Murder.com (6 page)

Kitty's expression changed from
feigned pleasantness to displeasured shock. She shifted in her seat
as she raised her voice in fury.

"Dutch! That was for you. Not for
them!" Now she looked as if she was contemplating throwing her
drink at me.

"We're all on the same side,
Kitty."

As if she caught herself in
mid-tantrum, Kitty's demeanor changed back from fury to
congeniality.

"Yes, of course we are, Dutch.
Well, I've taken up too much of your time already."

Kitty got up from her chair, put her drink down on a
coaster, and walked toward the door. I followed, Imogen trailing
closely behind me, then opened the door for Kitty. She apologized
to me for interrupting my evening and then expressed her apologies
to Imogen for showing up unannounced and for disturbing her dinner.
Imogen assured her there was nothing to worry about, and by the
time we closed the door it appeared as if we were all on good
terms.

"Bitch."

On second thought, things might still be a bit
precarious.

After calming Imogen down, I called Detective
Carrington. I was going to make it a point to share any information
that I had received about this case with him immediately. At least
for the time being. Keep the suspicion away from myself. I was
going to play offense.

"Detective, it's Max
Slade."

"Ah, Max, good to hear from
you."

"John, do you have a minute to
chat?"

"John, huh, glad to see we're
making some progress."

I chuckled inside. Maybe I was a cliché,
subconsciously cozying up to the detective, addressing him by his
first name.

"I certainly do. What's on your
mind?"

"Kitty just left."

"Ah, Mrs. Baxter. She certainly
likes stopping by your place."

"Indeed, it's becoming a terrible
habit that I intend on helping her break."

"So, what did Mrs. Baxter have to
say for herself?"

"She was poking around about the
email from Mike to Ted. I told her we didn't really get anywhere
with it. But then I told her that we shared it with the police and
she lost her cool."

John paused for a moment then
said, "Hmm, I see." I believed he spoke simply to fill the void of
silence that had formed. Then, after another moment of silence, he
asked, "Do you think she's hiding something?"

"I'm not sure. She told me that
she thought there was something brewing at Ted's office, but she
wasn't quite sure what. That's why she was poking around Ted's
email."

"Can't a husband trust his wife
anymore?"

"I'm sure the knife cut both ways
in that house."

"Funny you mention it, Max—we've
been poking around about the email and a few other things over
here."

"Care to share?" I asked. There
was nothing to lose. The worst he could do would be to hang up on
me. But I guessed he would want to bait me. String me along. Play
some sort of detective mind game with me. But maybe my tidbits of
information had endeared me to the detective.

"Well, for starters, forensics
came back with confirmation on the gun. It was a 9mm. There were
traces of the powder left on the entrance wound. We also found a
fragment of the bullet lodged in a book. The powder and the casing
match."

"Forgive me, detective, but, what
does that all mean? That Ted was shot with a 9mm gun?"

John laughed. "You got it, Max. If
we can find the gun we can probably link it back to Ted's murder.
But the odds of that are slim to none." He let that comment
marinate for a moment. "You don't have a 9mm, do you?"

He threw that question in nonchalantly. As if I
would admit it even if I did have a gun.

I chuckled. "No, detective. I
don't carry a gun. I've never even fired one."

He paused. Digesting my answer.
Then completely changed the subject: "Another thing that you might
be interested in is the time of death. They put it around 7:45 p.m.
Smack dab in our window. And, last but by no means least, is the
email. Our boys have been working on that one, too. There's
something to it, but we're not sure what exactly. We'll be
interviewing Mr. Mike Miller shortly."

I just listened. I didn't have
anything further to add to this conversation. Other than the
sinking feeling that I was still a person of interest. I had hoped
that I wasn't going to graduate to suspect.

"OK, Max, well, we'll be in
touch."

Then he disconnected. I threw my phone on the couch
and looked over at Imogen sitting across from me.

"So, now we're in this, huh?" she
asked.

"I'm afraid so. For a little
while. We don't have a choice. At least until we can deflect this
away from us."

"Please don't tell me that we'll
be seeing more of Kitty."

"I can't promise you that. But
we're putting an end to our revolving front door policy. I'm done
entertaining. You free tomorrow?"

"I am. What do you have in
mind?"

"Tomorrow is going to be Bring My
Girlfriend To Work Day. If we play our cards right, we should have
a meeting to attend together in the afternoon."

"Smashing."

I met with the CFO and CEO of one of our portfolio
companies called POP the following day. POP was a great idea. It
was one of the largest music-sharing companies in the world. There
was nothing like it. You could follow what music your friends were
listening to from anywhere on any device, anytime anyone was
listening. In addition, you could instantly listen along with your
friends to their playlists or to whatever music you were in the
mood for, along with a whole host of other goodies. No need to
actively post anything, although you could. It all happened in real
time. The ultimate music-sharing and discovery service amongst real
friends.

My firm had contributed the
entirety of POP's first round of funding to the tune of $10 million
about three years ago. My firm and I owned a very large percentage
of POP, so we stood to gain a lot when POP was sold or went public.
Since then they'd raised another $100 million, and they were going
to raise a whole bunch more. It was all causing a bit of frenzy in
the tech world. That was never a bad thing.

I told the assembled POP crew that there was still a
lot of work to be done and that we would need at least three or
four other firms to come in with a lot of capital in order to meet
the $248 million goal, but that meant issuing some more stock. The
trick would be to make an offer attractive enough to an investor
without diluting the shares that both my firm and the other two
investors owned.

