Murder.com (7 page)

Mike's posture was still
commanding, and he was maintaining direct eye contact.

"Thanks. How's Clarke taking
it?"

Mike leaned back in his chair, relaxing his
posture.

"In typical Clarke fashion," Mike
began.

Ken S. Clarke, III was an older man, about sixty,
who had made his name in Silicon Valley about ten years ago when
his company was purchased by an online auction house for $125
million. An ambitious man by nature, he immediately took to the
idea of becoming a venture capitalist. He moved back to his
hometown, Manhattan, and here he formed a partnership with Ted
Baxter and Mike Miller. The three of them grew BMC into a
formidable VC firm.

"While he was upset, he maintained
a stiff upper lip and implored us all to soldier on. I guess at his
age you've seen a lot. Seems like he was able to internalize a lot
of his grief," Mike concluded.

"Is he around? I haven't seen
Clarke in ages. I'd like to express my condolences to him in
person."

"I'm not sure." Mike picked up his
phone and called his secretary. He asked if Ken was in his office
and then hung up. "He stepped out," Mike reported.

"Oh, that's too bad. I'll try to
catch him next time."

"I'll let him know that you were
asking for him."

"I appreciate that.
Thanks."

We chatted a little more about
Clarke and how horrible Ted's death had been for the company. Mike
reassured me that BMC was determined to move forward, despite the
tragedy. Right now they were just trying to get past the funeral.
Once that was over, they were hoping to get back to business as
usual.

"On a related note, you know what
they say:
bis vivit qui bene
vivit
," Mike added as we were winding down
our conversation.

"I have never heard that
before."

"It's Latin. Means he lives twice
who lives well. And Ted lived well."

"That's lovely," Imogen
interjected. "Mark Antony would have been impressed."

"Latin has some beautiful
sayings."

"I'm not much of a Latin scholar,"
I said.

"I'm a bit of a Latin nerd. It's a
poignant language. Sort of like Yiddish but without the misery.
Gets right to the point."

"I guess I'll be ordering Rosetta
Stone after I leave here," I said as the only one, apparently, in
the room that had no formal Latin education.

Mike babbled on about Latin for a few more minutes
then I jumped into a conversation about what other companies Mike
had been looking at recently. He mentioned some subpar deals then
was vague, as was the norm in this business. After he had finished
providing me with no further information about possible investment
opportunities, I thanked him for his time. He shook my hand,
complimented Imogen on her insights, and told her it was a pleasure
meeting her. After which we both left.

It was the day of the funeral. Imogen and I
would not be attending, but John had called me first thing in the
morning, before I had even left the house, to tell me that he and
one of his colleagues would be there to get a read on Ted's circle.
More likely, he called to keep tabs on me, but I was determined to
stick to my plan of full disclosure of all pertinent information.
So while I had him on the phone, I filled him in on my meeting with
Mike. I explained to John that Mike hadn't offered up any real
information about Ted.

"They rarely do," John said,
acting the part of the grizzled detective.

"
They
as in killers?"

"No,
they
as in people. That's what makes
my job hard. I have to pry the information out. Dig. That's what I
do."

He was telling the truth. I knew that by now. He was
digging. Always digging. I was sure he was referring to me as well,
not just Mike. Dig. Dig. Dig. And you just might strike gold.

"Well, this person did mention one
thing that Imogen and I have been pondering."

"And what was that?"

"He mentioned a Latin phrase about
Ted's death. Imogen wrote it down. Let me get it and I'll read it
to you."

I asked Ginny to give me a copy of her notes.

"
Bis
vivit qui bene vivit
."
It didn't sound very eloquent
coming out of my mouth. Julius Caesar would have been
disappointed.

"Something about
living?"

"Actually, yes."

"I took Latin in college. Glad
it's finally getting some use."

Am I the only one who never took
Latin in school?

"It means
he lives twice who lives well
."

"It fits. I've been to his house.
Ted certainly did live well."

Another inappropriate comment
about wealth. First my house, now Ted's house. I let it
go.

We chatted a bit more about Mike's
use of Latin and then John thanked me for the information. But then
he added something that bothered me.

"Max, I, um, appreciate all of the
information that you've passed along, but why don't you leave the
police work to me?"

"Well, I just thought—"

"We've got everything under
control. You and Miss Whitehall just stay put and we'll be in
touch."

He didn't say it in a mean tone.
Didn't say it in any sort of confrontational way. It was just
matter of fact. The kind of matter of fact that meant compliance or
there'd be a penalty. Cops have a way of talking like
that.

We had entered Phase Two. Shut the suspect out of
the investigation. I had a feeling that things were about to get a
little uncomfortable for me.

The rest of the day was uneventful. I did some work
out of my home office and Ginny went home. She assured me that she
would be back for dinner.

Imogen arrived back at my place around seven. We
decided to grab some Chinese food at a restaurant down the road.
There were only a few other couples eating, which made for a
semi-private atmosphere. I ordered a white wine, and Imogen did as
well.

"This private investigating is
harder than it looks," Imogen said, taking a sip of her wine with a
devilish grin on her face.

"Well, Carrington told me to back
off."

"So, we're calling it
quits?"

"Hardly. I think we have to dig
even deeper now. I've got a feeling something bad is going to
happen."

"Oh, don't say that, Max. They
can't possibly think you had anything to do with this."

