Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson
Killer Deal (3 page)
She was claiming to know me so well that she could count on my hunger for a great story to override any other concerns. Maybe she was right, but I didn’t want to give her
the satisfaction of admitting that this early in the process. “I need to know you’ll support my efforts to do this the right way,” I pressed.
the satisfaction of admitting that this early in the process. “I need to know you’ll support my efforts to do this the right way,” I pressed.
“Fine.”
“And keep your predictions about my failure to yourself.”
“Your implication wounds me.”
“Yours doesn’t exactly warm my heart.”
“I’m trying to be frank. You want to turn that into something malevolent, that’s your business.”
No, that’s your strength,
I thought, but for a change, I had the sense not to say it out loud. “Wonderful. I’ll get to work.” I pushed myself off the slab and headed for the door.
I thought, but for a change, I had the sense not to say it out loud. “Wonderful. I’ll get to work.” I pushed myself off the slab and headed for the door.
Eileen sat back from the monitor and folded her thin arms across her chest. “Just keep in mind you still have to do your column and that piece on dating divorced men, too.”
“I will.”
“All in two weeks.”
“Right.”
“And be careful.”
Interesting. I never would have suspected Eileen of giving a second thought about my personal safety. “Thank you, Eileen,” I said, trying to sound more grateful than surprised.
“God knows I don’t want you infuriating some homicidal idiot who’s going to come after you here in the office and hurt someone else, namely me. Investigations aren’t good for your coworkers or the carpet.”
Okay, so she wasn’t thinking about me at all, except in relation to her own comfort. The upside was, my suspicion that Hell remained a frost-free environment was confirmed. “I’ll do my best.”
“You’re smiling too much and I can’t bear it. Go now,” Eileen said with a dismissive wave.
Back at my desk, I couldn’t even sit still. This was the opportunity I’d been looking for and I was going to make the most of it. Third time’s a charm and I was going to make sure this article got me where I wanted to go.
I began by making lists and notes. I’d been following the news about the Henderson investigation out of personal interest,
but I wanted to assemble everything I could and make sure I was fully up to date. I needed background research on Gwen Lincoln, too, to make sure I got the most out of my interview. Gwen would be expecting puff-piece softballs, but I didn’t want to miss a chance to dig deep.
but I wanted to assemble everything I could and make sure I was fully up to date. I needed background research on Gwen Lincoln, too, to make sure I got the most out of my interview. Gwen would be expecting puff-piece softballs, but I didn’t want to miss a chance to dig deep.
I was also going to have to find out how much information the police would be willing to give me. Since it was an ongoing investigation, it probably wouldn’t be much. I tried to remember who Kyle had said had caught the case.
Kyle. I needed to tell Kyle. Telling Tricia and Cassady, especially in view of our lunch-hour conversation, would be great fun, but I couldn’t be sure Kyle would be as enthusiastic. He worried about me, which I appreciated hugely, so he’d probably be pretty low-key about it. But he’d be happy, too.
I called Cassady and Tricia, who were both thrilled to hear the good news. Tricia made me swear we would reconvene for celebratory cocktails at some point later in the evening; I mentioned that to Cassady, who said she was sure she’d be ready to ditch her fund-raiser quite early, so count her in.
Then I took a stroll and called Kyle from the steps of his precinct. I’m very respectful of professional space and the last way in the world I want to be perceived is as the flighty girlfriend who’s forever dropping by to intrude at the worst possible time. Especially now that I might be interacting with some of his colleagues on a completely new level.
“Hey, where are you?” he asked, sounding calm and pleased to hear from me.
“Out front. I didn’t want to interrupt, but I happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“Why?”
“Because I have great news.”
“I’ll come down and you can tell me in person.”
