"I'm sorry I was late," Cindy said before he could open his mouth. "No excuse. But I did hear them arguing."
"I'm not surprised," he said. "Death is an out-of-control situation and murder even more so. They're grasping at whatever they think they can control. Closer to her than thou. More bereaved than thou. I'm the one she confided in. I know what she would have wanted. Use that when you interview them, separately, of course."
"Today?"
"Pin them down to time and place before they leave here. Tell them it'll be at their convenience, but make sure it's today. I want to know where they were on Thursday."
"Of course," she said. "Alibis. What else?"
"Get each of them to give you a list of Ms. Schofield's friends and family," he said. "Since they're squabbling over who's in charge of the funeral, they'll both probably have lists handy. Go over the lists with them. Find out as much as you can about Ms. Schofield's relationship with each of them."
Kane insisted on meeting in his office. She rode up to the thirtieth floor of a modern building in the East Fifties in an elevator gleaming with brass, chrome, and mirrors. Piped-in Simon and Garfunkel provided ambience. A well-upholstered receptionist in stiletto heels led the way to an office with a tall plate glass window looking over the rooftops of older and more modest buildings to the East River. Kane, seated in a high-tech ergonomic chair at a rosewood desk, did not rise to greet her until the receptionist had pronounced Cindy's name and bowed herself out, discreetly closing the door behind her. One-upmanship, Cindy thought. Ignoring the chair on the visitor's side of the desk that gave the lawyer the power position and put the light in the visitor's eyes, Cindy made herself comfortable in a conversational grouping of brown slubbed fabric chairs around a low glass table. She nodded for Kane to join her.
"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Kane," she said. "I'm sorry for your loss. This won't take long, but I do need to ask you some questions."
"I have questions for you too," he said. "When is my wife's body going to be released, so we can say goodbye to her properly?"
"You'll be notified as soon as the medical examiner's office does its job, sir," Cindy said. "We all want the same thing, don't we, for her killer to caught and punished. As a matter of routine, where were you on the day of your wife's death?"
"I was here. You don't become a partner at a prestigious law firm like this one by working a forty-hour week."
"Can someone confirm that?"
"Of course."
Kane eyed the distance to his desk and to the door, apparently measuring the effort involved in summoning his secretary. He reached inside an inner breast pocket of his suit jacket and took out a smartphone in an expensive leather case. His thumb hesitated over the touchscreen.
"Thursday," Cindy said, "between eleven and three."
"I know what day my wife died, Ms--" Kane said sharply.
"Detective Cenedella," Cindy said. "If you can tell me whom you were with during those hours, it would be very helpful."
Kane thumbed and scrolled.
"As it happens, I was out of the office that morning. I went to see my mother in the Bronx. She's in a residence where she gets excellent care, but I like to show up there frequently, so they know someone who has her interests at heart is keeping an eye on things."
"The name of the residence?" Cindy took out her own smartphone.
"My secretary can give you their card with all the information," he said, "on your way out."
"What time did you get there, Mr. Kane?"
"Around ten. I met with the director of the facility. She can confirm that."
"And you arrived back at the office--?"
"I took my mother out to lunch," he said. "It's a treat for her, and it's the least I can do."
"I'll need the name and address of the restaurant," Cindy said. "Did your secretary make the reservation?"
Kane flushed and tightened his lips.
"My mother doesn't like what she calls fancy schm-- upscale restaurants. I asked her where she wanted to go, and she chose McDonald's."
And good luck to us, Cindy thought as she made an electronic note of the cross streets, finding a McDonald's employee who paid enough attention to the customers to remember even a man who was probably the only customer in an Armani suit they'd had all year.
"May I?" She snapped his photo on her phone. "We'll see if we can find someone who remembers you. What did you do after that?"
"Then I went to Queens," he said. "I had to meet with a client who was about to get on a plane for Taiwan. I met him for a cup of coffee at the airport. JFK."
Good luck finding anyone who could identify him there either.
"I'll need your client's name and contact information."
