Death Will Pay Your Debts

by Elizabeth Zelvin

  "The Rose woman, you mean," Natali said.

  Cindy realized she had avoided using Barbara and Jimmy's names as a superstitious gesture, as if not mentioning them would somehow prevent Natali from considering them as serious suspects. She was being ridiculous. She had to steel herself and tell him that she knew them. The longer she waited, the harder and more potentially damaging it was going to get.

  "Why assume that Kerensky's wife wanted him to run for the City Council?" she asked. "Maybe she doesn't want him in the public eye or so busy he's never home. She could already be complaining about his long hours at work. He's a corporate attorney, so we can assume that much, can't we?"

  "While you were talking to Kerensky," Natali said, "I was gathering information about their finances. Marcia Baldwin-Kerensky is paying the tab for her husband's campaign."

  "So she wants him to win," Cindy said.

  "She's already in the public eye herself," Natali said. "She inherited enough money to be a philanthropist in her own right. She's all over these big-ticket charity events."

  Champagne for poverty, Cindy heard in her head in Bruce's sardonic tones. Damn, it was hard to stop thinking about that man.

  "What kind of causes does she support?" Cindy asked.

  "Environmental," Natali said. "Save the whales, hug the trees, fuck fracking."

  "Oh, come on, Natali," Cindy said. "You don't want to breathe polluted air and drink polluted water, do you?"

  "Let's skip the debate and focus on the case," he said. "She's behind his recent interest in the environment. It's part of his platform, but it looks like he never cared about it before. If he wins, he carries her political agenda forward."

  "I bet she didn't pick his PR firm, though," Cindy said. "Working with Sophia made sense because he already worked with Larry, and Sophia's office was a convenient stroll down the hall. But you should have seen him. I could easily imagine him draped in the doorway of the darkroom, coming on to Sophia. There's no reason she wouldn't have liked it, either. He's an attractive man."

  "We'll check his fingerprints against the unknown set we found," Natali said.

  "Can we ask him for them?"

  "You didn't find a way to get them while you were there?"

  "Damn!" she said. "I shouldn't have refused the coffee. He tried to hand me one of the cups he was holding, and I said no."

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Cindy

  Cindy spent the next few days researching and interviewing or re-interviewing the dead woman's family and those of her clients who could be found in New York. She found Sophia's grandfather lunching in the Grill Room at the Four Seasons. He insisted that she join him, overriding her repeated refusals by assuring her that if she would indulge a lonely old man who had lost his favorite grandchild, he would lay bare the Schofield finances for her.

  "I'm going in for a bypass tomorrow," he said cheerfully, "so it's now or never. Another bottle of the Margaux," he told a hovering waiter, "and the filet of bison is delicious, my dear. No? The pan roasted pheasant, then? Oh, very well, vichyssoise for the young lady and a little truffled risotto. A Sancerre with that, and an additional glass--my dear, you must taste the Bordeaux, it's the 2005, an excellent year."

  "Absolutely not," Cindy said, "no wine for me." She suppressed a pang of regret that she hadn't been offered this treat before she got sober.

  "No drinking on duty, I suppose," the old man said, allowing the waiter to refill his own glass.

  "You've been reading too much Agatha Christie," Cindy said. "I can get away with telling my sergeant the witness made me eat soup and rice before he would talk to me, but that's it."

  Schofield cackled.

  "I like you, Detective. Now, my dear, what do you want to know?"

  "For one thing," Cindy said, "do your doctors know what you're having for lunch the day before your heart surgery?"

  "Oh, I'm a tough old bird," he said. "It'll take more than modern medicine to kill me. As for my heart, there's not much of it left to bypass, now my little Sophia is gone. She was worth ten of her sister Agape and her cousin Brent, but the two of them will get my money if the surgeon mucks it up. My affairs are in order."

  "Your sons and daughter don't inherit?" Cindy murmured.

  "Simon doesn't know good wine from bad, and Miles can't hold his drink like a gentleman any more. He used to as a young man. I don't know what's wrong with him."