There’s something so delicious about watching the man you’re crazy about come walking toward you. You get that great anticipation of how he’s going to feel, smell, and taste as he moves closer. But it’s also having those moments
when you’re too far away to say anything, when you can just appreciate the marvelous way he moves with that effortless, muscular gait, the way the sunlight catches little hints of auburn in his hair that fluorescent light ignores, how the blue in his eyes shines from a hundred yards away, and the way his head tilts to one side because he’s thinking about other things right up until the moment he opens his mouth and says:
when you’re too far away to say anything, when you can just appreciate the marvelous way he moves with that effortless, muscular gait, the way the sunlight catches little hints of auburn in his hair that fluorescent light ignores, how the blue in his eyes shines from a hundred yards away, and the way his head tilts to one side because he’s thinking about other things right up until the moment he opens his mouth and says:
“Hey.”
He kissed me gently and quickly. He keeps things muted in public, especially in front of his workplace. Even as he straightened back up, I could see his eyes moving over the passersby to check who might have been watching us.
“Nice appetizer,” I said.
“You want the main course, make a late reservation. I’m not finishing up any time soon.”
“That’s too bad. We have some celebrating to do.”
“What’s up?”
“I need to talk to one of your fellow detectives.”
“One thing at a time. Go back to the celebrating.”
“That’s it. Eileen finally gave me a real assignment. I’m doing an article on Gwen Lincoln.”
“What kind of article?”
“An investigative piece.”
“Define ‘investigative.’”
“It’s supposed to be a profile on her new business, but I’m going to have to address Garth Henderson’s murder.”
“Why?”
“People still suspect her. Don’t they?”
He pinched his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Haven’t been keeping track.”
“Well, I’ll find out.”
“What else are you going to find out?”
“Whatever I can.”
Kyle smiled gently and a little sadly. I figured he was thinking of how consuming his current case was, then adding on how much I was going to have to be working to
get this article done right, and figuring out what little time together that would leave us. “What makes you think Gwen Lincoln will talk to you?”
get this article done right, and figuring out what little time together that would leave us. “What makes you think Gwen Lincoln will talk to you?”
“Her business partner brokered the deal.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
“Eileen assigned it to me. This is a huge step forward in her perception of what I can do for the magazine.”
“That’s great.”
He let go of his lip and I waited for his mouth to curl up into a congratulatory smile. But that didn’t happen. Instead, the man of my dreams chose that moment to say those three little words that can make your heart skip a beat, make you feel dizzy, and change a relationship forever. Three little words:
“Don’t do it.”
DEAR MOLLY, I’M CRAZY ABOUT
this guy and he’s crazy about me, but he’s not crazy about what I do. And I’m talking my job here, not some weird little habit or sexual idiosyncrasy. He has a really dangerous job and I support him in his work. Shouldn’t he do the same for me? My job isn’t nearly as dangerous as his—people shoot at him all the time and they only shoot at me occasionally—so am I out of line to want him to return the favor? Signed, Baby Got No Backup
this guy and he’s crazy about me, but he’s not crazy about what I do. And I’m talking my job here, not some weird little habit or sexual idiosyncrasy. He has a really dangerous job and I support him in his work. Shouldn’t he do the same for me? My job isn’t nearly as dangerous as his—people shoot at him all the time and they only shoot at me occasionally—so am I out of line to want him to return the favor? Signed, Baby Got No Backup
One of the great benefits of being an advice columnist is that everyone else’s problems are much easier to solve than your own. To a large extent, that’s because you’re only dealing with one fragment of their lives. Also, in writing to you, they tend to tip their hand about the heart of the problem, even if they haven’t recognized it as such yet. For instance, the letter that’s supposedly a complaint about having to shell out too much money for a ghastly bridesmaid’s dress that also refers to the bride-to-be as “that selfish, man-stealing slut” indicates there are other issues at play in that warm and loving friendship.
That’s why, when I’m stressed, I write letters to myself in my head. It gives me a little perspective, so I can take a deep breath and figure out how on earth I got myself into this particular situation.
