Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson
Killer Deal (5 page)
I didn’t argue with him. I even thought I might fall asleep, but after the door closed behind him, the apartment got oppressively quiet and my mind started revving back up. After all, if he’d gone to the trouble of bringing those papers over, wasn’t it rude to let them languish on the coffee table—or even worse, the floor?
They actually had made it to the table. I scooped them up and curled into my favorite seat, a well-worn leather club chair I’d inherited from a friend who’d moved in with a vegan, and started reading.
The affidavits were fascinating. I’d never seen these documents before, with their crisp, detached delineation of the facts that led the police to believe they would find the murder weapon and/or other incriminating evidence in Gwen Lincoln’s apartment. There was, first and foremost, the fact that she’d found the body. Even though she had discovered it in the company of a hotel assistant manager, whom she had threatened with all manner of legal and physical damage if he did not open the door and let her in to see her soon-to-be-ex. Garth was living in the hotel while the divorce proceedings were being hammered out and Gwen had, allegedly, come by to visit him with legal documents. There were the proper phone records showing she had called him earlier in the evening to confirm when she was coming by, but the police believed all this could be ascribed to the careful crafting of an alibi, that she had in fact made the calls, then come to the hotel and shot him, then returned home until the appropriate time to leave again and publicly discover the body. The only people willing to vouch that she’d been home at the time of the murder were a maid with a long history of employment with Gwen and of drinking (cause and effect?) and a doorman who had been interviewed at home, where he was recovering from cataract surgery.
Moving down the damning list, there were several statements from colleagues of Garth’s, describing screaming matches between the two of them that included Gwen spewing death threats. Once, according to the statements, she even specifically suggested “shooting him where he lived and she didn’t mean his heart.” There were other statements from friends, neighbors, and associates with further examples of the utterly heartless and completely ugly things people who used to love each other are capable of saying when the love is gone.
Additionally, there were statements referring to how Gwen stood to profit from Garth’s death (though no mention of how she didn’t really need the money), how she’d believed she deserved a piece of the company because of all her “inspiration and support,” and how unhappy she’d been at the pending merger with Ronnie Willis’ agency, though the reasons why weren’t clear.
It was also fascinating to see how high-strung statements took on a life of their own when they were part of an official government document. I wondered how damning some of my grander statements to ex-lovers, ex-friends, and current colleagues might seem in that context. My mother used to warn me not to do anything I’d mind seeing on the front page of the paper the next morning, which made me reconsider reckless behavior more than once, but I’d never imagined something I’d done turning up in official police documents prepared for a judge. Intimidating to consider.
It had to be intimidating for Gwen, too. She hadn’t been arrested yet mainly because the murder weapon hadn’t been recovered and she had no guns registered in her name, and her fingerprints weren’t found in the hotel room. There was nothing concrete to tie her to the murder scene—yet—but nothing concrete to tie her somewhere else either. And then there was the fact that she had seemingly gone out of her way to threaten her ex on a number of emotional and hyperbolic occasions and had gotten particularly virulent just before his death. Forensically, she looked okay. Emotionally,
she looked awful. In my limited experience, it was the emotion that counted in the long run.
she looked awful. In my limited experience, it was the emotion that counted in the long run.
Somewhere around the quotes from the neighbor who commented on Gwen’s temper and the employee who said Garth was actually afraid of Gwen in the days before his death, I drifted off to a light, fitful sleep filled with dreams about a frenzied Gwen Lincoln throwing dishes at Eileen in the kitchen of the house my aunt and uncle rent in the Outer Banks every August. When I woke up at 7 A.M., I had a stiff neck and a smiling homicide detective on my couch.
“Should’ve made a bet with you before I left,” he said, scooping the last bit of oatmeal out of his bowl. Kyle was showered, freshly dressed, and ready to leave again. I felt hugely cramped and rumpled by comparison. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”
“So this was an exercise in temptation?” I stretched my way out of the chair and rubbed at the knot in my neck.
He smiled apologetically. “I thought about moving you back into the bed, but didn’t want to wake you. We both needed our sleep.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“And the papers weren’t about temptation. It was an attempt to meet you halfway,” he said, rinsing his bowl in the sink. He’s much neater than I’d expected a guy who’s always lived by himself or with other guys to be. He says his mother and sisters deserve the credit.
“What can I do to reciprocate?”
“Just remember you promised to stay out of trouble.” He grabbed his jacket, scooped me up for a kiss, and was out the door before my head cleared. The boy certainly knows how to make an exit. Unfortunately.
