Murder.com (11 page)

"Loads," I said, winking at
Imogen.

Ginny gave me a giant Cheshire Cat
grin that said,
Just wait until I tell you
what we were discussing in the loo
.

"So, what's for dessert?" I asked
as we all were on the verge of finishing our dinner.

"Max, have you tried the apple pie
with vanilla ice cream?" Kate asked.

"Best in the city," I declared. It
was fantastic.

We ordered two servings of the pie. Each couple was
going to share one.

"I wonder how Kitty is getting
along?" Imogen asked, and my mouth dropped upon hearing her utter
this statement. I would have kicked Ginny under the table if she
had been sitting a little closer.

Mike looked visibly shaken. Which, for him, meant he
blinked a little more than usual and fidgeted a bit in his
seat.

"Oh, you know her?" Kate asked
Imogen.

"I've met her once or twice out
and about," she lied.

"I despise the woman," Kate
said.

"Kate—" Mike said.

"Honestly, Mike, I can't stand
her. She's positively dreadful."

Mike appeared even more annoyed. He shot Kate a
glare that could stop an IPO.

"I wish she woul—"

If Mike could have, he would have
grabbed Kate's throat. Instead, he looked directly at her with his
piercing green eyes, and in the most direct of tones said, "Not
here."

Kate stopped in her tracks.
Defeated, she picked up her fork and took a bite of the apple pie
and vanilla ice cream. "Delicious," she coldly stated, maintaining
eye contact with the plate.

The awkwardness faded as we
finished our dessert. Mike looked at his watch and declared that it
was getting late. I told Mike that if he had to go it wouldn't be a
problem, and that it would be my pleasure to take care of the bill.
He objected, but I insisted, so he took me up on the offer. He
thanked Imogen and I for joining them this evening. We all
exchanged some pleasantries and then Mike and Kate walked out of
the restaurant.

"What the hell was
that?"

"Ladies talk in the loo,
luv."

I took a sip of my coffee and
waited for an explanation. Imogen, finishing a bite of her apple
pie, grinned and then continued to chew, as if she wasn't in any
hurry to fill me in on her investigative breakthrough. I sat back
and watched her delicate mouth move, all the while imploring her to
finish her pie.

"Can't a lady eat in
peace?"

I assured her that, yes, indeed,
your dining partner could eat quietly but usually not at a
restaurant and certainly not after they had just dropped a
bombshell on you. Ginny just laughed. She was a tease sometimes. I
liked that about her. I picked up my coffee and took a sip. My eyes
drifted across the restaurant back to the window facing 20th
Street. A light flurry was now falling from the sky, large
snowflakes slowly descending and floating about, pedestrians
scurrying along the scene like a moving postcard. The restaurant
had taken on the incandescent yellow glow of candlelight, warming
the room. The blur of a waiter slid by me at a quickened pace,
balancing a tray, and all the while the white noise of restaurant
chatter filled the air.

"Dutch?"

Imogen's voice pulled me out of my
semi-conscious state.

"Yes, sorry, my dear," I
said.

"Where were you?"

"I was just admiring the scenery
out the window. It's snowing."

Ginny took a moment to admire the delicate
powder.

"First of the year, I daresay," I
proffered.

"Must be." She shook her head with
an intoxicated exaggeration and then leaned across the table in an
effort to invite me to listen to her secret that she had so
callously been keeping close to her vest while she was busy
nibbling on her apple pie. "Now that we've covered the weather,
Dutch, would you like to know what Kate divulged whilst we were in
the loo?"

Sometimes, when Ginny got a bit of
an edge, her accent and her mother-tongue terminology made a more
prevalent appearance. She'd begin to slur as well, which made
translation a bit of a chore, but, although challenging, it was
quite cute. When I'd first met her, almost five years ago, she had
stopped by my house as I was moving in and introduced herself as my
neighbor. I'd been instantly smitten by this black-haired,
green-eyed maiden with the English accent. We'd talked about this
and that, and before I knew it we were sharing a drink, the first
of many that hot summer afternoon. I remembered that as the day had
progressed, and the number of drinks consumed had increased,
Ginny's accent had become more and more prominent, and my grasp of
the conversation had declined by the minute. I had worked in London
before I had met Ginny, so the English accent was no great mystery
to me, but throw a little drink into some of these blokes and birds
and it became a whole new ballgame. Or cricket match, they would
argue.

"Indeed I would, Miss Whitehall,
if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"No trouble a'tall."

I put my coffee cup down and the waiter, who arrived
out of thin air, asked if he could provide a refill. I answered in
the affirmative and he poured.

"For the lady?"

Imogen waved him on and he refilled her cup as well.
I added sugar and cream to mine. A rare luxury. Imogen would have
hers black with sugar. She must not have been in the mood to ask
for soy.

"C'mon, Ginny. Let's get to
it."

"Once we were in the loo and our
business was concluded, we met up at the mirror to powder our
noses. Kate turns to me and asks if you and I were a couple. I told
her not quite. Which isn't really a lie, since we're not married,
but I don't think she really cared what I said, because she wasn't
interested in my answer. She was ready to dish."

Ginny tended to ramble on a bit
after she'd had a few drinks.

"And if you would have told her
yes, we were an item, that would have blown our cover?"

"Steady on, ol' man!" Ginny
laughed. "I told her no. Then she tells me how precarious a work
relationship could be. Turns out Mike and her met at the office.
She was his secretary for a number of years and then it progressed.
A few months later they were boyfriend and girlfriend, and by the
time a year had passed they were husband and wife. She said they
were happy for a time, but the last couple of years have been
'rough'—her words. Now she thinks he's been cheating. She asked my
opinion. I told her that I couldn't get a read on him one way or
the other, but he seemed perfectly nice. She told me he was a
monster. Then she tells me that she's followed him from the office
on a few different occasions. She found him at that Italian place."
She paused. Thinking. "You know the one. The one we eat at
sometimes. Downtown."

