Murder.com (4 page)

"She probably has to go out," I
said, not really willing to get out of bed.

"She's fine."

And then, as if on cue, Jabber lay down and went
back to sleep. I took another sip of my drink.

"SCV might be some work shorthand.
Like 'sent via courier.'"

"That would be SVC," Imogen
pointed out.

"Regardless, it's too early to
play hangman," I said.

"What about the initials
ACAE?"

"No idea."

"Want to hazard a
guess?"

"I want to go back to sleep. Kitty
and Co. will have to wait until the morning," I said.

"I still don't like that
lady."

"No one said you have to like her,
my dear. No one said we have to ever see her again, either. In
fact, I'd prefer the latter."

The next morning, my doorbell
served as an alarm that woke both Imogen and myself. We had
overslept. Jabber's barking helped too. I walked downstairs, in my
boxer briefs, no shirt, and my Ugg slippers to answer the door. It
was a detective expressing some interest in speaking with me. I
told him to come in and to make himself comfortable as I walked
into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I asked if I could go put
on some clothes. He acquiesced, and moments later I was back
upstairs.

"Throw on some clothes. We have
company."

Imogen was still lying in bed.

"Now what?" she asked, rolling
over to face me.

"It's a detective. Wants to
chat."

"Oh, great. I'll be right down."
She let out an exasperated gasp as she pulled the covers over her
head.

I headed back downstairs to the detective, with
Jabber in tow. I told him that Imogen would be joining us shortly
and asked the detective if he would like some coffee, which was
just about done. He said that he would love a cup with milk and
sugar. I told him that we only had soy. He reluctantly nodded that
soy would be fine. As I brought over the coffee for the detective,
Imogen appeared.

"Beautiful house you have here,
Mr. Slade," the detective said, taking the coffee from my
hand.

He was right. I did have a
beautiful house. It wasn't anything over the top, but it sure as
hell wasn't a shack. It was a custom six-bedroom colonial that I
had built a few years back. Nothing showy, but just standing in the
main foyer gave the impression that you weren't in a typical
house.

"Well, thank you. So, how can I
help you, detective?"

"Well, Mr. Slade, as
I—"

"Please, call me Max."

"Sure. Max, as I was saying when
you opened the door, my name is Detective Jonathan Carrington. You
can call me John," he said as he showed both Imogen and I his
badge.

"I'll stick with detective if
that's OK," I said.

"Whatever floats your
boat."

"So, detective, how can we help
you?"

"For starters, maybe I could get
the name of the lovely lady standing next to you." The detective
was looking at Imogen.

"I'm Imogen Whitehall," Ginny
said.

"Miss Whitehall?" the detective
asked, as if he thought we might be married.

"Yes, that's correct,
Miss
Whitehall," Imogen
said. "We're not married, if that's what you're asking."

"No, no, I don't mean to pry. I
was just—"

"Not a big deal, detective. Now
that you know Miss Whitehall's name and marital status, is there a
reason that you're here?"

"There is, Max. Have you heard
what happened down the street the other night?"

"Miss Whitehall and I stopped by
the crime scene. I couldn't get any information out of the officer
working crowd control."

The detective chuckled. "That's
certainly par for the course. They're trained not to talk about
what's going on at a crime scene. He was just doing his
job."

"And he did it very well. All I
know officially is that someone died at 16 Raleigh
Drive."

"So, you're telling me that Mrs.
Baxter, who stopped by yesterday morning and stayed for a bit,
didn't mention anything about her husband's death?"

"I said officially. Kitty did
mention it, yes."

"Would you like to fill in the
details of your conversation with Mrs. Baxter for me?"

"Is Kitty a suspect?"

"That's not any of your concern,
Mr. Slade."

"I thought you were going to call
me Max."

The detective seemed annoyed with me. I asked him
again if Kitty was a suspect.

The detective took a careful sip of his coffee.

I pressed the situation. "Do you
think she did it?"

John Carrington swallowed hard and
then took another slow sip of his coffee. Perhaps he didn't like
the soy. It did taste odd to the uninitiated. He was noticeably
annoyed with me, but oddly willing to offer up information. He
lowered his coffee from his lips and held it in two hands. One hand
on the mug handle, the other warming itself around the front of the
mug facing me as we stood in my foyer.

"I'm not going to make any
judgments here, Max. I don't know if she did it or not, but she's
certainly not helping us figure out who did."

"Maybe she doesn't
know."

"There are a lot of possibilities.
Maybe you can help me start filling in the blanks. Was Mrs. Baxter
here yesterday?"

"She was. She came by around
nine."

"How do you two know each
other?"

"We were friends a long time
ago."

"What kind of friends?"

Kitty's impromptu meeting with me
yesterday stuck in my mind. Why give the police any reason to sniff
around me?

"Are there different
kinds?"

Detective Carrington laughed. Then went all
stern-faced.

"When one is male and the other is
female, sometimes there are."

"It was so long ago I really can't
remember."

"OK, Max." He wasn't going to push
it any further. "What's a long time ago?"

"Long enough where she shouldn't
be contacting me."

"Mr. Slade, can you try to make an
effort to answer the questions?"

"I thought I was."