  Cindy bit her lip and refrained from saying that it sounded like Miles's liver was starting to go.

  "Iris, useless woman, is extravagant, and she's a whiner, never satisfied. She still drinks Cosmopolitans, can you imagine? She should have found herself a man who could control her, not a weakling like Jason Martin."

  Cindy let him talk about the children for a while, although she learned nothing useful, except that the old man had never set foot in a Starbucks and doubted that any of his offspring had either, although he couldn't be held accountable for the habits of the younger generation. Then she steered him back onto the financial track, taking copious notes.

  She found Miles Schofield on the verge of comatose at the Yale Club and Simon Schofield drowning any grief he felt for his daughter in his work as an investment banker. He was distracted throughout the interview, shuffling papers and claiming he couldn't possibly have his calls held while they talked. Iris Martin, checking her Cartier watch every couple of minutes as she waited for her personal shopper to arrive, talked nonstop about her father's misguidedness in lumping her with her irresponsible brothers in the disposition of his estate, the virtues of her son Brent, who would surely understand what was due to his mother when the time arrived, and the insensitivity of her sister-in-law Aglaia, who might have lost a daughter but needn't have bitten her head off when she, Iris, had kindly suggested a little expedition to Henri Bendel to take her mind off her sad loss.

  Other than Damian Kerensky, none of Sophia's clients seemed to have a personal relationship with her, although all of them had found her pleasant and professional and her approach to their PR needs energetic and creative.

  "She didn't waste any time having three-martini lunches," said an ambitious new reality-show star named Poppy Friedman. "You paid her to get the job done, and you could count on her to do it. She had a lot of, like, presence, I mean, a lot of presence. People took her seriously, even important people. Men. That quality was exactly what I wanted her to promote for me. She could have been a celebrity herself if she had wanted to, she was that good."

  "What are you going to do," Cindy asked, "now that she's gone?"

  "I've thought about that a lot," Poppy Friedman said. "You've got to have the right image. It's essential, you know? I've finally made up my mind to go with someone who was familiar with Sophia's work. Actually, she tells me they were planning to pool their talents and work together very soon. Sophia hadn't mentioned it, but I suppose she wanted to have her strategy in place first. She would have told me as soon as she could, because she valued my business. She thought I had tremendous potential. Anyway, this new person, Grace Papadopoulos, is more edgy than Sophia. She'll appeal to a younger market, and that's got to be a good thing. I wasn't quite sure when I first met her, but we've talked several times, and she's convinced me she can take me to the top. When it comes to reality, you've got to stand out, because if you don't, well, what are you, really?"

  Poppy Friedman was the fourth client Cindy had interviewed who was going to work with Grace Papadopoulos. She heard the terms "hot," "trendy," "youth-oriented," and now "edgy" to describe Ms. Papadopoulos before a frank mention of piercing and tattoos made her realize she had seen her at Sophia's funeral. She had certainly stood out. Now she was making hay by taking over Sophia's clients. She must be telling the truth about Sophia having discussed the business in detail, because the clients all agreed that Grace had been well informed about their needs and what steps Sophia had already taken on their behalf. She had been ready to hit the ground running, as every one of them had put it. So far, she had not caught up w
ith Grace, though she had tried her home and office and left several messages on her cell phone.

  "Do you get a sense that she's avoiding you?" Natali asked when she reported back.

  "Not necessarily," Cindy said. "She may just be very busy. She's hustling to get these new clients before they have time to think about other ways to replace Sophia or decide to do without a PR person altogether."

  "Let it go for today," Natali said. "Stay put and do some paperwork. You'll catch up with her tomorrow."

  "I'm glad to get back to the barn," Cindy said. "My feet are killing me." She kicked off her low-heeled pumps, wiggled her toes to the extent her stockings would allow, and nudged the shoes under her desk where she would be able to find them later.

  "Here." Natali tossed a stack of papers onto her desk. "Read through these statements from the original witnesses again. See if anything pops out at you."

  "I talked to all of these folks at the crime scene, but I haven't read over what they said since then."