GOING AFTER A STORY IS sort of like going after a guy. When you’re used to doing all the pursuing and all of a sudden you’re the one being pursued, it can be a little disorienting. It can also make you question what you were after in the first place and how badly you want it.
I thought about staying home a few hours to finish going through all my research, but decided it was smarter to be in the office, close to Eileen and whatever mischief she might be brewing, and another coffee run for Owen if I needed more background. I’d barely dropped the hundred-pound stack of papers on my desk when the intercom line on my phone rang.
“It’s Suzanne. Could I see you please?”
I took a moment before answering because I was debating whether to speak into the phone or turn around, look the ten yards to Suzanne’s desk outside Eileen’s door, and just yell, “What?” Trying to start my morning off as politely as possible, I said, “Be right there” into the phone, then strode to Suzanne’s desk in under three seconds.
Being Eileen’s assistant is a tough gig and Suzanne Bryant made sure we all knew it, wearing the squinted eyes and pinched smile of a martyr who can endure her pain as long as others notice her struggle. She’d only been on the desk a couple of weeks, so we were cutting her some slack
due to the freshness of her suffering, but I was starting to sense a little enjoyment of the role on her part. This one bore watching.
due to the freshness of her suffering, but I was starting to sense a little enjoyment of the role on her part. This one bore watching.
“It’s awfully early in the morning for me to have already done something wrong,” I said to test the waters.
“Who said you’d done anything wrong?”
“Am I not being called to the principal’s office?”
“That’s not really fair, to Eileen or to me,” she huffed.
“I never intended to be unfair to you,” I promised her. She cast a significant look at Eileen’s door, but I let my statement stand as is. “Did you need something?”
Suzanne handed me a message slip. “You better hurry. She’s waiting for you.”
“Eileen?”
“Gwen Lincoln.”
The message slip had a Central Park West address on it. Only catch was, I’d been planning on calling and setting up the interview with Gwen Lincoln once I’d finished all my research. It hadn’t occurred to me I’d be summoned at her convenience.
“Why are you still here?” Eileen shrilled before her office door was even fully open.
“I just arrived.”
“Emile called minutes ago and said they were ready to see you. Go quickly, before they change their minds.”
“Emile
and
Gwen?”
and
Gwen?”
“That’s not a problem, is it?”
Actually, it was sort of a problem to have other people dictating that the first interview of my first real investigative assignment had to happen before I was fully prepared, but I knew there was no room for argument. Making sure Suzanne had my cell number in case of another imperial summons, I threw a tape recorder and notepad into my bag and flew back downstairs and into a cab. Jotting my questions down in as organized and clear a manner as the lurching of the vehicle would allow, I managed to catch my breath by the time I arrived at Gwen Lincoln’s apartment.
She promptly took it away again. I’d seen pictures of her,
but was still unprepared as she stepped into the doorway of her apartment’s drawing room. It was a high-ceilinged room done in creams and golds and she was a luminous redhead, clear-skinned and statuesque, dressed in an amazing yellow Versace suit and a wicked pair of orange patent leather Brian Atwood pumps that showed off her yoga-sculpted legs to great advantage.
but was still unprepared as she stepped into the doorway of her apartment’s drawing room. It was a high-ceilinged room done in creams and golds and she was a luminous redhead, clear-skinned and statuesque, dressed in an amazing yellow Versace suit and a wicked pair of orange patent leather Brian Atwood pumps that showed off her yoga-sculpted legs to great advantage.
I was perched on the edge of the brocade settee to which the maid had directed me, still trying to decide what nonchalantly professional pose to strike, when Gwen appeared. She looked me over boldly and smiled. I tried to figure out what amused her more—my outfit or my look of surprise.
She strode over to me and I stood instinctively. Instead of offering her hand, she picked up the recorder from where it sat on the cushion next to me and flipped it on. “Molly Forrester,” she said into it with a tone that implied if that hadn’t been my name before, it was now. Tossing the recorder back to me, she indicated with the flick of an acrylic nail that I should lower myself back to the settee.
“Ms. Lincoln, thank you for seeing me.”
“Did I have a choice, kiddo? That was never clear to me.” She was in her mid-forties, but the “kiddo” seemed more a reference to our relative social standings than our ages. Taking the armchair across from me, she called, “Emile!” in the general direction of the doorway and I swore I heard it echo through the immense apartment. She turned back to me with a practiced smile. “It’s his party, he should be here.”
