Over Her Dead Body (34 page)

“I’m looking for where the cleaning crew checks in,” I said, trying to sound as if I were on an authorized mission.

“Keep going,” one of the men told me, “and take a right at the end of the corridor. You’ll be in another corridor, and it’s all the way at the end of
that.
”

But I didn’t have to go that far. As I reached the end of the hall, Katya and another woman were just making the turn. Katya looked startled by the sight of me.

“Katya,” I said, “may I please speak to you for just a moment?”

She sighed raggedly. “I must get to work,” she said.

“One minute. That’s all I ask.”

Her shoulders sagged in consent, and the other woman moved on, pushing her large rubber trash can on wheels.

“Katya,” I said, my voice low, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but a reporter on our staff—his name is Ryan Forster—died last night of a heroin overdose.”

She flinched. “I am very sorry to hear that,” she said, finding my eyes for a second and then pulling hers away.

“I know that he spoke to you last week, about Mona’s murder. Can you please tell me what you told him?”

She took a deep breath and her eyes flickered in anger. “He asked me what I remembered about that night,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “I told him the same thing I told you. I do not remember anything. Except the long sleeve. Now why won’t you leave me alone?”

She gripped the handle of her cart and began to move off.

“Katya,” I said softly, causing her to stop in her tracks, “I know there’s something else. About Mona’s death. I hope you’ll change your mind at some point and tell me—or the police.”

She said nothing, just started walking again. I gave her time to reach the service elevator, knowing that she wouldn’t be pleased to have me on her heels. A few minutes later, I retraced my steps and took the elevator back to sixteen.

My phone was ringing as I neared my desk, and I raced to grab it.

“Now, now, catch your breath,” said a voice on the other end. I could tell it was Brandy, the medical investigator I knew with the ME’s office.

“What have you got?”

“Something very interesting.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“This is just between you and me, okay? You can’t use it in any kind of story right now. Your co-worker died from injecting pure heroin. We haven’t run the tox screens on him yet, but we tested the stuff that was in the bag on the table in his apartment.”

“So he bought bad stuff?”

“Well, you wouldn’t exactly call it bad. If anything, it was too good—uncut, not ready for distribution to the masses.”

“Could someone have sold him that by mistake?”

“It’s possible. But that’s an awfully expensive mistake. I’m wondering if it was purchased intentionally. Maybe he committed suicide. Or . . .”

I knew what she was going to say before she said it. Maybe someone else had bought the pure heroin and substituted it for Ryan’s stash. Someone who wanted to make sure that the next time he shot up, he’d be dead within minutes.

CHAPTER 19

W
hen I set down the phone a minute later, my hand was trembling. Though there were several possible explanations for Ryan’s death—such as suicide or a drug dealer getting even—there was a chance that he had been murdered because he’d uncovered who the killer was. Brandy hadn’t had much more to share, just that the cops were working on the murder angle and that anyone who knew where to buy heroin could probably figure out how to get his or her hands on a pure version, though it would have cost a pretty penny.

Of course, no one on my suspect list probably jumped in a limo and traveled over the 59th Street Bridge to kill Ryan. All they would have done was substitute a bag of pure heroin for the one he hid in his desk drawer. That meant Ryan’s killer knew about his addiction. They also had easy access to the floor—or had gained it.

I turned slightly in my chair and let my eyes rove toward Nash’s office. My stomach knotted. Was it possible that he was the murderer of both Mona and Ryan? I’d never asked him about who he’d talked to the night of the party, but he certainly could have slipped back over to our offices without anyone noticing. For him Mona’s death had turned out to be like winning the Daily Double. Not only had it guaranteed that the blind item about his affair would never run, but he’d also ended up with the number one job at the magazine. It would have been a cinch for him to slip the bad heroin into Ryan’s desk.

So what did I do now? One thing I knew for sure: I had no intention of charging into Nash’s office to start grilling him about the blind item. Knowing that Ryan probably had died because he’d unearthed a major clue to the killer, I wasn’t going to put myself in unnecessary danger. I was already vulnerable simply because I was snooping. What I would have to do was find a way to chat with Nash nonchalantly and learn whatever I could. For the past few days, because of Mona’s death, because of the incidents in Brighton Beach and the sauna, I’d played host to a free-floating anxiety. But now it felt more like low-grade fear.

Not expecting to reach him, I tried Detective Tate’s cell phone. To my surprise he actually answered, his voice nearly overwhelmed by the clattering sounds of what I assumed was a coffee shop.

“I was getting ready to pack up for the day and I just wondered if there was any news.”

“On?”

“Ryan. I mean, any news from the coroner or tox screens or anything like that?”

“Not that I can discuss at this moment,” he said. “But I want you to keep your eyes open, you hear me?”

“Absolutely. There’s one piece of news I think you should know. Someone on staff told me they saw Ryan talking to Katya the other day—you know, the cleaning lady who was injured by Mona’s attacker? He seemed to be trying to extract some information from her.”