  "I know. Someone else took their formal statements, either here or at their homes later. I spoke to some of them myself. At this point, your eye will be as fresh as anyone's."

  "Okay, got it. Thanks."

  She propped her head on her fists, elbows on the desk, and began to read. Her head had been in a bit of a whirl at the crime scene, she'd been so excited about getting her first homicide. The statements confirmed her recollection that none of these witnesses had actually witnessed anything. None of them had known Sophia. The group upstairs had come in together. They'd been absorbed in their conversation. They hadn't noticed how long any of the drinks, their own or anyone else's, had stood on the counter before being picked up. They hadn't noticed anyone sitting on the landing until Sophia's death throes had caught everyone's attention and the circus came to town.

  "Boss."

  "Save it for the sarge," Natali said.

  "Natali, then," she said. "Grace Papadopoulos. The woman who's taking on so many of Sophia's clients, the one I've been trying to get hold of. The one who says that she and Sophia were already talking about merging their solo businesses."

  "Yeah? What about her?"

  "She's here." Cindy smacked the paper and rubbed her stinging hand. "She's one of the witnesses. There couldn't be two women named Grace Papadopoulos. She was in the Starbucks when Sophia died."

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Cindy

  Natali told Cindy to get a move on and re-interview Grace Papadopoulos right away, which gave Cindy a good excuse to say, "I'm on my way," instead of, "There's something I need to tell you." Now that they'd found not one but two connections between Grace and Sophia, she had to ask about that group of "friends from the neighborhood." It would be irresponsible not to. If she was right, and all those witnesses knew Sophia from the program, she had to report it.

  Sergeant Washington had assigned her to the case, and he could kick her off it. He could even tell her to forget making detective after withholding crucial information about the case and her relationship to its cast of characters. If only—but if she'd learned anything in program besides "Don't drink and go to meetings," it was that "if only" was an exercise in futility. After she talked to Grace, she'd march right in there and tell whichever of them she saw first the whole truth.

  Grace had an apartment in an old building on Riverside Drive in the high Nineties, tiny but with an enviable view of the river and the towns perched on the Palisades over in New Jersey. If you craned your neck, you could probably see the George Washington Bridge. But she wasn't here for the view, and Grace knew it, so she didn't offer. She did offer freshly made coffee. It smelled wonderful, but Cindy refused it. Grace fiddled with her own half-filled cup, putting it down, picking it up, and running her thumb along the ceramic handle while she took occasional sips. Cindy had had time to think on the way and decided to lead with her authority, not her own anonymity.

  "You failed to tell us that you knew Sophia Schofield before you witnessed her death," she said. "You lied to the police."

  "I didn't mean to lie," Grace faltered, crossing and uncrossing her tattooed legs. "They asked—you asked if I had noticed whoever was sitting with her before she died, and I hadn't."

  "You knew who she was, though, before the police did," Cindy said. "You could have been more forthcoming, but you chose not to."

  "I was afraid to call attention to myself." Grace bit her lip, from which she had removed the silver ring. "I was afraid you'd think I had a motive, since I would have a good chance of taking over her clients."

  Cindy raised her eyebrows as high as they would go and injected a note of incredulity into her voice.

  "When she collapsed, you were already thinking of getting her clients?"

  "No! Of course not!" Grace bit her lip again and rubbed the spot with her finger. "I felt scared and thought I'd better just answer the questions."

  "Are you telling me that no one asked if you knew the dead woman?"

  "I don't remember. It was only later that I thought that you might think I had a motive. But I didn't! We hadn't signed an agreement yet. Sophia was going to introduce me to her clients after we did that. We planned to pitch the merger as an opportunity for them to work with a team. If one of us wasn't available, the other would be, and we could offer them twice the professional contacts. It was to everyone's advantage. Since we hadn't done any of that yet, I was the last person who would have wanted Sophia dead. I had to start with her clients from scratch. I've been lucky with a few, but some of them have decided to go with bigger agencies. Now they've seen what can happen to someone who's working solo, they don't want to risk it happening again."

