Killer Heels (28 page)

A double-whammy that explained the appearance of my dear Detective Edwards and Detective Lipscomb as I wrapped up my rambling comments. Gretchen glanced at the approaching detectives in alarm, but I told her not to worry about it.

“Ms. Forrester,” Detective Edwards said, in greeting or in warning, I couldn’t be sure.

“Detectives,” I responded. “I’m sorry to be seeing you again so soon.”

“We know this is a difficult time for all of you here at the magazine, but we have some questions,” Detective Lipscomb said in precise understatement.

“I can imagine. Let me make sure the conference room’s open.”

“That’s okay,” Detective Edwards said. “We’d rather do this at our office.”

“I don’t know that Gretchen’s up to that at the moment.”

“We don’t need to talk to Gretchen. She gave a statement yesterday.”

Gretchen took her exit cue and walked quickly back to her desk. Even though I’d been immersed in it for the last three and a half days, I was still new to this whole homicide deal and it took me a minute to understand what he was saying. When I did understand, I didn’t want to believe it. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, trying to keep my voice quiet and light.

“That’s usually a waste of time,” Edwards replied.

“You don’t want to talk to the whole staff?” I offered, giving them an elegant out.

“Not at this point.”

Not only was he serious, he was going to make me say it. I glared at him with every ounce of strength I could muster. Oh, to be that Cyclops guy from
X-Men
right about now. “You want to talk to me at the precinct.”

“If you could make yourself available, we’d really appreciate it,” Detective Lipscomb said, trying to keep things polite.

“And if I can’t?” I asked, a little shrill but not without cause.

“We’ll have to insist,” Detective Edwards said. At least he was having difficulty looking me in the eye for any length of time. I’d take that small satisfaction for the moment.

“This is so bogus,” I said, grabbing my purse and jacket.

Driving to the precinct with them was definitely a different experience from driving to Helen’s with them on Monday night. I sat in the back seat alone, not wanting anyone to see me. The detectives were content to let me stew in silence, so I hunkered down and tried to lay in the new pieces of the puzzle.

Teddy was dead and my interest in that was perceived as too keen. Now Yvonne was dead and the only link between the two anyone could come up with was me? What is it they say about no good deed going unpunished? But this wasn’t about me. It was about Teddy and Yvonne and missing money and affairs and God knows what else. How was I going to get them to see that?

The detectives walked me through their dreary, government-issue bullpen, strangely devoid of all those saucy prostitutes who are always leaning against the desks in TV shows. We threaded our way between battered metal desks and backbreaking chairs until we reached an interrogation room. We entered and Detective Edwards closed the door behind him. I could have sworn I heard the hiss of the room being hermetically sealed.

In this brave new world of ours, preemptive seems to be the way to go. I sat down at their ugly metal table. “I can’t tell you anything,” I said to open.

“Can’t or won’t?” Detective Lipscomb clarified.

“Can’t. I don’t know anything you don’t already know. This is an exercise on someone’s behalf.”

“Tell me about your relationship with Yvonne Hamilton,” Detective Edwards said quietly, sitting down across the table from me. He scooted the chair in a bit closer and it grated horribly, nails on a blackboard. I bet they practice that one.

“I’m sorry, but you must be joking. It’s bad enough that you had your doubts about me with Teddy. I can almost forgive that since I found the body and was a little too eager to help. I understand all that now. Believe me, this has not been an easy week for anyone at the magazine and since I’m inclined to take things to heart, it’s been pretty miserable for me.”

“Take things to heart? That mean you hold grudges?” Detective Lipscomb followed up.

“Wow, that was nice. I didn’t see that coming. Point to Detective Lipscomb,” I said with a fake smile, then dropped it. “No, it doesn’t mean I hold grudges. It means I don’t feel emotionally capable of handling the death of two colleagues in the space of one week.”

“How do you suppose that happened?” Detective Edwards asked. Here, he was more willing to look me in the eye. Home court advantage.

Something about being unjustly accused turns me back into a mouthy fifteen-year-old. “I’m sure if I’d paid more attention in math class, I could give you a formula for why two random events occurred in circumstances that make them look less than random. But I’m sure I was drawing on my blue jeans when that was discussed.”