After Kyle had told me not to do the article, I was at a loss. Not that I necessarily would’ve known the right thing to say had I seen his request coming, but since I was completely unprepared, it took me a moment to muster up an eloquent: “Why not?”
Kyle considered his answer so long I wasn’t sure I was going to get one. Finally, he said, “This one’s messy.”
“Why?”
“First of all, it’s still open. Plus, it just has that feel.”
“So you don’t think Gwen Lincoln did it?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think. Not my case.” His jaw set and I realized this was a major part of the problem. Not only was I going to be on police territory, I was going to be on another’s detective’s turf.
“I’m not going to get you involved,” I promised. “I’d just like to understand what’s going on before I interview her.”
“It’s not your case either.”
I was surprised at how much that stung, even though I knew he didn’t mean it to. All he was doing was explaining his concerns. But while I respected that, it didn’t diminish the dig. “I’d never presume to be able to solve this murder before your colleagues do.”
“Of course you would,” he said flatly.
I didn’t want this to turn into a fight, especially because, if pressed, I had to admit that he wasn’t completely wrong. But surely there was a way to make this work for all parties. “Okay. There’s some small chance that in the course of writing the article, I might come up with interesting information that’s eluded the police so far. But I don’t intend to race your fellow detectives to a conclusion. I’m writing about a suspect in the case, that’s all.” He stared at me until I felt compelled to add, “Promise.”
Something else was bothering him. I could see it in the tilt of his head. He finally said, “This isn’t like the other times.”
“The other murders, you mean.” He nodded and I refrained from asking him when he’d had the chance to compare notes with Eileen. “I know. That’s why it’s exciting. I’m
not emotionally involved. I’m doing this as a journalist and it’s a chance to show Eileen I’m capable of doing more at the magazine.”
not emotionally involved. I’m doing this as a journalist and it’s a chance to show Eileen I’m capable of doing more at the magazine.”
“Yeah. The ‘doing more’ …”
“I only want background from the detective in charge so I can understand what Gwen Lincoln might be going through right now. That’ll be it. I won’t bother anyone past that.”
Kyle fixed me for what seemed like at least two minutes with a piercing but unreadable gaze. Finally, he said, “You’re not going to get much, it’s an ongoing investigation.”
“I know. And I don’t mean to put you in the middle. I’ll go through the proper channels and set up my own meeting. I just wanted to tell you before I did any of that.”
I wasn’t sure if he was squinting or wincing as he shook his head. “Let me talk to him first. He can be …” Kyle searched for the proper description, then thought better of it. “Let me talk to him first,” he repeated. “And I’ll catch up with you later tonight.” He wasn’t exactly sending me away, but he wasn’t inviting me to follow him inside either. But to prove that point that I was going to respect the process, I didn’t argue the point or try to go with him. He kissed me softly—perfunctorily, if I wanted to be neurotic about it—and went back inside.
I walked back to my office, trying to clear my head before I returned to Eileen’s turf. It wasn’t that hot, by August standards. You could almost feel autumn lurking around the corner. A lot of my friends disdain walking, especially in an expensive pair of shoes, but I enjoy strolling in the city. It’s a great way to get out of your own head and reorient yourself to the rest of the world, most of which seems to be parading by you as you work your way down Lexington or Broadway, displaying the dazzling varieties of race, age, shape, fashion, gender, economic level, and sexual orientation that exist. My grandmother always said if you sat in one place long enough, the whole world would go by. I’m pretty sure that one place is a corner in midtown Manhattan.
Back at my desk, I felt somewhat calmer, convinced there had to be a way to make this work without fouling up our relationship.
Not that balance and perspective are my strong suits, but with a little work, I was sure I could scrape some together.
Not that balance and perspective are my strong suits, but with a little work, I was sure I could scrape some together.
I searched out all the information I could about Gwen Lincoln and Garth Henderson. Quite a few of the articles I found were about their behemoth wedding six years ago, with its bank-busting decorations, platoons of attendants, and full week of related social events. Then there was their equally sensational separation five months ago, with its high-spirited accusations of infidelity and emotional cruelty on both sides.