A pause. Lots of clanging and shouting in the background.

“Maybe he was just interviewing her for his article,” he said.

“No, it wouldn’t have been necessary for the profile piece he was assigned. Katya’s been acting very nervous lately, and I got the sense when I talked to her that she might be holding something back out of fear the murderer would come after her. It’s very possible that Ryan pried it out of her and then confronted the killer with the information.”

Another pause.

“Okay, thanks, I’ll look into it,” he said. “Tell me the name of the person who told you this.”

I gave him the associate beauty editor’s name. I felt a little guilty. If flaming hair extensions could send that chick into a tizzy, a second visit by the cops would
really
freak her.

“Anything else you might want to bring to my attention?” asked Tate.

I realized that I’d better come clean. “Well, I wasn’t sure I should bring this up, since it may be totally unrelated to the murder,” I began, “but there have been one or two questionable incidents this last week or so.”

“Such as?”

“I went to Katya’s apartment in Brighton Beach to interview her last Thursday and after I left I was followed by a man who then chased me down the street. I ducked under a parked car and called the police on my cell. The man ran away when some people showed up. The patrol officer I spoke with at the time thought that maybe the interview and the attack were connected.”

Tate mumbled a comment to someone in the diner and then said, “And you agree with this assessment?”

“It’s possible that it might have been connected. The guy who came after me may have been watching me or watching Katya’s apartment. Or he may have just been your average mugger. But then, a few days later, at a party for
Buzz
at Tom Dicker’s East Hampton house, there was another incident. I went to chill in the sauna and someone put a log of wood against the door, locking me in. They took it away after I’d screamed myself hoarse.”

“Do you have any idea who did it?”

“No, and for all I know, it was just a nasty prank on the part of a co-worker. But coming on the heels of the other attack, it seemed strange—like a warning.”

“You need to be extremely careful here, Ms. Weggins. Whether it seems connected or not, if anything else unusual happens, you need to contact me immediately, okay? And I’d suggest you take a few days off on your story.”

“I can’t do that,” I protested. “But I will be cautious, and I will tell you if I run into anything that could have to do with the case.”

Well,
almost
anything. I hadn’t told Tate what I’d learned about Nash. Until I could be sure Hilary wasn’t lying about it, I didn’t want to prompt the cops into dragging Nash into the interrogation room. I set down the phone experiencing a smidgen of guilt.

“You okay?” Jessie asked from her side of the bullpen. I had a feeling I looked pretty bewildered.

“Hanging in there,” I said. “How about you?”

“I agree with Leo—this is all totally creepy.”

“By the way, I had a little chat with Hilary about why she was down by the clubhouse. She said she was running around in the rain in order to try to find a ride.”

“Oh
really
? Do you believe her?”

“She was definitely in the area at the
time
I was barricaded in the sauna. But when I pressed her, there was no recognition in her eyes. She may be a very good liar, but I had the vague sense she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“I’ll keep snooping, okay?”

“Thanks. I’m going to split now. Call me on my cell phone, will you, if anything turns up?”

“You mean if another staffer bites the dust? Sure thing.”

It was too late now to try to make contact with any friends of Ryan’s. I hoped that by going home and fixing myself a semidecent meal, I’d be able to see the situation from a more advantageous angle and come up with a few strategies. There was a tiny chance Katya would change her mind and attempt to reach me. Also, now that I had shared my concerns with the police, they might be able to extract any secrets from her that would lead them to Ryan’s and Mona’s killer.

Before I left I checked the voice mail on my cell, irrationally hoping that while I’d been making calls and scurrying around Beau had left a message. Just something short and sweet, like “Every time I feel the scorch marks on my thighs, I think of you. It is essential that I see you tonight.” But there was nothing.

Before departing, I sauntered over toward Nash’s office. I wanted just to take a look at him and see if I viewed him differently now that he’d become a potential suspect in my mind. As I parked myself by the book giveaway table, feigning fascination with three or four unauthorized bios of teen stars, I glanced through the glass wall of Nash’s office. He was standing by his table with the two deputy editors, in that Captain Magazine stance again—legs astride and arms akimbo—staring at what I assumed were layouts. He looked like a guy who might get wasted sometimes at a party or cheat on his wife. But there was no way to tell if he was also capable of killing in a moment of desperation.

As I stepped onto the elevator a minute later, two navy-suited dudes with briefcases were already on board, their handsome, square-jawed faces completely expressionless. I bet they work for Dicker, I thought. They looked like some of the guys I’d seen at Dicker’s party. I imagined them buying and selling Dicker’s magazines, crunching the numbers so it all worked out in his favor—even if a few whiny editorial types had to forfeit their jobs in the process.

