Coached in the Act

by Victoria Laurie

  “Wait, you broke up with her?” Gilley asked. “That’s not what the script says.”

  “I’m well aware that Yelena claims to have tossed me back in the harbor,” Marcus chuckled. “I held no grudge against her for wanting to salvage her ego after our split.”

  I eyed Gilley in a way that silently asked him what he thought. He shrugged and nodded his head. I nodded mine too.

  “Thank you, Marcus,” I said. “We both appreciate your honesty. But maybe you should also come clean to Aaron. Just so that he’s aware that his attorney had a prior relationship with the woman he was in love with.”

  “I’ve already done that, Catherine,” Marcus assured me. “It was the first thing we talked about.”

  “And he was still willing to hire you?” Gilley asked.

  “He was.”

  I said, “Okay, well, if it’s good enough for Aaron, then I suppose it’s good enough for—”

  “Have you told Shepherd?” Gilley suddenly asked.

  There was a pregnant pause on Marcus’s end of the call, then, “No.”

  “Don’t you think you should?” Gilley pressed.

  Marcus sighed. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “Why?” I asked, thinking it could only help the situation if Marcus were completely forthcoming.

  “Because if I can’t arrange for sovereign immunity for Mr. Nassau, then I’ll be using my brief affair with Yelena as a defense tactic. Mr. Nassau could hardly be considered the only suspect worth investigating if the police didn’t even bother to question me—a person also featured in her act.”

  “Oh, that is clever,” Gilley said.

  “Thank you,” Marcus said, with a hint of good humor. “And now I need to ask you two not to mention my relationship with Yelena to Shepherd, either.”

  “We won’t,” Gilley said quickly, but I didn’t respond right away.

  “Catherine?” Marcus asked.

  “I’m here,” I said.

  Meanwhile, Gilley stared at me and mouthed, What?

  “It’s just...,” I began.

  “Tell me,” Marcus said.

  “I don’t want to lie to him, Marcus. We’re in a committed relationship, and I feel like I’d be betraying him if I lied to him.”

  “I see,” he said. “So you consider the act of omission a lie.”

  “No,” I said, trying to clarify my own feelings as I spoke out loud. “But if he asked me if I knew anyone else who might’ve had a relationship with Yelena, I’d feel compelled to tell him.”

  “Well then,” Marcus said, “let’s hope he doesn’t ask you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Let’s.”

  Chapter 12

  Gilley and I spent another hour going over the script, and we thought we identified two more possible names, beginning with Lover Number Six. There were multiple double entendres for football in his section of the script, and Gilley was able to cross-reference some of Yelena’s social media posts to events attended by both her and an NFL legend, Brad Bosch, who had a house near Hook Pond, a stone’s throw away to our west.

  Bosch had played for the Giants from 1988 to 1999 and was now a featured commentator on ESPN. I’d seen him several times on the local news, discussing football with the station’s sportscaster. Everything fit for a Brad/Yelena romance once we researched his background a bit.

  And then we studied Lover Number Nine, in a weird coincidence, when we moved on from Brad to local news anchor Ike Chipperfield, from the very station where Brad would often make his appearances.

  “She could’ve met Ike if she ever escorted Brad to the station for an interview,” Gilley mused.

  “Agreed. There’s even this line, Gilley,” I said, picking up the script to quote from it. “ ‘Lover Number Nine and I were definitely behind the scenes, away from the camera and the jealous eyes of the quarterhack.’ ”

  “‘Quarterhack,’” Gilley said. “You know, I thought Yelena was deliciously clever, but now I’m wondering if she was really just cruel.”

  “The latter,” I said.

  Gilley eyed me suspiciously. “Did you really have a headache at intermission, or did you just not care to see Yelena’s second act?”

  “Yes,” I said, winking at him.

  Gilley chuckled, but then he sobered and eyed the whiteboard, where I’d just filled in Ike’s name for Lover Number Nine. “What’s interesting about all this is that we haven’t drawn any obvious connections to the man who was murdered in the alley. . . . What was his name again?”

