door feeling under control, but now that I was here, my anger was spilling over again.
“So, is this about Brynn? You’re not going to get all huffy, are you?” He looked at me over the top of his readers, the pen still wedged between his fingers. “We gotta cut back on overhead. I know you two have a relationship, but there are adjustments we need to make. You’ll just have to do your own research from here on out. We have to tighten things up. Cut back expenses across the board. Cut the nonessentials. You’ve seen the numbers.”
I let him rant, knowing that it was the most effective way to handle the man.
“And nowhere in that thought process did you even think to consult me?” I said, not caring if I sounded shrill. “Brynn has been with me from the beginning. How dare you make a unilateral decision like that without involving me? I had a right to be involved in that decision since I’m the one that works with her on a daily basis.”
“You put me in here to be the manager. I’m managing. Staffing and budgets are what I do. Being second-guessed for every decision is not the way this works.”
Borkowski flushed at the collar, and I imagined my own cheeks were showing their own heat.
“I’m not second-guessing your every decision,” I shot back. “I’m demanding respect. Brynn works for me a good fifty percent of the time, yet you didn’t have the courtesy to even have a conversation with me? How am I to take that? And speaking of job responsibilities, I’m the one who gave you this job. I know it hasn’t always been easy to differentiate where your job ends and mine begins, but like it or not, I still own this business. You will get on the phone, apologize profusely to her, get her to agree to stay on, and give her a ten percent raise. If not, then you and I should have conversations about your own position with this company.”
“Well, the board may have a different position on who’s in charge.” He tossed his pen in the drawer, then slammed it closed.
“Get her back on the payroll.” I left his office. The fight was on.
I flopped into my desk chair with a huff, feeling battered and attacked. My attorney would be ready, should there be legal action to defend, but for the moment the only thing that made sense was for me to do my job and be ready.
Opening my email, I saw a note from our video editor asking me to review the clip of Wright I’d sent in before she loaded it to the website. I clicked, then hit play. The piece had been cut to just shy of sixty seconds. I ran through it once for impact, judging the viewer experience. The chaos and fear rolled back through me as I watched. The chanting, the shouts, the walk as Gavin Wright moved from the courthouse to the waiting vehicle. I’d gotten a clear shot of not only his face but the surrounding atmosphere. Great. So wrapped up in the energy of the moment, I hadn’t noted whether Marcus Bennett was identifiable. I hit play again, pausing every few seconds to scan the faces in the crowd.
Sure enough, there he was about twenty seconds into the tape. I hit pause. It wasn’t a full-face, dead-on shot, but close enough that anyone who knew him could tag him. To his left, facing my camera, was another face that caught my attention. Also familiar. I searched my memory. It was the forensic accountant, Leon Rutkowski. Bennett had introduced him right before Elyse was murdered. No wonder the two of them got along. Victor wasn’t going to be happy. At least this guy was a hired consultant, not an employee, so his connection to Kirkland and McCullough wasn’t public. Bennett had likely already been fired, but I was going to have to give Victor the bad news. Bennett and Rutkowski were both having their fifteen minutes of fame.
29
Yes, Victor, your woman-hating employee was going to make the midday news.
I’d phoned, giving him the bad news about Marcus Bennett. Apparently, he’d felt guilty about axing the guy over the phone, so he had waited to do it in person first thing this morning. Not surprisingly, Bennett hadn’t taken his termination well, storming out of the office after using up all the curse words he knew.
At least it was over with, provided Bennett didn’t conclude he had some wrongful termination suit. It was never the smartest strategy to try to sue an attorney, but some people needed to learn the hard way. I didn’t imagine Victor was concerned; it seemed hard to argue in support of such hateful viewpoints, particularly when a number of celebrities had recently lost endorsements or jobs over lesser offenses.
I sat at my desk after the call, thinking about what had transpired the day before in Daley Plaza and imagining that some of Gavin Wright’s arrogance had been knocked off his shoulders. Was he aware that he had become a hero to a group of women-hating white guys? And if the charging of Gavin Wright was going to bring out the crazy haters, the identity of Skylar Hayes’s killer would likely have the same effect—that is, if CPD ever came out and charged anyone.