Her anger crackled across the gap between us like static electricity. It’s wrenching to be suspected of murder—been there, felt that—and I can only imagine how much more difficult it is when you have a deep emotional connection to the victim. But the statistics do bear out looking at the spouse or significant other first; they usually finish quite high in the motive-means-opportunity trifecta. But Gwen Lincoln was casting herself neither as a wounded innocent nor as a potential liar covering her tracks. She was flat-out furious.
Not the smooth, polished beginning to the interview I’d been imagining for the last eighteen hours. I could feel the
weight of my expectations, Eileen’s doubt, and Kyle’s worry sitting right on my chest, making it difficult to take a deep breath, so I sat up as straight as I could and forced myself to inhale slowly and evenly. “My understanding from Mr. Trebask was you were interested in talking to me,” I said diplomatically, not wanting the interview to evaporate before it even began.
weight of my expectations, Eileen’s doubt, and Kyle’s worry sitting right on my chest, making it difficult to take a deep breath, so I sat up as straight as I could and forced myself to inhale slowly and evenly. “My understanding from Mr. Trebask was you were interested in talking to me,” I said diplomatically, not wanting the interview to evaporate before it even began.
“Emile thinks he can take care of me. That can be highly entertaining in a man, but it can be tiresome as well,” she said. She opened a heavy silver box on the end table next to her. “Cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
“Mind if I do?”
“It’s your home.”
“That doesn’t stop people from lecturing me,” she said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it with a dramatic flourish. “Everyone thinks they know what’s best,” she said, with a chill that made me fret for anyone who tried to tell her anything at all.
Emile Trebask chose that moment to enter, wearing crisp trousers and a perfectly pressed shirt from his new collection, with a cashmere sweater over his shoulders, frat-boy style. I wondered if he ever wore anyone else’s clothes, which then raised the question of underwear, since he didn’t design any. Not wanting to dwell on that, especially as I shook his hand, I switched to wondering if I should have put on some of his perfume. No, too calculating. And Emile was the one to leave the calculating to, as best I could tell. “Molly, thank you so very much for coming.”
“Stop pretending any of this is voluntary, Emile,” Gwen said, blowing smoke in his direction.
“I am so glad we have our party manners on,” he responded, arranging himself on the arm and back of her chair like the spineless cat in
Peanuts.
“Thank God this isn’t the story Molly came to tell.”
Peanuts.
“Thank God this isn’t the story Molly came to tell.”
“Why don’t you tell it, then, so she gets the right one?”
There was a flash of anger in his eyes, but it vanished quickly as he leaned over and kissed her on top of the
head—ever so lightly, not mussing her hair at all. “You can relax, Gwen, you’re among friends.”
head—ever so lightly, not mussing her hair at all. “You can relax, Gwen, you’re among friends.”
“That’s the real horror of a situation like this, you know,” she said to me with a new urgency in her voice. “I can think of better ways to learn who your real friends are. Some of mine should have been given speeding tickets for how fast they distanced themselves when Garth got himself shot.”
An interesting way of looking at being murdered—something he’d brought upon himself through provocation or perhaps carelessness. Definitely lacked even the lawyer-recommended dose of sorrow at the passing of a spouse, estranged or not. “You feel your friends have abandoned you?”
“They’ve given her space in which to grieve,” Emile amended.
“Or they’ve gone out of their way to insist on my innocence to all who’ll listen.”
“That must be comforting,” I attempted, watching Emile out of the corner of my eye. At the rate his body was stiffening, he was going to be back on his feet in moments.
“I should be flattered that a friend is so eager to prove me innocent of murder?” Gwen’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“What would you prefer I do?” Emile asked, standing up.
“Have a little faith that my innocence is apparent on its own.”
Since I’d read the police documents and knew otherwise, I withheld comment. But when the pause that followed got to be awkwardly long, I suggested, “I’d like to know about the genesis of the perfume.”
Gwen looked away from us both again, tapping the ash off her cigarette, so I looked at Emile. “How did you two wind up business partners?”
“Let me tell you the most frustrating part of all of this,” Gwen continued, ignoring my effort to at least raise the supposed subject of the interview. “Garth’s barely in the ground and everyone’s already forgetting what a first-class shit he was.”
Had I known her even five minutes longer, I might have suggested it was those sorts of comments that made Emile
worry about her perceived innocence or lack thereof. “I didn’t realize that was Mr. Henderson’s reputation.”
worry about her perceived innocence or lack thereof. “I didn’t realize that was Mr. Henderson’s reputation.”