  “Purdy,” I said. “Mark Purdy.”

  Gilley’s brow bounced. “Good memory.”

  “Thanks, but it’s less skill than it is the fact that you’re not likely to forget the name of a man you encountered minutes before he was murdered.”

  “I wonder if Shepherd’s team has made any progress on that front.”

  I sighed wearily and came around to sit in the chair next to Gilley again. “I have no idea.”

  “Do we think he could’ve been one of the remaining lovers?” Gil said next.

  I glanced at the whiteboard. “Well, there’re only three names left, right? Lovers Two, Ten, and Twelve.”

  “Two is the legislator,” Gilley said.

  “Yes, so Purdy’s out as a candidate for Lover Number Two. No history of running for office that we could find.”

  Gilley nodded and held up his script to read. “ ‘Lover Number Ten treated life like a racetrack, circling the field and going nowhere fast.’”

  “Does that describe a retired estate lawyer?” I asked.

  “Nope. That describes a race-car driver.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Yes, Gilley! That’s exactly who that would describe. Are there any local race-car drivers around these parts?”

  “No one comes to mind. I’ll do some research later.”

  “Good,” I said. “But back to Mr. Purdy. That leaves only Lover Number Twelve as a possibility.”

  Gilley flipped a few pages and again read from the script. “ ‘Lover Number Twelve, you know who you are. The best of the Lovers. You had my number from the beginning, and you never failed to call. You’re the son of a queen, a dreamer. A wisher. A maker of promises. But all your wishes are empty, all your promises lies, and you sit in your castle and look down your nose, and who are you really? Just another pretty face with a well-practiced line.’”

  “Ouch,” I said.

  “She gets even meaner,” Gilley said, making a face while he flipped through the last three pages. “She calls him a commitment-phobe and a lazy playboy.”

  “Well, she was mean about Marcus after he dumped her. Maybe Lover Number Twelve also dumped her.”

  “That’d be tough on someone like Yelena. Getting dumped by the two best lovers she’s ever had,” Gil said.

  “Yeah. Which also means that Number Twelve definitely isn’t Purdy.”

  “Why do you say that?” he asked me.

  “I would’ve put Purdy in his late sixties to early seventies. And he was frail in stature and likely four inches shorter than Yelena. I doubt he could’ve kept up with her on a walk, much less between the sheets.”

  “In other words, we can assume that Purdy doesn’t connect to Yelena’s act.”

  “Not that I can see. Assuming all our guesses are correct, of course,” I said.

  Gilley frowned. “Which means both his appearance in the coffee shop and his murder in the alley weren’t related to her.”

  I stared at the whiteboard without replying to Gilley for a long moment. “I’d agree if it weren’t for two things that don’t make sense.”

  “And they are?”

  “The blood on his hand before he was murdered, and the size ten ladies’ raincoat.”

  Gilley’s eyes widened. “Yelena was probably a size ten,” he said.

  “That’s what I was thinking. The coat was far too big for Purdy. He stumbled on the hem when he entered the coffee shop.”

  “Maybe he needed the extra length to fit
in all the money,” Gilley said.

  I considered that but then said, “How thick would a stack of two thousand bills be?”

  “That’s right,” Gilley said. “Shepherd said the two hundred thousand in cash on Purdy was all in hundred-dollar bills.” After picking up his phone, he tapped at it and said, “A thousand one-dollar bills measures four-point-three inches high.”

  “Roughly eight-point-six inches of bills to pack into the lining of a raincoat,” I said.

  “Yep,” Gilley said, tapping again at his phone. “A woman’s raincoat is roughly one-point-eight meters of fabric.”

  I got a measuring tape from the drawer in my kitchen where I kept various odds and ends. Measuring it out on the counter, I said, “Even with stacks a half inch thick, he would’ve had plenty of room with a coat half that size.”

  “So, he didn’t need an oversized coat,” Gil concluded.

  I stood back and rewound the measuring tape. “No.”

  “Then why was he wearing it?”