But who were these guys, the protesters? They seemed organized. Had managed to assemble quickly. Even with an inside source, I’d had less than fifteen minutes’ notice. I assumed some type of Twitter brigade was their call to action. And if they could get a couple dozen guys to show up within minutes, how many more were there?
I got up and flagged Brynn into my office. She’d taken the balance of the day off yesterday but was back in this morning, believing to be on her two-week countdown.
“Did you get any sleep last night?”
Judging by the extra-large mug in her hands, my guess was not much. She set the cup on the edge of my desk, took a seat, then rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“Barely two hours. We had a late-night visit to the emergency room. My mom was having heart palpitations. Luckily, it was just a false alarm, but that didn’t make much time for frivolous things like rest. That’s why coffee was invented.” She patted the handle of her mug. “Cup number three. I figure if I keep up this pace, I can make it to the weekend before I crash.”
“That’s awful. Is your mom okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine now. The stress makes her a bit of a worrier. Doesn’t help her medical condition, but she panics. Speaking of panicking, did you leave Borkowski bruised and huddled in a corner?”
“Well, I don’t know if anything bruises him, but I didn’t hold back. It isn’t fair, you just got caught in the crossfire of some bigger power plays. I’m doing everything I can to right the ship.”
Brynn didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve to be used as a pawn in Ramelli and Ryan’s scheme. I didn’t fault Borkowski’s logic; we did have issues to address in the business, but firing Brynn wasn’t the solution. It was a wedge.
“Well, I’m on the payroll for two more weeks. I’m not going to do anything stupid, like walk out.” She shrugged.
“Great, because I have a project for you.”
“Thank goodness. I expected to be staring at an empty inbox for two weeks. What do you have?”
“It’s about that demonstration yesterday at Wright’s arraignment. You’re the Twitter guru, see if you can find the call-to-action thread. I can’t tell if this is some small impromptu group that latched on to Gavin or if there’s something bigger, more organized behind it.”
“And why would a group of crazy-ass misogynistic white men be on Twitter? Duh! That’s exactly where these whackos find their peeps.” She rolled her eyes, grabbed her mug, and stood.
“And take a look at Skylar Hayes’s feed, if it’s still up. Apparently, she was also a victim of the trolls.”
“You got it. Great video, by the way. Yell if you need anything else.”
That settled, I pulled my mind back to Elyse Wright. Since CPD was still playing coy with Skylar Hayes’s murder, focusing on Elyse seemed the smarter strategy. The aspect I had yet to figure out was why she’d been spying on her husband. The common reason, an affair, seemed to have no merit; surely if she’d had any suspicions, there was no reason to have hidden it from her divorce attorney. The only other thing that came to mind was perhaps she had some inkling of the em
bezzlement or there was someone else who had come to her with allegations of her husband’s sexual assault. Spying seemed like an intelligence-gathering move.
Was it possible that Elyse knew about the embezzlement but pretended not to? After all, her reputation was equally important to her. Perhaps she had gambled that awareness would equate with guilt in the eyes of the court? I ran the legal strategy through my mind and found it viable. As it was, no evidence had been presented connecting Elyse to her husband’s crimes, yet she’d been forced to spend a fair amount of time in the months preceding her death defending herself and her reputation. If she’d discovered something, something that she was uncertain about, and had hired surveillance, the time between her discovery and sharing that with authorities would be questioned. It was a dilemma, largely a damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t situation. Knowing what I did about Elyse, I could easily imagine her trying to gather evidence before going public with the allegations. Perhaps Sikora’s death occurred before she had adequate evidence?
I spent a couple hours sifting through Lexis-Nexis, looking at entries about Skylar Hayes’s husband before strained eyesight and hunger got the better of me. The weather was milder today and I craved movement, so I grabbed my coat and my bag and headed downstairs, intending to make a run over to Eataly. Ever since my aborted trip yesterday, I’d been in the mood for linguine with clams.
Slipping on my gloves, I headed east, thrilled to see sunshine. I was only five feet outside the front door of the building when I saw him. Bennett leaned against a beat-up Dodge Caravan parked in a spot at the curb. He moved the minute he saw me, coming at me fast. I froze, pausing for a second too long debating his intent. Then he was on me, standing inches away, invading my space. His face a blotched circle of anger. Instinctually, I stepped back, and he matched my stride until I was against the brick of the building.