Murder.com (5 page)

"We did a preliminary sweep of the
office and didn't come up with anything. No casing from the bullet,
no fingerprints, no signs of forced entry. Forensics is still
working the scene, but so far they haven't found anything of
importance. Whatever happened, they left the place
clean."

"Did you guys find anything out of
place in the office?"

"Just your usual stuff—books,
computer, television, papers, a filing cabinet. Nothing out of the
ordinary." He stopped for a second. "They did find a medical device
in a metallic suitcase. I think it was a heart monitor. Apparently
Ted had a heart condition."

Too bad his heart condition didn't
kill him. Would have made things a lot easier.

"Anything else?" I
asked.

"That's all I've got," the
detective said.

Great. Having had my fill of him, I started to get
up from my seat to escort Detective Carrington out of the
house.

"Well, I've got one more question,
Max. If you don't mind."

I sat back down.

"Sure, detective."

"Where were you and Miss Whitehall
between 7:27 p.m. and 8:20 p.m.?"

There we go. It was only a matter of time before he
got around to asking the really important question. When did I kill
Ted?

"I was on my way back from work.
From Manhattan."

"On the train?" he
asked.

I chuckled. "The train? No. I
drove. I'm not big on public transportation."

"Was Miss Whitehall with
you?"

"No."

"So you were alone?"

"Yes, detective. I was alone. In
my car. Is that a crime?"

"Not in of itself. No."

He turned his gaze from me toward Imogen.

"And you, where were
you?"

"Home."

"And where's home?"

"Next door."

"Isn't that convenient?" He
smiled.

"Excuse me?" Imogen answered. Not
too happily.

"I mean, it's convenient that you
live next door and you two, well, you know…"

"Really, detective?" I
interjected.

He laughed uncomfortably.
Embarrassed. "I'm sorry. So you were home, Miss
Whitehall?"

"Yes, I was home. I heard sirens,
and a few minutes later I headed over here and saw Max had just
arrived home."

"And what time was
that?"

"Don't really remember. Shortly
before the time they wheeled poor Mr. Baxter into the white
van."

Carrington just nodded. Not approvingly or
disapprovingly. Just nodded. Then he shifted his attention back to
me as he jotted down some notes in his little black book.

"So, Max, is there anyone to
corroborate your whereabouts yesterday between 7:27 p.m. and 8:20
p.m.?"

"You can ask my car. She's right
outside."

"Not helpful, Max."

"I'm sorry. Normally you could ask
my secretary, but she wasn't in yesterday. I'm not sure who saw me
leave the office. But feel free to ask around."

"I'm sure we'll take you up on
that offer, Max."

He was digging. That was for sure. I was weighing my
options. I had already fibbed about my past relationship with
Kitty. And my relationship with Ted. More like my disgust for Ted.
I was considering filling the good detective in on the email that I
had received from Kitty. It might deflect some suspicion away from
me. At least for a short amount of time while they sifted through
the information. It was something I would have to do.

"If that's all there is, I think
we're done here," Detective Carrington said, as he started to
rise.

"There's one more thing,
detective, that might be of some importance. If you have a
second."

"Max, I've got all the time in the
world."

I mentioned that Kitty had sent me
an email from Mike Miller. I showed him it and then told him that
I'd forward him a copy. He was interested in the email, thanked me
for my cooperation, and asked to keep him in the loop if Kitty
contacted me again. He then asked me about Ted and what I knew
about him. I told him that he was a pretty cold, abrasive guy, was
a genius when it came to technology, and was worth a fortune. On
the few occasions that I'd had the displeasure of working with him,
he treated everyone in the room pretty poorly. Overall, he wasn't a
nice guy.

"Can I be honest with you,
Max?"

"Sure, detective."

"You seem like a bright guy.
Logical. You ran in Ted's circles. Any reason you can think of why
someone might want to kill him?"

"Do I get a junior detective badge
if I help?"

Detective John Carrington was
about the same age as I was and, I now had no doubt, ambitious. He
was looking to solve this murder with any help he could muster up.
I imagined it would be quite a feather in his cap to solve the
murder of a multimillionaire in this quiet, sleepy suburb. Cases
like this certainly didn't come around every day. Could even lead
to a promotion.

"As I told Kitty, detective, I'm
just a guy that likes technology. I have no interest in solving
crimes."

"Jealousy? Greed? Hatred? You've
got to have a guess."

Was this his way of digging for more information? If
it was, it seems a little amateurish to me. I doubted many killers
just offered up their motive at the drop of a hat. He might want to
work on his technique.

"I wish I knew,
detective."

"I wish you did too,
Max."

He was now standing. Peering down at Imogen and
myself, who were both still seated. In the power position. You
could tell he liked that dynamic.

"Do me a favor, you two. Stick
around. Don't go taking any trips out of state."

"Now why would we go and do
something like that?" I asked.

"Just stick around."

That was an order. Not a suggestion.

The detective thanked me for my
time, and for Imogen's time, didn't thank Jabber for her time, and
then we all walked the detective to the door. The detective handed
me his card, told me to call anytime if I needed anything, wanted
to chat about the case, or felt the overwhelming desire to confess.
We all exchanged some pleasantries and he left.

"Now what?" Imogen
asked.

"Sunday brunch," I said. "With
more than a few Bloody Marys."