Imogen was a trooper. I had
allowed her to sit in on my meetings and to offer any valuable
insight that she might feel the need to convey. While Imogen was
technically retired, and apparently now a reluctant private
investigator on a murder case, once upon a time she had been an
investment banker. So high finance was something Imogen was
familiar with. In fact, I'd hire her to work for me, but she joked
that she would only work
with
me. I didn't think I could afford her coming in
at the "with" level.

After my discussion with Detective
Carrington yesterday afternoon, I was somewhat concerned. He had
clearly not ruled me out of the possible suspect pool. Even though
his question about me owning a handgun seemed off the cuff, it most
certainly was not. He wanted to know. Maybe if I had said yes, he'd
have gotten a warrant, found the gun, and wrapped this whole thing
up. But, as it stood, he was grasping at straws.

I formulated a plan to get in to
meet with Mike Miller. I figured that I might be able to get a
little information out of Mike myself. Do a little digging on my
own. We were in this real-life novel now, for better or worse. Part
of what had drawn Ginny and I into this mess was the fact that we
both enjoyed a good mystery. We loved reading mystery novels. Good
practice, we had both agreed last night. I also had another motive.
The one where I convinced the police that I didn't kill Ted. Junior
Detective Max Slade, or, as I liked to think of myself, Private
Dick Slade, called Mike's office and was able to set up a three
o'clock appointment with him to discuss POP.

A quick lunch and a quickie later,
Imogen and I were on our way to the offices of Baxter, Miller &
Clarke. When we arrived via taxi, we made our way through security
and then up to Mike's office on the thirty-second floor. A
statuesque, brown-eyed and -haired model of a woman dressed in a
navy skirt and jacket met us at the elevator and then escorted us
through reception into Mike's office. As we walked, I admired her
perfect body. This was how clothes were supposed to fit a woman.
She must have been Mike's personal assistant.

The office was opulence at its
finest, which was in stark contrast to my office, which consisted
of a basic desk, a couple of Aeron chairs (my one extravagance), my
fifteen-inch laptop, and a whole host of other electronics, mainly
phones that I'd stopped using. I was constantly buying new cell
phones. It was an addiction. Not in a bad way, or at least I didn't
think so. Imogen might have disagreed. Spending hundreds of dollars
every month to have the latest and the greatest wasn't exactly
prudent. But sometimes you had to indulge yourself.

Adorning Mike's cherry wood office
walls were three diplomas: Harvard University, Harvard Law School,
and Harvard Business School. His office resembled what I would
imagine a Harvard professor's office might look like if he was
worth a not-so-small fortune.

Mike was sharply dressed in what
must have been a custom-made dark blue suit with a white and light
blue checkered French-collared shirt with his initials embroidered
on his cuff, along with interlocking blue "NY" cufflinks. His tie
was comprised of different shades of blue made to resemble a preppy
English university uniform tie. He wore black-rimmed, rectangular
glasses that sat in front of his green eyes, making him look more
like a banker or lawyer than the venture capitalist that he
was.

He stood from behind his large
mahogany desk, walked around it, and greeted both Imogen and me at
the door.

"Max, it has been way too long,"
he said, extending a hand.

I shook it and responded, "It has.
How are you, Mike?"

"I'm well." He let go of my hand.
"And who is this?"

"This is Miss Imogen Whitehall, an
associate of mine."

"A pleasure," Mike said, shaking
Imogen's hand. "Why don't you both have a seat."

Mike pointed to the two leather seats in front of
his desk. We both sat. Mike returned to his throne and reclined as
he began to hold court.

"Tell me about POP," he said,
hands interlocked behind his head.

I explained what was going on with the company. That
we were looking to raise a large round of capital with our eye set
on going public within a year. Imogen was diligently taking notes
and jumping in every now and then with some additional facts and
brilliant insights, just as we had rehearsed. Mike lapped it up and
asked about valuation and the rest of the questions that most
venture capitalists would ask. I told him that I wanted to give him
the courtesy of a first look, and that this was just a preliminary
conversation. I explained that he would get a chance to review a
term sheet once we were ready to go public with the deal. He
thanked me and expressed some interest, and then went on to tell me
all of the reasons that it was a bad deal—but, of course, he would
be willing to take a look when it was time. Jockeying for position.
Just like a venture capitalist. Always looking for the best
deal.

I was different. I was a straight
shooter. Yes, no, or maybe. Those were the answers that I usually
gave. I wasn't trying to hide anything. I wasn't looking to
position myself for a better deal. I took it all at face value. I
put it all out there. At least in business. With Imogen I was still
learning how to express myself. I was vague. To a fault. I needed
to open up to her. Especially after five years. She wanted to get
married. And I did too, but I hadn't pulled the trigger. I was
always looking to avoid the subject. Hide in the middle of vague
answers and witty quips. But I needed to change. Soon.

Once we were done talking shop, I broached the Ted
situation.

"My condolences about
Ted."

Mike sat up straight, placed his
hands on the desk, and leaned toward Ginny and myself. "Just
terrible." He paused, taking a deep breath, and then coupled that
with a sigh. "We're beside ourselves here. He was not only a leader
of this company, he was…my friend."

Mike's face conveyed sadness, up
to a point. I found myself believing that his emotions were
genuine, although I was at odds with myself for thinking that.
Something about his facial expression made me question its
authenticity.

"I can't imagine. Kitty must be a
wreck," I said, fishing for something.

"I haven't seen her in a while.
Just talked to her briefly the other day when she told me the news.
The funeral is tomorrow, so I'm sure I'll see her. I'll pass along
your condolences."