Murder.com (22 page)

"Turn left! What are you
doing?"

I immediately turned left, the car
skidding and the tires screeching. I tried to hide my complete
incompetence. Once we were back on the right track, I asked, "What
are you getting all excited about, my dear?"

"Well, Dutch, just a thought here.
You might want to pay attention if you're the driver. I'm sitting
here watching Kitty's car turning and you're looking out the
window, eyes glazed over. Get with it."

"Duly noted." I had once again
located Kitty as she started her drive across the Tappan Zee
Bridge. The bridge was old, and it only had three lanes heading
southeast at this time of day. I started to speed up so that I
would not lose her once she exited the bridge. We were four cars
behind her off to her right. I could see Imogen looking south, over
the bridge across the Hudson, toward Manhattan. On a clear day,
which this was, you could see lower Manhattan jutting out into the
river. It was a beautiful view.

We tracked Kitty across the
bridge, through Westchester, and into the Bronx.
Where is she going?
Yankee Stadium was off to my left and Manhattan was off to
the right. She exited the thruway onto a small service road and
then across the Macombs Dam Bridge into the city. I liked it—no
toll. Not only was Kitty rich, she was thrifty. I'd have to
remember that.

Within moments we were on the Harlem River Drive,
racing downtown. Kitty was flying down the drive. I looked down at
my speedometer and realized that I was driving ninety miles per
hour. The scary thing here was that I was pretty much keeping up
with the traffic. Kitty must have been going 110 miles per hour.
She raced down the FDR, which meant we were now out of Harlem and
had made our way in mere minutes into upper Manhattan. She sped to
42nd Street, exited the FDR, and then zipped west.

"Bloody hell! Back to the bloody
city. Don't tell me we drove all the way to Rockland only to be
back here!" Imogen was annoyed. "Why, Kitty? It's your fault, Max!
Let's follow her, Ginny. See where she goes, Ginny. We'll get to
the bottom of this, Ginny."

"We still might yet, my
dear."

"Oh, shove it, Dutch."

We were a couple of cars behind Kitty heading west
on 42nd Street.

"She must be heading to Mike's
office," I said.

"Goody gumdrops."

We had been in the car for nearly five hours by the
time we watched Kitty pull her Bentley into the underground parking
lot at the bottom of the BMC offices.

"Now what?" Imogen asked. "My legs
and back are killing me."

"Keep the faith, my dear. I'll
pull over there." I pointed to the open spot four buildings down
across from the BMC offices. "What does that sign say?" I directed
Imogen's attention to the street sign that was leaning at a
distressed angle off its post.

"No parking. Loading and unloading
only."

"OK, we're loading and unloading.
Unload yourself out of the car for a minute."

Imogen opened the door and the
cold air rushed in, hitting me like a swift punch. "Ahh," she said,
as she exited the car to stretch her legs. She leaned into the open
car door, both hands on the roof, stretching and staring at me.
"Feels good."

"Yeah, the freezing cold air feels
great," I said sarcastically.

I kept my eyes on the garage in front of the office.
Imogen was busy stretching as if she were about to embark on some
sort of exercise routine. I half expected her to start doing
lunges, and then I saw flashing lights approaching in my rearview
mirror. Moments later, I realized that the lights were for me.

The cop got on a loudspeaker and
was clearly addressing me. "Move your car." Thank God. I didn't
move. I had thought that that was it. That they had come for me.
That I would be in cuffs momentarily. That Sergeant Williams had
won. Imogen remained out of the car. "You. The black Audi. Move.
Now." The he flipped his siren a few times for good measure. He was
definitely talking to me.

"Imogen, enough with the
stretching. Get in the car," I said.

"C'mon. My legs are sore," she
screamed back to the cop while taking a half-step back into the
car.

"Now! I'm not going to tell you
again," the cop screamed at me and Ginny over his
loudspeaker.

"That's our cue, my dear. Get the
hell in the car," I said.

I rolled my window down and
screamed back to the cop, "OK. We're moving. I need a second. She
has to get in the car."

Police officers in New York City,
and probably in most places, do not like to be yelled at. The
loudspeaker echoed again throughout 42nd Street. "Ma'am, get in the
car now. You have ten seconds before I get out of this car." With
that, the cop popped his siren quickly just for added
intimidation.

I did not want the cop to get out of his car. A cop
walking over to my car with his ticket book in hand would not end
very well for me, Imogen, and, more importantly, this
investigation.

Imogen got in the car. "Great! Now
we're going to lose her. After all of this." She slammed the door
shut, and I pulled back onto the street heading west.

"Don't worry—we'll go around the
block." I made a right at the light and then proceeded to drive in
a circle back to the BMC office. When I came around the corner, the
cop was now sitting in my spot, waiting. I slowly drove forward,
passing him. He shook his head at me as we passed. I most assuredly
would not be able to park and wait. As we passed the BMC office,
out pulled the Bentley. "Shit! She's behind us."

"Can you see her?" Imogen asked,
peering into her side mirror. "I can't. I only see a little blue
peeking out from the side of the white van behind us."

We approached the light. "Same
here. What do I do? Right or left?"

"I don't know."

"Well, we need to pick a direction
now. The light is green."

"Right? She might be heading out
of the city. Right gets her to the FDR."

We turned right at the light and quickly pulled over
to the northeast corner, preventing some cars from turning. I only
had a second before the cop would notice a traffic jam. We both sat
watching for the Bentley. Horns blared. Cars backed up. As Kitty
approached the light, she turned left, and away she went down Park
Avenue. There was no way we could catch her now. I pulled back onto
Park and headed uptown.

"Did you see her?" Imogen
asked.

"Not only did I see her, I saw her
with someone."