There were also a fair number of articles dealing with their business acumen and market savvy, but they weren’t nearly as revealing—or entertaining. And, of course, there were those from the past few weeks about Garth’s murder, highlighting the key facts: he’d been shot (the locations of the wounds had come out in the gossip columns rather than the regular reportage), security records indicated he was the only one who had unlocked the door that night so he had opened the door to admit the killer, room service had delivered dinner for two at 9:15 and found Garth alone and alive, and Gwen Lincoln had come to the hotel at 10:30 and demanded to be let into his room because Garth was expecting her and she was concerned that he didn’t answer the door. She and the assistant manager discovered the body.
These were followed by articles about the police questioning Gwen extensively, talking to Garth’s partner-to-be Ronnie briefly, and the pressure being brought to bear by friends of all involved to solve the case quickly. Emile Trebask wasn’t prominent in any of the articles, but he was quoted in one as “supporting my dear partner in this difficult time.” I wondered how deep their partnership ran.
A flash of inspiration hit me. I grabbed my phone and called upstairs to our sister publication,
BizBuzz,
and asked for Owen Crandall. Owen had been on staff at
Zeitgeist,
writing for our fashion editor Caitlin, but in a shift that benefited his resume, wallet, and mental health, had recently
moved upstairs to report on the business end of the fashion industry for The Publisher’s newest venture.
BizBuzz,
and asked for Owen Crandall. Owen had been on staff at
Zeitgeist,
writing for our fashion editor Caitlin, but in a shift that benefited his resume, wallet, and mental health, had recently
moved upstairs to report on the business end of the fashion industry for The Publisher’s newest venture.
“Would a caramel macchiato buy me fifteen minutes of your time, Owen?” I asked him.
“Molly, the pleasure of your company is reward in itself. But throw in an espresso shot and I’m yours.”
A quick trip down to street level and around the corner for two coffees to go and I was back up at Owen’s desk in short order. The bull pen for
BizBuzz
was almost identical to ours, but they’d been cursed with florid red and orange carpeting that Owen described as “the lava flow,” while we trod on a blue and gray weave that tried to pass itself off as faux marble. No corner could be cut too sharply when The Publisher budgeted overhead items.
BizBuzz
was almost identical to ours, but they’d been cursed with florid red and orange carpeting that Owen described as “the lava flow,” while we trod on a blue and gray weave that tried to pass itself off as faux marble. No corner could be cut too sharply when The Publisher budgeted overhead items.
“I’d love to think you came to say you miss me, but you have that glint in your eye. You’re on the hunt.” Owen smiled and he had a great smile. Pretty great everything, actually. He was twenty-five, chiseled, with heavy-lidded eyes and a cleft in his chin to make Kirk Douglas weep with envy. More than one photographer had come in for a meeting and wound up courting him, but Owen wasn’t interested. In fact, no one was sure what interested Owen. When he was downstairs with us, he’d been the object of much sighing from both genders but stayed maddeningly aloof about his personal life, tricky to do in our forced communal existence. Rumor proclaimed Caitlin had propositioned him more than once, which had spurred his desire to move up and out.
“I don’t mean to be transparent,” I said.
“Think of it as honesty between friends.”
“Like the sound of that. So, speaking of between friends, what can you tell me about Gwen Lincoln and Emile Trebask?”
Owen shrugged. “Gwen’s the major backer for his fragrance line. He leveraged everything he had to get the clothing line going, so his pockets are more shallow than you might expect.”
“Is it all business between them?”
“I knew you were digging. Sorry to disappoint you, but Emile likes them young, blond, and male, which zeroes out Gwen. A meeting of the minds and the checkbooks, nothing more. What’re you up to, Molly?” Owen leaned across his desk with a conspiratorial grin. “This about Garth Henderson?”
“Not yet.” I didn’t want to set the gossip train racing through The Publisher’s kingdom before I’d even started working.