Monday, I went to work. Sat in on a few board
meetings. Met with the CEO of one of our companies and had a
two-hour meeting with his CFO about raising a new round of capital.
One that would hopefully be enough to bring his company to the next
level and to a possible IPO in the next year or two. That was
always tricky, though. It involved bringing other investors and
venture capital firms into the mix. More investors meant more
opinions. Never a good thing.

When I finally arrived home, Imogen was not waiting
for me. Neither was dinner, for that matter. I was hungry, and what
better way to abate your hunger than by fixing yourself a drink?
The bar beckoned, so I poured a scotch. On my way over to the
couch, the doorbell rang.

"Dutch!" Kitty said, as she pushed
her way into my house. "I heard the police were here
yesterday."

"And hello to you, too,
Kitty."

"What did they want?"

Kitty strolled, uninvited again,
into the living room from the foyer where she had just verbally
accosted me. Jabber, who was just standing by my side, followed
Kitty like a shepherding dog. I was waiting for her to nip at
Kitty's four-inch Prada heels.

"What do you think they
wanted?"

"I haven't the faintest idea,"
Kitty said, waving her hand dismissively though the air.

"They're watching you,
Kitty."

Why give her the satisfaction of knowing that she
was right? That the police had indeed come knocking. That they
thought I had something to do with this whole mess.

Kitty acted shocked, although her determined
expression showed something quite different.

"Moi?"

"Yes,
toi
. Your husband was murdered.
Remember?"

"I see you're still as charming as
ever, Dutch."

"Can I get you a drink?" I asked,
and took a sip of my own.

"I'm not here for a drink." Kitty
scowled.

"Well, if you don't mind, I'm
going to sit down and sip on mine. I've had a long day and you've
shown up unannounced."

I sat on the couch and motioned for Kitty to have a
seat next to me.

"Well don't blame me,
Dutch.
Blame
these nosy detectives. Questions, questions, questions.
They don't stop," she said as she sat
down.

"Sounds like you blame them," I
said.

"I blame them for thinking that I
killed my husband."

"Are you sure you don't want that
drink?"

Imogen opened the front door carrying a large brown
paper bag. Takeout. Finally, dinner has arrived. Imogen walked into
the living room, clearly disgusted with whom she saw sitting on the
couch. She greeted Kitty, ignored me, and then coldly, without even
acknowledging my presence, walked into the kitchen.

"Trouble in paradise?"

"More like ripples in Shangri-La.
Be right back," I said quietly as I stood.

I walked into the kitchen. Imogen was unpacking our
dinner, banging each individually packaged meal onto my quartz
island.

"This one's the chicken
parmigiana," she said as she slammed it onto the
counter.

Her face was taut with anger while she desperately
tried to soften her expression.

"Cucina Italiano? Delicious!" I
said, trying to defuse this volatile situation before it
exploded.

"Why is that bitch here?" she
asked, in a controlled angry whisper.

Too late.

"She just stopped by."

"Well, if I'm being honest here
Max, I don't appreciate your ex-fiancée just popping
in."

At this most unfortunate of
moments, Kitty called into the kitchen from the living room asking
if everything was OK. I called back to her that we were fine and
that I'd be out shortly. I told her to make herself comfortable and
to fix herself a drink if she so desired.

"Now she's staying for a
drink?"

"Let's discuss this later. For
now, let's just go out there and play nice."

Imogen wiped up some of the tomato sauce that had
splattered out of the chicken parmigiana container and onto the
counter, tried to abate her anger, and put on a charming, gorgeous
facade. We both strolled out into the living room. Kitty now had a
drink in her hand. Judging by the lime in her glass, it looked like
she had made herself a gin and tonic.

She was standing when she said,
"I'm sorry to bother you two. I don't want to interrupt your
dinner. I'll just head—"

"Please, Kitty, enjoy your drink,"
I said, motioning for her to sit down on one of the
chairs.

Imogen shot me a look that nearly took my head off.
Kitty, sipping on her drink, in the process of sitting, must have
witnessed the glare. She tried to force herself to rise, but
gravity took over and she descended into the seat.

"Miss Whitehall, I don't mean to
intrude, but—"

"No worries, luv," Imogen replied,
as fake and as charming as ever.

"Before I leave, can I ask you two
something?"

"Of course," I said.

I made myself comfortable on the couch. Kitty was
sitting opposite me on a chair. The white shag rug separated us.
Imogen was somewhere between leaning and sitting on the armrest of
the couch.

"What did you two make of the
email from Mike to Ted?"

It was not worth noting to Kitty
that Imogen and I had discussed the email at some length. After
all, I was not sure where Kitty stood in this whole mess, and I
certainly wasn't going to let on to her that Imogen and I had been
mildly grilled by Detective Carrington about our role in this
sordid affair.

"We weren't too sure what to make
of it," I said.

"It sounded like a threat to me,"
Kitty said.

I dismissed the threat comment,
wanting to learn more about the origins of the email itself. "How
did you get that email? It wasn't addressed to you."

"I'm a snoop. I looked at Ted's
email on his laptop the other day. He had been acting weird all
week."

"Did Ted mention anything odd
going on at the office?"

"Ted never told me anything about
work. But I had the feeling that something big was afoot. He was
taking calls and doing work at all times of night, which, even for
him, was out of the ordinary. He usually disconnected for a little
bit before bed, but it was clear for the past few weeks that
something had been brewing."

"Why didn't you share that
information with the police?"

"They didn't ask."

"Well, I'm sure they will shortly.
I shared the email with them."