And then, as if I had conjured him up, there was Dicker himself, shooting off into the lobby from another elevator car the same time our car disgorged us. Today he had on a thickly pin-striped suit that made him look as if he were in the cast of a
Guys and Dolls
revival, though the sight of him hardly inspired me to burst into a show tune. He spotted me immediately, and instead of looking past me, as I would have expected, he jerked to a stop and held my eyes. I had the feeling that in the body language of the filthy rich and frighteningly powerful, it translated as “Stop—I want to talk to you.”

“Hi, Mr. Dicker,” I said. In just the time it had taken to say those three words, I could feel the adrenaline begin to shoot through me.

“I heard the news,” he said brusquely. “This guy who died—what do you know about him?”

“You mean, did I know he was a drug addict?” I said. “No, I wasn’t aware of it.” I started to add, “
No
one did, apparently,” and then caught myself when I realized how absurd that sounded. Of course
someone
did: the person who killed him.

“What do you think happened to him?”

In a split second I had to decide whether to be forthcoming or not. I chose to go for it and see what his reaction was.

“Actually, I just talked to a source of mine,” I said, lowering my voice. “It looks as if someone may have killed Ryan.”

Dicker’s face, which seemed permanently pinched in vexation, sagged briefly and then quickly reset into an expression of alarm. What I couldn’t tell was where the alarm came from. Was it because this was all news to him—or because the police knew Ryan’s death was
not
an accident?

“I need to know more about this,” he said. “What are you doing right now?”

“Uh, nothing in particular,” I said as the hairs on the back of my neck launched upward.

“Then come with me,” he said. “I’m going to meet a couple of people for a drink. You can ride in the car with me.”

“Um, okay,” I said.

There was already too much momentum for me to resist—Dicker was on the move again, striding ahead of me through the lobby. Briefly I wondered if I should be afraid, but I reassured myself with the knowledge that he was not going to kill me in his limo in the middle of midtown with the driver sitting up front. Besides, I’d been racking my brain for a way to speak to Dicker again, and now it was being handed to me by the man himself.

His limo was right in front of the building on Sixth Avenue, and without giving the driver a chance to jump out, Dicker snapped the door open and waited for me to enter, holding his suit jacket closed with the other hand. No sooner were we in the car than his cell phone ringer went off. He obviously knew who the person was from the caller ID because he answered with, “So what are they asking for?” Over the next few minutes, with his face once again hardened into that look of perpetual perturbation, he listened, barked, listened, and barked some more about what seemed to be a crisis at one of his printing plants. I stared out the window, curious and just a little bit fretful about our destination.

While we crawled up Sixth Avenue, I considered the best way to use this opportunity. It would be totally foolhardy to play any kind of cat-and-mouse game with Dicker. My best bet would be to reveal what I knew and observe his response. And at no time would I give even a hint of my suspicions about him. If he was indeed the killer, he was probably interested simply in learning what I knew.

After ten minutes of fighting traffic on Sixth, the driver turned right on 56th Street and we glided toward Park Avenue, where we turned right again and then took another right onto 55th. Dicker was still growling into the phone when we pulled up in front of the St. Regis Hotel.

“Damn,” Dicker said, finally snapping the cell phone shut. I wasn’t sure if he was commenting on a detail he’d learned during his phone call or the fact that the ride hadn’t afforded him the chance to talk to me.

He glanced at his watch. “Look, I’m a little early. Why don’t you come in? I’ll buy you a drink and then the car can take you home when these people arrive.”

I told him fine and he jumped out of the car, surprising me by extending his hand, so that I wouldn’t have to struggle out of the limo.

The St. Regis is probably one of the most expensive hotels in New York. Dicker cupped his hand on my elbow as we stepped into the lobby. It’s an opulent-looking space, lots of antique brass and gold trim and a ceiling painted sky blue with clouds and fat naked cherubs. At the moment it was bustling with super-rich-looking tourists, and bellboys wearing those round caps that you see in movies from the forties. They fit perfectly with Dicker’s suit.

He directed me left, past a small courtyard-style restaurant to the bar. It was dark, mostly wood paneled, with a huge mural above the bar that, according to a legend at the bottom, was of Old King Cole. Dicker pulled out a leather-backed seat for me. The room was nearly empty except for two men next to us at the bar who couldn’t have been under ninety and a few women with shopping bags sitting at the small tables that ran along the wall.

“What would you like?” Dicker asked.

“A glass of Pinot Grigio,” I said to the bartender, who was sliding two cocktail napkins in front of us. I would have preferred not to drink at all, so I could keep my wits about me, but I knew if I requested a Pellegrino, Dicker would view me as a total wuss. To my surprise, he ordered a Tom Collins for himself.

“Let’s get back to business,” Dicker said. “What do you mean, this guy was killed?”

“
Might
have been killed,” I said. “I don’t have anything definitive yet, but this is from a pretty well-connected source of mine. It appears that someone may have substituted pure heroin for his regular stash.”