"I can't reveal the name of a client," he said. "That's confidential information. I can ask if he's willing to contact you when he returns."
"Please do," she said. "It would be in your best interests to have him confirm your meeting. And you returned to this office when?"
"Around four," he said. "There was a partners' meeting at four-thirty. Any number of people can confirm it. I'm happy to cooperate, detective, as you can see. I want nothing more than to have you find the culprit so we can put this sad business to rest. Are we through here?"
Not by a long shot, Cindy thought. Kane's alibi had as many holes in it as a hunk of Swiss cheese.
"It would help our investigation if you can tell us more about your wife," she said. "What was she like? How did she spend her time? Who are the people she was close to? Anything you can tell us might be important."
Kane sat up straighter in his chair, shifted his buttocks from cheek to cheek, rolled his shoulders, and dropped his jaw.
"Sophia was a go-getter," he said. "We had that in common. She had her own PR firm, and she was building a very nice list of clients: up and coming actors, politicians, people who had something important to offer and could attract the right kind of publicity."
"Celebrities?" Cindy asked.
"If you mean talentless people of no distinction," he said, "whose only achievement is attracting media attention or getting picked for a reality TV show, I hope not. I advised her never to take on anyone who could only stay in the public eye by crashing cars or wrecking marriages or going into rehab after rehab."
"Did she have a business partner?" she asked.
"No, she liked running the show. She pitched it to prospective clients as a boutique agency where they'd get topnotch personal attention."
"What about employees?"
"She had a devoted secretary, more of a personal assistant in the British style. Miranda Spence. The business was growing. I thought she should hire one or two associates. But she kept putting it off. She liked being completely independent, making her own decisions, not bogged down in meetings and managing a staff."
"You have no children?" Cindy asked.
"No."
"Were you planning to?"
"Sophia and I were far too involved in our careers to take on the responsibility of raising a family," Kane said. "That was our agreement from the beginning. Children are messy, and our idea of the good life didn't include spending half of what we earned on nannies and private schools."
"You said your mother is in residential care. How about your father?"
"My father died last year," he said.
"I'm sorry," she said. "What can you tell me about Sophia's family?"
"She and her parents weren't close. Her father was English, her mother is Greek. He was a big gambler, but he's dead now. Her mother remarried. She's living on one of those Greek islands now. I suppose you'll want to interview Sophia's sister. Arden, she calls herself. That's not her real name. Calls herself an actress. She has no talent whatever, but she's a real drama queen. I'd advise you to take anything she says with a grain of salt." He checked his watch. "This is taking more time than I anticipated, and I have work to do."
"Only a few more questions for now," Cindy said. "Was your wife ever in ther
apy?"
Kane snorted.
"No, why would she be? There was nothing wrong with her. She was a successful, attractive, happily married woman. She didn't need a shrink."
"What about personal growth work? Any kind of support group?"
"She belonged to a gym. She worked out four and five times a week, sometimes more. I don't know how she found the time. And she did yoga, if that's what you mean. But she didn't have a guru or anything ridiculous like that. She had DVDs she used. And she ate healthy. No booze, mostly vegetarian, that kind of thing, the past few years. She liked to have a clear head, nothing wrong with that."
"Was there anything else that had changed recently?"
"Well, she didn't go on the kind of shopping sprees she used to any more. But that was because she was committed to putting money into her business. My wife was a class act, detective."
"Mr. Kane," Cindy said, "did your wife get help in dealing with her drinking?"
"What kind of help?" he said. "A psychiatrist? Or one of those rehabs those ridiculous young women you read about go to dry out, and five minutes later they're getting in trouble with drugs again? Don't be absurd."
"Maybe a self-help group?" Cindy said. "Alcoholics Anonymous?"
"Of course not. My wife was a sophisticated woman, Detective, not the kind of person who'd go in for that claptrap. She decided to take better care of herself, that's all." He swiped a hand across his eyes, pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief, and blew his nose. "I loved her, you know. I can't believe somebody killed her."