“It wasn’t. It was his personality. His reputation was the charmer, the deal maker, the lover.” She snorted derisively and a wisp of smoke snaked out of her nose. “He thought because he could find people to hang on his every word that they were worth hanging on. He never understood that some people will do anything if you pay them enough and mistook their love of their paychecks for love of him.” She took a pensive drag on her cigarette. “Maybe some of them made the same mistake.”
Emile sighed heavily, making sure Gwen heard it as well as I did. “Molly, it has always been a dream of mine to have a fragrance line. To complement the clothes.”
Gwen was the one who stood now, pacing over to the marble fireplace and its stunning oil of her in a green velvet strapless Valentino ballgown, hair cascading over her bare shoulders. The picture was somewhere between a royal portrait and a Hollywood cheesecake shot. “Emile, stop conducting,” she said, grinding her cigarette out in a crystal ashtray on the mantel with such force I expected the ashtray to shatter.
“You must get past the notion that everyone who wants to talk to you wants to talk to you about Garth.” I could hear the effort he was making to keep his voice even, but Gwen didn’t seem to notice.
“Maybe I need to talk about Garth. Has that occurred to anyone?” I was going to be touched, but then she did this Lana Turner spin-and-lean on the mantel and I wondered if they’d rehearsed this whole scene before I arrived.
“Fine, talk about him, darling, just make sure you work your way back around to Success when you’re done weeping.” Emile dropped into the chair she’d vacated, folded his hands, and waited.
Had I misread this relationship? I’d honestly thought that he was looking for a soft profile to build her some goodwill, if not clear her name. Was he really more interested in the perfume than in her innocence and using her momentary infamy
for his own ends? Or was this a case of her image potentially overshadowing the perfume’s? Or his? Or wasn’t this about money at all?
for his own ends? Or was this a case of her image potentially overshadowing the perfume’s? Or his? Or wasn’t this about money at all?
“I can’t get past this on command,” she snapped.
Emile nodded wearily—they’d had this conversation before. “You’ve forgotten that you hated him, but not that you loved him.”
Sliding away from the mantel, she walked toward me. “You can use that if you’d like. It’s quite good.”
Answering a summons was one thing, but I wasn’t going to take dictation. I needed to do some steering here and get this visit back on productive ground. “Not being able to forget him—do you think that will pose any difficulties when you and Mr. Willis are running the agency?”
Emile smoothly intercepted that one. “It’s going to be a difficult transition for everyone, Garth’s top creative team most of all. They were devoted to him,” he said gently.
“Devoted? Good Lord.” Gwen extracted another cigarette from the silver box. “It was like some sick teen fan club, I hated going over there. You expected some of those girls to walk into presentations with ‘We Love Garth’ written on their palms with ballpoint pen.”
I did my best not to get distracted by the memories of long-lashed and deeply dimpled Brent Shaw in tenth-grade English that that image conjured up. “Who didn’t love him?”
Emile looked at me sharply, but Gwen gave me a half-smile. “Was I supposed to be keeping a list?” she asked.
“But you wouldn’t be on it if you did.”
“Didn’t I make that clear?”
“Not completely. When Mr. Trebask said you hadn’t forgotten you loved him, you said it was a good line, not a true statement.”
Now I got a full smile, but it was icy. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing, except that with some people, even when they’re maddening, there’s a part of them you still care about, connect with.”
Gwen dropped the cigarette back in the box. Her whole
face changed for just a moment, softening in a way I hadn’t imagined possible. “Yeah,” she breathed, “the bastards.” Reconsidering, she took the cigarette out again and let the lid of the box fall closed, her face hardening again, but that one naked flash had been enough. She still loved Garth Henderson, no matter how many reasons she had to hate and/or vilify him. But there was that whole “thin line” issue—just because she still loved him didn’t mean she didn’t kill him. “Let me tell you, Ms. Forrester,” she said, her voice having hardened, too, “if I’d killed him, there wouldn’t be anything left.”
face changed for just a moment, softening in a way I hadn’t imagined possible. “Yeah,” she breathed, “the bastards.” Reconsidering, she took the cigarette out again and let the lid of the box fall closed, her face hardening again, but that one naked flash had been enough. She still loved Garth Henderson, no matter how many reasons she had to hate and/or vilify him. But there was that whole “thin line” issue—just because she still loved him didn’t mean she didn’t kill him. “Let me tell you, Ms. Forrester,” she said, her voice having hardened, too, “if I’d killed him, there wouldn’t be anything left.”
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