  “Maybe so Yelena could walk out of the theater without drawing attention to herself while carrying a suspicious looking duffel bag stuffed with money—assuming the money in the lining of the raincoat was for her, of course.”

  Gilley eyed me intently before he nodded. “Do we think Purdy actually killed Yelena?”

  I shook my head. “You saw all that blood on the floor backstage, Gilley. Whoever murdered her would’ve been covered in blood. Only Purdy’s hand was smeared with it.”

  “Could he have been a witness?” Gilley asked next.

  I pressed my lips together, thinking that through. Finally, I nodded. “If he walked in while Yelena was being murdered, he could’ve fled the scene in a panic, which would explain the fear I saw in his eyes when he entered the coffee shop. He might’ve known or assumed that the killer was in pursuit, and probably thought he was safe sneaking out the back.”

  “But he wasn’t,” Gilley said. “And if the killer was covered in blood, he couldn’t have entered the coffee shop to go after Purdy without a bunch of witnesses seeing him.”

  “But he could’ve entered a darkened alley and waited for Purdy to take the side street to the parking garage, only to watch him appear in the alley itself.”

  “Why didn’t Purdy call for help, though, if he witnessed the murder?” Gilley asked.

  “He didn’t have his phone on him, remember? He left it in the car,” I said.

  “But why didn’t he ask to use the coffee shop’s phone? Or even your phone, for that matter, when he bumped into your table?”

  “If he was carrying two hundred thousand dollars on his person, meant for the murder victim, and his hand was smeared with her blood, I doubt he would’ve wanted to call attention to himself by playing the role of witness.”

  “Good point. Especially if he was still a licensed lawyer. Paying off someone blackmailing you probably wouldn’t sit too well with the New York licensing board.”

  “So, what did Yelena have on Purdy?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” Gilley said, once again eyeing the whiteboard. Then he pointed and said, “Hold on. What about Lover Number Eight?”

  I eyed the board myself. “Gene Bosworth?”

  “Yeah. Remember? The note in the script said to call Gene for money.”

  “You’re thinking Purdy handled Gene’s estate, right?”

  “I am.”

  “It’d be good to know that for certain and be able to put that puzzle piece in its place.”

  “You could call Shepherd and ask him to look into it,” Gil suggested.

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Yeah, I knew it was a no-go the second it was out of my mouth.”

  I snapped my fingers. “But you know who might be able to access that information and who would actually appreciate our super sleuthing?”

  Gilley grinned. “Marcus Brown.”

  “Exactly. If court papers for Gene’s estate were filed, Marcus could call up the county clerk and get that information easily.”

  Gilley waved at my phone on the counter. “What’re you waiting for? Call him!”

  I did just that, but instead of telling Marcus all about our theory over the phone, I set up a meeting for the three of us for the end of the day.

  “And I’ll be bringing a whiteboard,” I told him.

  “A whiteboard?” he said. “I have one here, Catherine. You can use mine.”

  “No, mine has a list of names on it that I think you’d be interested in, Marcus.”

  There was a pause, then, “In that case, by all means, bring the whiteboard.”

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, I had changed into a pair of black skinny jeans, black Louboutin pumps, a matching Chanel sleeveless turtleneck and had topped the entire ensemble off with a pair of chic Oliver Peoples square-rimmed sunglasses.

  When I breezed through the door of Chez Kitty to collect Gilley, he waved his hand up and down in my general direction and said, “Ooh, Catwoman. I like it.”

  I grinned. “I love that you get me.”

  Gilley then looked down at himself and said, “I’ll change. Be with you in a jiff.”

  “Hurry,” I called as he dashed down the hallway toward the bedroom. “We’re supposed to be there in thirty minutes.”

  A mere four minutes later, Gilley emerged wearing tight-fitting black jeans and an equally tight-fitting T-shirt with a logo that read BAD TO THE BONE. Completing the ensemble, he wore a studded leather bracelet on his left wrist and a big gold ring on his right hand.

  “Biker?” I asked.

  “Badass,” he countered.

  I nodded approvingly. “It works. Let’s roll.”