How had Sophia done it? Cindy wondered as she made her farewells and told Kane he would be kept informed of any developments in the case. She had managed to convince her husband that it was completely normal, no big deal, to give up booze and spending sprees. She had gotten sober in AA and solvent in DA, two enormous changes in her life, and her husband had no idea she'd been in the program.
Chapter Nine: Cindy
Arden Daventry lived in a studio apartment on a stub of a street west of Seventh Avenue in Greenwich Village. It was hidden at the far end of a courtyard consisting of cracked slate, raggedy shrubs, and a single ailanthus tree behind a narrow wrought-iron gate. When Cindy announced herself via a rusty plate of buttons and intercom, Arden buzzed her past the gate and came padding out into the courtyard to usher her in. She wore gaily patterned harem pants and a pale lavender charmeuse nightshirt. Her feet were bare. Her short black hair stuck up in irregular spikes around her head. One cheek bore the imprint of a crumpled pillow, and the smeared remains of last night's makeup under her eyes gave her a dissipated look. Two cats, one black and white, the other striped in classic gray with bright green eyes, prowled around her ankles, their tails caressing her legs.
"Come on in," she said. "I'm three flights up, on the top floor. This is an old building. You don't mind Tuxedo and Tabby, I hope. Their hair is everywhere." She yawned. "My vacuum cleaner broke a couple of months ago, and I haven't gotten around to doing anything about it. Do you want a cup of tea?"
Arden plucked a couple of chipped mugs from a small sink piled high with dirty dishes. The Pullman kitchen had a three-burner stovetop perched above a cubical refrigerator of the kind used as minibars in cheap chain hotels. An empty pizza box, lid flapping, covered two of the burners. A chrome kettle flecked with New York City soot stood on the third.
"No, thanks," Cindy said. "I just need to ask you a few questions."
"About Sophia? She was my big sister, so I knew her better than anybody. Did you know she was a talented photographer? If you talked to Larry, that tight-ass husband of hers, I bet he didn't even mention it. He’s all you're nobody unless you're making six figures a year. He put a lot of pressure on her to succeed at that PR business of hers. Not that the business was a bad thing. She was planning to do some work for me, get my face out there. I was going places, and believe me, Sophia was excited to be part of it. Losing her is a huge blow. Now I don't know what will happen with my career. She knew all the right people, and she'd taken hundreds of photos of me, ever since we were children. I'm lucky that way: the camera loves me. Do you want to see my head shots?"
"If you can spare one for our records," Cindy said, "it would be helpful. Do you have one of your sister?"
"Oh, she was camera shy herself," Arden said. "I can give you a snap of the two of us in the Hamptons."
She rummaged in a drawer and handed Cindy a small print of Arden and Sophia, arms around each other, tanned and laughing, on the deck of a sailboat. Both wore postage stamp bikinis.
"Is Arden Daventry your real name," Cindy asked, "or your stage name?"
"If you must know," Arden said, "my mother named me Agape. I keep meaning to get it changed legally, but I haven't gotten around to it. Daventry and I were married for about five minutes, but I kept his name. He was a Brit. An actor, so he could pull off a Downton Abbey accent and a lot of lies about his background. I wouldn't fall for it now, but I was very young, hardly more than a child. I was left with nothing but my art."
"Are you appearing in anything now?"
"How could I, when I'm so devastated by what happened to Sophia? I need time to grieve. But I have to work, I'm that kind of person, so I have a few auditions lined up. Is this going to take much more time? I have someplace I need to be this afternoon."
"Can you tell me where you were on Thursday between eleven and three? The day your sister died."
"I was here. Since most of my work is in the evenings, I usually sleep in."
"Can anyone confirm that, Ms. Daventry?"
Arden emitted a cascade of laughter, throwing back her head to emphasize the curve of her jawline and neck.
"Only the cats," she said. "My employers can confirm that I arrived at work at four."
"Your employers?" Cindy said. "You were working last week?"