Alcohol. This was what it could do to a person. Turn
someone hyper-intelligent into a babbling bird, albeit a cute one.
Of course, I always kept my composure.

"Yes, I know the one, Ginny." I
exhaled, slightly exasperated. "Get on with it."

"No reason to be so touchy, Max,"
she said.

"I'm not being touchy. I would
just appreciate you getting on with the story."

She rolled her eyes at me then
continued, "So one night Kate sees Mike at that Italian place with
another woman. Mike and this woman met outside the restaurant, and
Kate said she was camped out at the corner of 12th Street
watching—that's how I know where the place is—where they exchanged
a quick kiss and hug before they disappeared inside. Then she said
she saw the same woman with Mike one night, uptown, checking into
The Pierre. That particular night he claimed to be working late and
was going to stay in the city."

"Mike seems way too strait-laced
to be a cheater."

"Like cheaters have a look? Dutch,
please!" She playfully pushed me in my shoulder.

"And you found out all of this out
in the loo?"

"I told you, ladies certainly can
talk. Especially when they want to get something off of their
chest."

"Well, I have to ask, was she
cute?" I wanted details.

"She described the woman as tall,
well dressed, blue eyes, long blond hair, very pretty. That rang a
bell."

"Shit. No way."

"Yes, luv—Kitty
Baxter."

A few days later, despite my
protests, I was sitting in an interrogation room at the small brick
police station located in the heart of town. I had told John, when
he had called, that I had no intention of coming down to the
station to talk. He told me that he wasn't asking. That I could
report to the station myself or I could receive an escort, cuffed,
in the back of a squad car. I opted to make the drive
myself.

I hadn't even seen John yet. When
I'd arrived an hour ago, alone, as was requested, a uniformed,
armed officer had escorted me to this room, where he'd told me to
wait. Then he'd exited, locking the door on the way out.
Click.

Before I had left Manhattan, I'd
told Ginny not to worry, but if I didn't make it home for dinner to
call my lawyer. That had made her cringe. She hadn't liked the
sound of that one bit.

"I'm not going to let them arrest
you, Max. I simply won't have it."

"It's out of your control, my
dear. But listen—if I don't make it back tonight, come looking for
me."

"Max! I don't like the sound of
this. I'm coming with you."

"You can't." I must have sounded
dejected. "You can't."

"Well, I'm coming with you
tomorrow. Drop me at my place before you head over to the station.
Then I'll be there if you need me."

That had sounded like a plan. So
that was what we had done. And so I was sitting here. Waiting for
Detective John Carrington to formally arrest me. I couldn't imagine
any other reason for this meeting.

The door finally unlocked and then
opened. In walked Detective Carrington dressed in what might be the
finest clothes that one could afford on a detective's salary. A
dark blue worn suit, a paper-thin, cheap white shirt, and a crappy
striped tie. He didn't acknowledge me or try to shake my hand upon
entering. He simply strolled in and took a seat in the chair that
sat directly across from me at the metallic table.

Without looking at me, he pulled a
digital recorder from his pocket and placed it on the table with a
clang. He pressed a button and then said, "Interrogation of Max
Slade regarding the murder of Ted Baxter."

I knew it. It was just a matter of time before this
happened. A recorded conversation. As if the other times we talked
were just informal chats, with a detective, at a police station.
They sure as hell felt like interrogations, but the recorder on the
table made this one feel different. Formal. Serious.

"Mr. Slade, I see that you are not
represented by counsel. I have to advise you of your right to have
counsel present. Would you like to contact your attorney before we
start?"

I wasn't cuffed. That was a good
thing. They cuffed people that they thought were guilty. They
didn't want any problems while they were throwing lies in your
face. While they were setting you up to take the fall for something
that you didn't do. While they tried to take your life away from
you.

"I'll act as my own attorney for
now," I said. "I didn't do anything wrong, and if I don't like
where this is heading, I'll sure as hell get one."

"That's your prerogative, Mr.
Slade? So be it."

"John, cut the bullshit. Why am I
here?"

"Mr. Slade, this is an
interrogation relating to the murder of Mr. Ted Baxter. I'd
appreciate your assistance."

I was going to go along with this
charade. It was the only way I was going to get out of here. If I
refused to talk, I was going straight to a cell. If I was in a
cell, I couldn't do anything to help myself. If I talked, I had a
shot. A shot at exposing the ridiculousness of this interrogation
and this investigation.

"You got it. Let's get to
it."

"For the record, you are declining
to be represented by counsel."

"That's not technically correct,
John. I'm an attorney representing myself. I don't need to pay
another lawyer if I didn't do anything wrong."

"I'd prefer if you addressed me as
detective."

"Yes, sir, detective."

"Can you walk me through the day
Ted was murdered starting at around 6 p.m.?"

This seemed like amateur hour already. I had to walk
though the story again. So they could make sure that everything I
had already told them matched up with my previous statements. Was
this really how you caught a killer? Hoping they divulged it to you
during questioning? This was real life, right? Not a television
show.

"As I told you last time,
detective, I was at work until around 6:30 p.m., at which point I
left my office in Manhattan and drove home to my house about an
hour or so in the suburbs. I got there around 7:30 p.m. Then Imogen
Whitehall knocked on my door, and we walked over to the crime
scene. Stayed there a few minutes, watched Ted get loaded into a
white van, and then went home."