“You think these two deaths are unrelated?”

No, I didn’t think that but I didn’t want to offer a theory that was only going to get me into more trouble until I had something to back it up with. Better than what I had provided so far, apparently. My silence provoked a glance exchange between the detectives and that provoked a response from me. “No, they could be related since both Teddy and Yvonne worked for the magazine and they were having an affair. But then we’re talking about hit men, aren’t we?” Were they making me say all that for someone on the other side of the mirror? Otherwise, I felt stupid telling them what they already knew. I also felt sad it made it look bad for Helen again. But then, was Helen sitting in the interrogation room? No, thank you very much.

“Are we?” was all Detective Edwards offered.

That was what I’d sat up most of the night trying to figure out. If Yvonne had killed Teddy, who had killed Yvonne? Had Helen hired someone out of rage and revenge? Or was this whole phantom ad agency thing the tip of some huge financial iceberg where Powers That Be had told Yvonne to kill Teddy and then had killed her to clean up? I’d know a lot more if I got to keep my appointment with Will at two thirty. They wouldn’t keep me that long, would they?

“How did you feel about the affair?” Detective Edwards asked.

“I didn’t know about it until after Teddy died. They didn’t let it affect anything at work,” unless their financial shenanigans were undermining the fiscal health of the magazine. Man, I hoped not.

“Yvonne told us you didn’t like her very much,” Detective Edwards continued. Detective Lipscomb had dropped back, leaning against the wall, letting Edwards drive.

“She wasn’t very likable. Not to speak ill of the dead.”

“Were you jealous of her?”

I surprised myself by laughing. “Is that what she told you?” I suspected he was pushing my buttons and I was going to do everything in my power to stay unpushable.

“Was the way you spoke to each other yesterday morning typical of your relationship?”

“Do you know anything about women?” I asked, not caring who was listening. “If you think that little spat was significant, the women in your life are on Prozac. Maybe with good cause.”

“No need to get personal,” he said with a hint of warning.

Maybe I was the one pushing buttons now. “Why not? This has been personal since the get-go. I have a dead co-worker, I try to help, I have another dead co-worker, I don’t even get a chance to help, and you insist on reading all sorts of dark, ulterior motives into that. Do I look like I know hit men? This job’s gotta be a breeding ground for cynics, but I’d think it also forces you to develop a sixth sense about people and yours has to be completely out of whack if you think for one damn minute that I’m capable of killing anyone.”

Detective Edwards was at a loss and I savored the moment. I was so angry at him, I knew it wasn’t just what he was saying, it was that I wanted to believe that he felt something for me that would make him dismiss any doubts that were raised by Yvonne’s sniping or anything else. Sure, he had to do his job, but he had to respect me, too. Or I was the biggest fool on Manhattan since the Indians sold it.

I opened my mouth, prepared to dig myself in deeper, but the door banged open and Cassady strode in, wearing her brand-new Balenciagas and prepared for battle. I was tempted to push up her sleeves and look for the Wonder Woman bracelets. “You’re not talking to them? Haven’t I taught you anything?” she growled at me.

“You remember Cassady Lynch? She wasn’t my lawyer then, but she is now.”

The detectives nodded in acknowledgment.

“Are you charging her with something?” Cassady asked.

“We’re just talking,” Detective Edwards attempted.

Cassady gave him a withering look that made it clear to all that she knew everything that had occurred between Detective Edwards and me since the moment we met. “How nice you have time to just talk. Ms. Forrester and I, on the other hand, both have jobs to do. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll go do them.”

Tight-lipped, Detectives Edwards and Lipscomb dismissed us and Cassady marched me through the bullpen and hallways on a single-minded path to the front door. “Nothing. They have nothing. You have an alibi, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, but it’s you and Tricia.”

“Don’t you dare start sympathizing with them. They’re grabbing at straws and you’re an idiot if you allow yourself to be treated that way.”

“Thanks so much.”

“‘Idiot’ is a legal term for a client who doesn’t stick up for him- or herself.”

“Look at all the fun things you lawyers know. How did you know I was here?”

“I called to see if you wanted to have lunch, thank God. You should’ve called me.”

“I didn’t want them to think that I thought I needed a lawyer.”