  "When did you start approaching Ms Schofield's clients, Ms Papadopoulos?"

  "I introduced myself to some of them at the funeral." Grace's cheeks reddened. "I was only making contact! I wasn't trying to pitch them. I didn't want to be inappropriate."

  "How did you know who they were?" Cindy asked.

  "I knew their names," Grace said. "Sophia and I went over all of her clients as well as mine when we started talking about working together."

  "Ms Schofield's personal assistant mentioned that the good will of her business might be offered for sale," Cindy said. "What do you know about that?"

  "Nothing!" Grace set her mug down with a bang on a glass-topped table. "I didn't know. Can they do that? If some of her clients choose to hire me, that's their business. I guess if I want to use Sophia's contacts and follow out the plans she already had with them, I'd have to pay. But don't you see? That makes it even more unlikely that I'd want Sophia to die. I was offering her my clients too, so it was mutual. I wouldn't have had to pay her anything. Now—well, I can't go into debt, so it's not even an option, even if her husband were willing to sell to me."

  "You can't go into debt?" Cindy smiled around a figurative mouthful of canary feathers. "Why is that, Ms Papadopoulos?"

  Grace bit her lip again and said nothing.

  "You and Sophia Schofield weren't only business acquaintances, were you?" Cindy said. "We know that Sophia was in recovery in two twelve-step programs, AA and Debtors Anonymous. Were you in recovery yourself? Is that how you knew Sophia?"

  "I didn't think the police would know about that," Grace said with chagrin. "Yes, that's how we met, at a Business Owners DA meeting. Sophia was solvent, and so am I. She wouldn't have risked going into business with just anyone. We had to do things differently, and we both understood that."

  "You and your friends in Starbucks had come from a meeting," Cindy said, careful not to make it a question. "Sophia was with you when you came in."

  "Yes," Grace said, clearly too deflated to question police omniscience. "It was her meeting—that is, it was a new meeting, and she was the chair."

  "Why didn't Sophia sit with the group?"

  "She said she was meeting someone," Grace said.

  "When did she split off from you?" Cindy asked.

  "After we ordered our drinks," Grace said, "she went upstairs to save
the two chairs on the landing. She was lucky to get them, because they're the only comfortable chairs in the place, and the landing is the only place where two people can talk more or less privately."

  "Do you remember what she ordered?"

  "No. My order was complicated, and I was focused on making sure the barista got it right."

  "Can you tell me whether she ordered one drink or two?"

  Grace shook her head.

  "Sorry, I didn't notice."

  "What happened next?"

  "Well, we had to wait for our drinks. It was crowded."

  "How much attention were you paying to the counter? Did you see the barista put the drinks down?"

  "No, we were all talking and joking around," Grace said, "then we noticed our drinks were sitting there."

  "Who noticed that?" Cindy asked.

  ""Well, everyone. I don't remember."

  "What did you do next?"

  "We all took our drinks," Grace said, "and then we went upstairs."

  "And Sophia?"

  "We passed Sophia on the landing. When she saw us, she figured her order must have come too. She left her stuff on the seats to save them and went down to get it, and we continued on up to the balcony."

  "Did you see Sophia talking to anyone other than your group while she was downstairs, either the first or the second time?"

  "No."

  "She talked to no one, or you didn't notice? Please think carefully."

  "I didn't notice."

  "Did she say anything at all about whom she was meeting?"

  "No, she didn't. I'm sure of that."

  When Cindy got back to the precinct, she found Sergeant Washington and Detective Natali together, frowning at a computer screen. Natali beckoned her over, causing his wooden chair, tilted forward on its two front legs, to teeter precariously. The sergeant stood behind Natali, leaning forward with his hands braced on the desk. He straightened up with a grunt, acknowledging Cindy or perhaps spinal pain. He was at least eighteen inches taller than Cindy, a guy who might have had hoop dreams if he hadn't been born into a family full of cops. His size fourteens took up a lot of space. Cindy looked up at him, craning her neck as if she were a tree lover gazing in awe at a sequoia. She took a deep breath.