“Too bad.”
“Why, what do you know?”
“Gwen was the one who got Garth to poach Emile from Ronnie Willis. Said if she was going to partner with him, they should keep the business ‘all in the family,’ you know? Ronnie was furious.”
“And now they’re all reunited. Minus Garth.”
Owen nodded and sat back in his chair, licking at the whipped cream on his coffee in a way that would have brought half the bull pen downstairs to its knees. “Isn’t that interesting?”
It certainly put the merger in a new light. I’d been surprised that it was even going forward but, in spite of an acrimonious, tabloid-fodder separation and pending divorce, Garth had not changed his will. I suppose when you’re divorcing someone, you’re so busy wishing him or her dead that you don’t think about dying yourself. Upon Garth’s death, his controlling interest in GHInc. had gone to Gwen and she was proceeding with the merger.
But that meant that Ronnie Willis, who’d thought he was merging with an advertising genius, now found himself partnered with a former cosmetics executive. One who’d conspired to steal a major client from him. I was surprised Ronnie wasn’t invoking some key man clause to back out when the reputation of GHInc. had always been that it all hinged on Garth’s individual brilliance. There had to be some other inducement for Ronnie to go forward. More than recapturing Emile Trebask.
“Where’d you hear this?”
“Someone who works for Ronnie. And even more interesting, I hear he’s quite happy that the merger’s going forward.”
So Emile and Gwen wasn’t the pairing to dwell on, it was Gwen and Ronnie. “Any other client fallout?”
Owen shook his head. “Sitting tight so far. I also hear the staff at Garth’s place is solid, but Ronnie’s people are nervous.”
“You’d think Garth’s people would be nervous, since their boss is the one who just got perforated.”
“Yeah, but that’s love and this is business.”
“You think it’s love? You think it’s Gwen?”
“Why else shoot him where she shot him?” He gestured to his lap with a quick flinch.
“To plant that thought in everyone’s mind.”
Owen wagged his head a moment, rolling that thought around. “Hadn’t considered that. So you don’t think it’s Gwen.”
“I think I’m keeping an open mind. Besides, that’s not what my article’s about,” I hurried to add, seeing the grin spreading across his face.
“Of course not. But if you find you need to share some suspicions, you know where to find me. And how much I cost.” He toasted me with his coffee cup as I headed for the elevator.
Back at my desk, I read until my eyes crossed, then loaded up all the paperwork, trying to suppress college flashbacks, and decamped for drinks with Tricia and Cassady. Of course, meeting them for drinks could induce college flashbacks, too, but of a happier sort. They were the ones who dragged me out of our dorm suite the night I was suffering writer’s block on a paper about Coleridge. Claiming to be my own visitors from Purlock, they took me to the neighborhood café where we ate hot pastrami sandwiches and drank kamikazes until I felt sufficiently inspired to go home and finish the paper. Thank goodness there hadn’t been any opium dealers on campus. That we knew.
As Tricia and I settled in, the conversation turned to another crucial wrinkle in my investigation. “Kyle will get
over it,” Tricia assured me. “He’s being protective and just needs some time to get used to the notion.” We were at 5757, in the Four Seasons, waiting for Cassady to slip away from her science seminar and join us. I have a fondness for hotel bars; they tend to be quieter and people mind their own business because they’re concentrating on business negotiations, vacation plans, or illicit affairs. This grand place, with its cozy tables in an airy space, was perfect for the kind of furrowed-brow discussion we were having.
over it,” Tricia assured me. “He’s being protective and just needs some time to get used to the notion.” We were at 5757, in the Four Seasons, waiting for Cassady to slip away from her science seminar and join us. I have a fondness for hotel bars; they tend to be quieter and people mind their own business because they’re concentrating on business negotiations, vacation plans, or illicit affairs. This grand place, with its cozy tables in an airy space, was perfect for the kind of furrowed-brow discussion we were having.
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