"That's exactly what I think.
Shutting us down is just the first step. That's why we can't stop.
We need to figure this out before I end up in a cell."

"Jesus, Max."

I was being a depressant. Not good. I needed to
change my attitude. Liven up this depressing Chinese dinner. I took
a sip of my wine.

"On a separate note, you make a
wonderful venture capitalist," I said.

It seemed to work. Ginny smiled, and I even thought
she blushed a little.

"Why thank you, Max. I certainly
think Mike bought it."

"He most certainly did, my dear.
Will be helpful if we ever need to meet with him again."

Over dinner we discussed the case and went over the
facts as we knew them so far, trying to connect some of the dots.
But by my second glass of wine, the dots were becoming a little
blurry. I put down my chopsticks.

"Check."

* * *

I stood at the door to my house, Imogen next to me,
fumbling for my keys in the dark. Finally, after a few moments, I
managed to slip the key into the deadbolt and turn. But there was
no click. No metallic slide from post to door. No tension on the
key. The lock was open.

"Wait in the car," I said to
Imogen.

"We took a taxi here, Max,
remember?"

I must have been slightly inebriated.

"Wait here."

She looked worried. "Why? What's
wrong, Max?"

I tried to sober up as quickly as
I could. "The lock was open."

"So? Maybe we forgot to lock it.
It happens."

That was true. It did happen.
Hadn't happened to me yet, but I guessed there was a first time for
everything.

"Yeah, well, you wait here. Let me
make sure there's no one in there."

"No. I'm coming with
you."

"Ginny! Wait here or in the car. I
don't need you getting hurt."

"I'm coming with you. I'm not
letting you go in there alone."

I wasn't going to win this
battle.

Imogen reached in her purse and pulled out a little
canister of some sort.

I whispered to her, "What the hell
is that?"

"Mace."

"What do you think you're going to
do with that?"

"Blind whoever is in
there."

"Let's hope you we don't need
it."

"Enough. Let's go already." She
held up the mace in front of her like a gun.

"OK, on three."

I slowly opened the door, first looking into the
foyer, then venturing a few steps into the house. Ginny followed,
mace at the ready. We moved into the foyer, by the stairs. Nothing.
Not even Jabber stirring around. She was never a barker. She must
be upstairs. I moved my gaze over to the living room. Nothing.
Quietly, we made our way into the kitchen. Everything seemed fine.
Nothing was missing. Nothing was out of place. Maybe we had just
left the lock open.

We made our way slowly up the stairs. Ginny moved
with the grace of a lynx and the determination of a special
operations soldier. Moving the mace around side to side like an
assault rifle. Ready to take out the unwanted intruder. As we
approached the upstairs hallway, there were no signs of life. The
hallway light was on, but that was normal. I usually left it on.
Then we made our way toward the rooms.

My bedroom door was almost shut. I
never shut the door. It was always wide open. Jabber never even
bothered to close it. Sometimes I wasn't sure she was even a dog.
Maybe just a furry human.

Something had happened here. I
motioned to Imogen to stop in her tracks. We stood outside the
door, just off to the side, like I'd seen in the movies.

I tried to mime to Ginny that I
would slowly open the door with my wrist, see what happened, and
then we'd move in. I looked over to her. She hadn't understood a
lick of what I was trying to convey. I pleaded with my eyes for her
to listen to me.

"Can you just tell me what hell
you want to do?" she whispered.

"What if there's someone in there?
They'll hear us," I whispered back.

"Too late, Max," she
said.

"OK, just follow my
lead."

I slowly opened the door. It
creaked. I needed to get that fixed. Once the door was open and my
arm wasn't shot off, I peeked around the doorway into the
room.

"Holy shit."

Ginny, who was standing behind me,
looked perplexed. "What?"

"Just come around and
look."

She did. We both stood in the doorway and stared
into the room. It was in shambles. Clothes were everywhere. Our
platform bed was still in its place against the wall, but the
mattress had been flipped over. But there was Jabber. Sprawled out
sleeping in the middle of the mess.

"Check your stuff," I said to
Ginny.

She ran to the closet and went in. It was a large
walk-in closet, so she would probably be there a while. I walked
over to my nightstand, where I kept a case for the few watches that
I owned. It was still there. I opened it. All was well. The Baume
& Mercier, Rolex, and Piaget were all safe and sound.

This wasn't a robbery. No one was
here. They had already been here, searched the house, and left.
While we were at dinner. Someone had been watching us. Waiting for
us to leave. Waiting for the right time to break in here and dig
around. But why?

"Everything's here," Imogen called
out from the closet. "They didn't take anything."

No, they didn't take anything.
Nothing except for my sanity.

By the time Imogen emerged from
the closet, I had formulated a theory. My theory was that this was
a scavenger expedition to try to dig up some information on me that
would implicate me in Ted's murder. She listened.

"Why? Who? Who would do this?" she
asked.

"I have no idea."

"Who on earth could be watching
us?"

"All I can think of is the police.
But they can't do stuff like this. It would be illegal."

"I don't know, Max."

"Let's look around. See what other
kind of damage they inflicted on my poor house."

We looked in each of the six rooms. One of which was
my office. Nothing was broken in any of the rooms. Everything was
just rifled through. Thrown about, like someone was trying to send
a message. But not a very strong message. The kind of message that
throwing around mattresses and papers conveyed. Whatever that was.
Not the kind of message that breaking and stealing stuff conveyed.
That had to be worse.