"Well, let's try a little harder.
What do you say?"

"I'll certainly give it the ol'
college try."

The detective shot me a smile accompanied by an
exasperated sigh.

"Wonderful. Let's try that
previous one again. How do you and Mrs. Baxter know each
other?"

"I told you we were friends. But
if you really must know, we kissed a few times."

"Well, that's an interesting
tidbit. See, now we're getting somewhere, Max."

"You're telling me," Imogen
interjected.

"We dated for a while, then things
fell apart. You know how it goes."

"Judging by this house, looks like
she should have stuck around." He let that inappropriate comment
just linger for a moment. "And then out of the blue she contacted
you the other day?"

"That's correct. We had seen each
other every now and again at a business function here or there. Ted
and I ran in the same circles. But we rarely, if ever, chatted.
Once in a blue moon I would have occasion to chat with Ted, but
that was usually when Kitty wasn't around."

"And then she contacted
you?"

"Yes. She called me the day Ted
was murdered. Told me she needed my help and asked if she could
come by the following morning."

"How did she have your
number?"

"I don't know. I asked her that
myself, but she was evasive."

"Did you ask her what kind of help
she needed?"

"I did. She didn't discuss that on
the phone."

"So, she discussed that when she
showed up here yesterday?"

"That's correct."

"So, what did she
want?"

"She told me she thought she might
need some help. It's not every day that your husband is
murdered."

"You're an attorney,
correct?"

"I am."

Why was everyone hellbent on continually reminding
me of the fact that I was an attorney? Kitty must have mentioned it
to Carrington.

"So was she retaining you as her
counsel?"

I laughed. Hard. I was about the
furthest thing from a criminal defense attorney that you could come
across. I invested in technology companies. You remember the dotcom
boom? Well, that was my story. I made millions starting and selling
dotcoms. I didn't know the first thing about murder. Other than it
didn't end well for the dead guy.

"What are you laughing at?"
Detective Carrington asked.

"This."

"Excuse me."

"This whole thing."

"I don't find it funny in the
least."

"You think Kitty wants to retain
me to represent her? I'm the furthest thing that there is from a
defense attorney."

"So what did she want?"

"I don't know what Mrs. Baxter
wanted."

"Do you think Mrs. Baxter wanted
your legal opinion?"

"My legal opinion? No. I think she
wanted my help to solve the murder. I'm not sure she has faith in
our police department."

"What would give her that
idea?"

"You've got me. She said that you
haven't any leads, suspects, or clue about Ted's murder. And, after
you just told me that Kitty's all you've got, I'm starting to agree
with her."

"So, are you going to take Mrs.
Baxter up on her offer?"

"I haven't decided. I'm not a
detective, as you know."

"Is that all you discussed with
Mrs. Baxter at your house?"

"That was it."

The detective was finished with
me. Or so it appeared. He took another sip of his coffee then spoke
in a friendly, relaxed voice. "Miss Whitehall, you were there
yesterday, right? Is that all that was discussed?"

"It was," Imogen said,
reciprocating with a similar disposition.

He thought for a moment. "What was
your impression of Mrs. Baxter?"

Imogen made a puckered face. "All
right, I guess. Struck me as a bit of a gold digger. But then
again, I only met her for a spell. Who knows? She might be a
saint."

"A saint she's not," I
added.

"Did she mention how Ted was
murdered?" the detective asked.

"Are you sure it was murder?" I
replied.

"That's the only thing we're sure
of right now."

"She didn't discuss it with me.
Can you tell me what happened to Ted?"

"I can tell you what we've pieced
together so far."

"Good enough."

The detective began his description of the events
that took place leading up to the murder of Ted Baxter. Ted was at
the office in midtown Manhattan until about 6:15 p.m., at which
point he got into this car and drove home. It took him about an
hour to get there, and after checking his home security alarm, the
police were able to confirm that the security system was disabled
at 7:27 p.m. What happened between 7:27 p.m. and 8:20 p.m. was the
mystery.

I was flabbergasted that the
detective was being so open with me. I'd read a lot of mystery
novels, and the police are never cooperative. My curiosity got the
better of me, and I started asking questions to see how far I could
push Detective Carrington.

"So, Kitty arrived home at 8:20
p.m.," I said.

"That's what she says, and it is
consistent with her call to 9-1-1."

"What time did she report that
there was something wrong?"

"8:23 p.m."

"Where was she?"

"She said she was out with a
friend having dinner."

"And that checked out?"

"It did. She was having dinner in
Greenwich. Left around eight."

"Male or female dining
companion?"

"Female."

I was surprised with his
compliance and frankness, as well as the fact that Kitty was dining
with a female friend. Judging by my past experience, she struck me
as one who might stray. My face must have shown it.

"You were thinking male?" the
detective asked.

"That thought did pop into my
head. But I have no information to justify that. So, what happened
to Ted?"

"When we arrived, Ted was in his
home office, face down on his desk in a pool of blood, body still
in his chair, head with one single bullet hole, the shot
administered through the back of his head. Looks like he never saw
it coming. They're telling me the wound looks like a 9mm handgun
was used. Generic. His face then hit the desk with a fair amount of
force breaking his nose. Post-mortem.