"I couldn't see
anything."

"You're not going to believe who
she was with. It's a doozy."

"Doozy. Really?"

I dialed John Carrington.

It was D-Day. Tonight we would be
heading to the BMC holiday party. The soiree was going to be held
at the Baxter, Miller & Clarke offices on the thirty-second
floor in The Club. The Club was a private executive bar that was
built on nearly the whole floor. It looked like something out of an
Edwardian gentleman's smoking room. There was a bar that stretched
the entirety of this dark, wood-trimmed space. Manly brown leather
couches and club chairs were scattered about. Massive bookshelves
lined the walls, housing what most likely was every book you could
care to have read, although I was sure that anyone who worked at
BMC did not have time to read for pleasure. There must have been
some rare books thrown in there as well, but I was certainly not
any sort of rare book aficionado. Any book with an old,
weathered-looking spine was a rare book to me. A bartender and
additional attendants were always staffed at The Club, as partners
and other BMC employees would often entertain clients or have
informal meetings in this over-the-top environment.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, dimly
illuminating the scattered Persian rugs that covered the mahogany
floor. There were clay smoking pipes that lined one of the walls,
each with a number on it, corresponding to the owner of said pipe.
When one was invited to The Club, they could purchase a pipe to
smoke, or one would be purchased for them by a partner at BMC. From
everything that I had ever heard or seen, partners always purchased
pipes for their business associates. Pipes cost somewhere in the
range of $5,000. At least, that was the price the last time that I
was there, about seven years ago. Ted had purchased one for me. I
was number 572. Pipe tobacco and cigars were provided gratis, as
were cocktails. Cigarette smoking was prohibited.

There was also a scotch list that stretched as far
as the eye could see. They carried everything from Glenfiddich 18
(one of my favorites) to some of the priciest and rarest scotch
available: Macallan 1939, Glenfarclas 1955, Glenfiddich 1937, just
to name a few. The rare ones were reserved for Ted, Mike, and Ken,
and most likely some business associate or partner-to-be that was
going to make them millions.

Ted, Mike, and Ken had offices
just off The Club. Part of the thirty-second floor was closed off
by enormous French doors that opened into The Club from the office
side. These were the only three offices located on this floor. This
was where Imogen and I had met with Mike. He hadn't invited us into
The Club that day.

We were greeted at the reception
area of the thirty-second floor by none other than Santa himself,
who directed us through the large mahogany French doors and into
The Club. The usually masculine club seemed to have received a
woman's touch with some festive decorating. Mainly some tasteful
winter decor and some colored lighting. Most definitely some
overzealous secretaries charged with the task of trying to impress
Ken and Mike. There was a jazz quartet off to the side of the room,
playing unrecognizable songs, creating mood music that one might
find at a black-tie wedding cocktail hour.

"Into the lion's den we go,"
Imogen said. I looked over to her and acknowledged her
apprehension.

She took my arm, we walked through the doors, and
were immediately greeted by an attendant in a tuxedo and white
gloves brandishing a tray carrying champagne and white and red
wine. I grabbed a white. Ginny took a red.

"This is delicious," Ginny said as
she took a sip.

"They don't mess around here when
it comes to alcohol. Just look at the bar. Everything is top
notch."

We scanned the room surveying the
guests, looking for the men of BMC. I didn't see Mike or Ken,
although I did see a whole host of businesspeople that I knew. They
were all mingling about. Sipping their drinks. No doubt angling for
ways to make more money. Buy more things. I watched them for a
moment. Sipped my own drink, looked at Imogen, who was bored to
pieces, and then stared blankly. As I turned my head to continue to
survey the room, I saw another familiar face. Perhaps the most
familiar of all. There was Kitty. Although she was playing the part
of the demure widow, she was in all her glory. Smiling, talking to
several well-dressed, attractive men, sipping her wine. After a
moment, she noticed me staring and gave me a dismissive wave,
flicking her fingers twice, as if she were petting a kitten. After
acknowledging me, she turned and continued her
conversation.

"You ready to join this party?" I
asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Imogen
answered.

We strolled through the room,
looking for a couch to recline on for a few minutes to enjoy our
first drink and some light conversation. This room was massive, but
it was suddenly becoming quite crowded, making it feel half its
size. I estimated that there were probably three hundred people
here. Ginny and I found an empty couch, sat down, and sipped our
drinks while our eyes darted around the room.

"Where's Mike?" Imogen
asked.

"No idea," I said, and took a sip
of what tasted like Pinot Grigio. "I don't see Ken either. Maybe
they're going to make a grand entrance."

"They don't seem like the grand
entrance types."

I laughed. They certainly didn't
seem as if they enjoyed parties, but I was sure that they did enjoy
drinking. "They'll be here. It's their party."

We enjoyed our drinks, chatting about the absurdity
of such parties, when over walked my old friend Jake Cooper. He was
drinking what looked like a scotch, which he was palming with such
force that the glass could have shattered right in his hand and all
over his black suit. This was the last guy that I wanted to see
here.

"Hi, Jake," I said as I stood up
to shake his hand, breaking his scotch death grip.

We shook hands and then Imogen gave him two air
kisses.

"Looks like you scored an invite
to the party of the year," I said.

"Hardy har har. For your
information, Max, BMC invested big time in my company."

"So your party wasn't a bust after
all," I said.

"You're on a real roll tonight,
Slade. Where's that pretty"—his eyes scanned the room—"lady that
you…" Then he found her. Right next to me. She didn't get very far
after air-kissing him hello. "There you are. You stunning woman,
you. Don't you look ravishing tonight."

"Why, thank you, Jake. Looks like
you're a bit more upright this evening."