  I donned my sunglasses, he put on a pair of aviators, and we were off to the races.

  Luck was with us as far as traffic was concerned, and we arrived at Marcus’s office building right on time. The structure was interesting, made up of three stories of bright white brick standing starkly against the dull brown buildings surrounding it. Part of the first floor wasn’t actually a floor, but a parking area for tenants and visitors. A set of large pylons supported the second and third floors above, giving the parking area shelter from the elements.

  We parked in one of only two available spots and headed toward the main entrance. Coming through the doorway, we were greeted by a security guard.

  “Who are you here to see?” he asked.

  “Marcus Brown,” I said.

  “Names?”

  Gilley and I exchanged a look. The guard held no clipboard or anything to refer to, so I wondered how he’d know we had an appointment.

  “Catherine Cooper and Gilley Gillespie,” Gilley said.

  The guard spoke into the mic at his shoulder. “Cooper and Gillespie here to see Mr. Brown.”

  There was a pause, then a garbled reply that sounded like “Granted.”

  The guard stepped to the side and pointed to the elevator. “Third floor. Suite three-oh-two.”

  We nodded our thanks and proceeded to the elevator, which opened before we’d even had a chance to hit the button. What was even weirder was that when we got in the car, the button for the third floor lit up all on its own.

  “That’s creepy,” I whispered to Gilley.

  He nudged my shoulder and pointed toward the upper right corner of the elevator. A camera was aimed down in our direction. “Someone’s watching us closely.”

  We got off the elevator and proceeded to the suite marked 302. The door had a unique design compared to the others lining the corridor—made of black walnut that had been shined and polished to really show off the beauty of the wood, it was broader than the other doors and probably quite a bit thicker.

  Gilley began to reach for the latch, but the door opened on its own, swinging inward slowly so that we could enter.

  After crossing the threshold, we came into a bright white room with an edgy abstract sculpture, which I thought might be a representation of Lady
Liberty. She sat on the far wall, directly opposite the door, in the midsize lobby that we found ourselves in. The area was decorated with overstuffed gray couches and a few Eames side tables, but otherwise the place was fairly minimalist.

  I looked around but didn’t see a receptionist, or a receptionist’s desk, for that matter. However, as Gilley and I exchanged Now what? glances, a door opened to the right of us, and a woman dressed in charcoal-gray silk stepped forward, extending her hand.

  “Ms. Cooper,” she said smoothly, shaking my hand, before turning to Gilley and greeting him by name as well. “I’m Jasmine Taylor, Mr. Brown’s paralegal. May I ask if you’d like a cappuccino or an espresso before I take you back to meet with him?”

  Gilley turned to me. “Okay. I’m impressed.”

  I couldn’t help but grin. “Two cappuccinos would be lovely,” I said, speaking for the pair of us.

  “Perfect,” she said. “This way please.”

  She led us through the door and down a hallway with two office suites off to the side. Two hard-at-work people—one woman, one man—sat at the desks within, hovered over their laptops, and didn’t even look up as we passed.

  At the end of the hall was a closed door, and we could hear Marcus’s voice from inside. It sounded like he was wrapping up a call.

  Jasmine knocked softly. There was a pause; then Marcus called out, “Come in, Jaz.”

  She opened the door as Marcus was saying his goodbyes. He pocketed his phone and stepped forward to greet us. “Catherine,” he said, smiling wide and taking my hand.

  It always gave me a little thrill when Marcus radiated warmth at me. He was a gorgeous man, powerful, in that he exuded confidence. He was someone I always hoped to have on my side.

  “Marcus,” I replied just as warmly, feeling a small blush touch my cheeks. I’d never, ever tell Shepherd this, but I had a tiny crush on Marcus.

  As Marcus and I basked in the glow of each other’s company, Gilley shoved his hand into the mix and practically shouted, “Hi, Marcus!”

  Gilley’s crush on the counselor might be a teensy bit bigger than mine.

  “Gilley,” Marcus said with a chuckle. Then he looked from me to Gilley and back again. “Are you both coordinating your outfits again?”