Cassady stopped in a relatively quiet corner by the front door and dropped her voice to an earnest whisper. “I don’t like this anymore, Molly. I don’t like that you’re nosing around in something that’s gotten two people killed and has the police looking at you—”

“Excuse me?”

“I know you didn’t do anything, idiot, but getting dragged into this and sullied by association could be a major pain in the ass and really screw your life up for a while.”

I thought of Garrett Wilson and his impeccable office, his stunning assistant, all that perfection, and nodded. “So what do I do now?”

“Drop it.”

“I can’t.”

Cassady started to protest, but she’s known me too long. “I know,” she sighed and guided me out the front door.

There’s an acrid quality to the air of a police station; probably all those years of flopsweat and anguish get into the wallboard and don’t come clean. It was a relief to be out in the noise and dirt and stink. I give Gershwin a lot of credit for listening to the city and coming up with
Rhapsody in Blue
. Maybe New York was quieter in those days, but it’s still a pretty magical transformation. I tried to hum it to calm myself as Cassady and I hurried down the steps, but then a cab stopped in front of us, its rider got out, and I choked.

Peter came rushing over as though I needed mouth-to-mouth. Yeah, that was going to happen. I only coughed for a moment, long enough to embarrass myself, not endanger myself. “Molly. I came as soon as I heard.”

I wanted to ask “Why?” but what came out was “Heard?”

“A friend was down here, saw you come in with detectives, thought I’d want to know.”

I wanted to ask why again, but on second thought, I didn’t want to get into that discussion. I was exhausting myself trying to look at most of the people I knew on at least two different levels—that facets concept that had seemed so intriguing and entertaining when I was pitching it to Garrett Wilson—and at the moment, I had neither the strength nor the patience to add Peter to that list.

“Anything I can do?”

“It was just an interview, Peter. They’re not carting her away,” Cassady interceded.

“You here as a friend or a lawyer?”

“You here as a friend or a writer?” she zinged back. God, I love my friends. I could’ve hugged her, but that really would have confused Peter.

Peter played the hurt card, ignoring Cassady. “I came because I was worried about you, Molly. The last time I saw you, a police detective needed to talk to you. And now—”

“Same detective, different body,” I explained. “You heard about Yvonne?”

“I’m very sorry,” he nodded. I was sure it was the talk of every other magazine staff in the city. What the hell are they into over there?, stuff like that. And more than a few people shaking their heads mournfully, then making sure their resumes were up to date and ready to mail. “What can I do?”

“Nothing.”

“How about I take you home?”

“How about you take no for an answer?” Cassady snapped. Wouldn’t that be a sight—Cassady taking Peter apart on the precinct steps. She’d win, no question.

“No one has to take me home or do anything for me,” I mediated. “I’m going back to work. I have things to do, promises to keep, all that nonsense.” I avoided looking at Cassady because she knew I was talking about keeping my meeting with Will and she still didn’t approve. I looked at Peter instead and tried to make it a look of sincerity.

“How about dinner?”

“I don’t know, Peter.” Meaning I didn’t know when I’d have the energy to give him an appropriate kiss-off, but it wasn’t going to be tonight.

“I really am worried about you.” He chose not to look at Cassady either, probably as leery of her reaction as I was.

“Thanks. I’ll call you.”

His pride kept him from pushing any further. He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender and backed away. “Okay. Talk to you later.” He hurried up the precinct steps. So had he come to check on me and was going in to check on my story or was the whole thing a song-and-dance? I felt dizzy.

“I’ve just about had it with men today,” I told Cassady as we hailed a cab.

“Learn to live with them. I tried to give them up once and the withdrawal symptoms are pretty ugly. Cats, vibrators, sensible shoes …” She mock-shuddered and a cab stopped. Small wonder. A twitch from Cassady can stop traffic.

She dropped me at my office and pledged to be back for me at two o’clock since there was no way I was going to Will’s alone, especially now. With Yvonne gone.

I couldn’t believe Yvonne was dead. I was glad that I didn’t have to see her body, since the image of Teddy’s body was going to be with me for the rest of my life, but it did make her death a little more abstract. All along, it had been weird enough to contemplate that something had gone down that was worth one person being killed. Now there were two. This was unreal. Surreal. Screwed up.