"Every actor takes a day job once in a while," she said. "It's all grist for the mill, being around people, observing them. There's nothing like life experience if you want to develop any depth."
"What kind of job, Ms. Daventry?"
"A dining establishment. The Acropolis. You can call them."
A waitress in a greasy spoon, Cindy guessed.
"I'll need the address."
"It's in the Village, only a few blocks from here. Haven't you ever heard that real Village residents never go above 14th Street? I'd make an exception for a part on Broadway, but otherwise, forget it."
If Arden thought that constituted an alibi, she was delusional.
"Can you tell me anything about your sister's financial affairs?" Cindy asked.
"Me?" Arden furrowed her brow in a pretty frown she had probably practiced in front of a mirror. "Sophia was the one with the head for figures. She was always counting her pennies. It could get quite annoying."
"What about her social life? Any regular groups she belonged to? A particular circle of friends?"
"She knew a lot of important people," Arden said. "It was her job. And she belonged to an expensive gym. I don't think she had any particular buddies there or at her yoga class. But I really wouldn't know. She was so busy I saw a lot less of her lately."
"Do you know of any changes in her lifestyle recently?"
"Like becoming a vegan or something like that? Come to think of it, she didn't seem as interested in partying as she used to be. She wouldn't go out clubbing with me, but I thought that was because boring Larry didn't want her to. Or maybe that she was getting older and wasn't sure she wouldn't get turned away. That would have been terrible publicity. I've never had that problem. Everyone says I don't look my age. Blondes age faster than brunettes, anyhow. I hate to say it, but they're more inclined to wrinkle. Sophia made plenty of money. She could at least have asked me on a spa date once in a while, but she'd stopped doing that too. She really should have taken better care of herself."
Chapter Ten: Bruce
The funeral home was sedately decorated in pale gold, pale blue, and pale red, with furniture in pale blond wood and
heavy pale gold drapes, festooned and swagged within an inch of their lives to cast a discreet hush over the proceedings. The auditorium was almost full when Barbara, Jimmy, and I peered through the doorway.
"Now, don't forget," Barbara said, pinching my arm to get my attention, "don't mention the program to anybody you don't already know from the rooms. Or in front of anybody you don't know. Don't break her anonymity!"
"Yes, dear," Jimmy said.
"That dart was aimed at me," I said. "Yes, dear."
"Come on," she said. "Let's get seats before they're all taken. How many people do you think are here? Two hundred? Three hundred? No, Jimmy, not behind the woman with the big hat. I want to be able to see. Look, there's room to squeeze in over there."
"There's nothing to see," Jimmy complained. "A funeral without a viewing seems weird to me."
"Viewings are weird," Barbara said. "The Jewish way makes much more sense: funeral first, then celebrate the person's life with lots of food. She wasn't Jewish, was she?"
"I think her husband was," he said.
"Kane? It was probably Kahn or Kandinsky when his ancestors came through Ellis Island. If he sits shiva, we should go."
"Down, girl," I said. "One event at a time."
"I wonder if her husband knew about the program," Barbara said.
"He might go to Al-Anon," Jimmy said.
"Or not," I said.
I bet Cindy knew. A marriage between two recovering people was a far cry from a marriage in which one spouse kept the program a deep dark secret from the other.
Barbara stood up, her lips moving as she counted the crowd.
"Look, Bruce," she said, "there's Cindy in the back."
She raised her arm to wave, but I grabbed her elbow and pulled it down.
"Leave her alone," I said. "She's working."
I hoped Jimmy hadn't told Barbara that Cindy hadn't returned my calls and texts since our uncomfortable conversation. I didn't want her sympathy or advice. I'd rather stew in my own misery. It was also obvious that Barbara didn't know yet that the cops had any interest in her. It's not like Jimmy would have showed her his fourth step. If she'd known, she wouldn't be having such a good time now, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to start sleuthing. If she'd known, she probably would be fuming about him accusing her of jealousy. She might not even be speaking to him.
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