5 Deal Killer (17 page)

“Help you, sir?” She waited.

“I’m Miles Porter. Detective Ryan called and asked for me.”

She pointed with an elegantly manicured hand to another door. “His office is right over there,” she said. “He will meet you.”

They crossed the room. The door opened and Detective Ryan, holding a mug of coffee, nodded.

“Miles Porter.” He gave the classic “follow me” gesture and they headed down a busy hallway. He opened the door to a conference room and waved a hand. “Take a seat.”

The room had a metal table, six chairs, and glass walls. Detective Ryan closed the door and the three sat down.

“Detective Benedetti isn’t in, so you’re stuck with me.”

Miles shot a look at Darby. Neither one of them liked the sarcastic Ryan, but they had little choice in the situation.

Miles cleared his throat. “Detective Ryan, I have no idea how my scarf came to be …”

“Save it, Porter.” He brought his hands down on the metal table. Darby flinched.

“Look,” he continued. “We’ve got a piece of your clothing and a blood-spattered apron. These items were found in your building, barely a block from where Alec Rodin was murdered, and only one flight of stairs from your office. You not only saw the victim before his death, but you argued with him, so vehemently that a secretary heard your words. In fact, she heard you say you’d kill him.”

“I didn’t—”

“Porter, please.” Ryan held up his hand like a traffic cop. “You were the last one to see him alive.”

“Not quite,” Darby said quietly. “The secretary saw him going down
the stairs.”

“Yes,” Ryan said dryly. “She now says she went back into her office and heard another person going down the stairs. You.”

“That’s ludicrous!” Miles said.

“Really?” Ryan cocked an eyebrow. “She went to the stairs and looked down, and said she saw a male wearing a plaid scarf. Your plaid scarf, Porter.”

“Rubbish! She’s lying.”

“And why would that be?”

“I have absolutely no idea, but I know this: I didn’t leave Pulitzer Hall until two hours after Rodin had gone. And I wasn’t wearing that scarf.”

Darby looked at Ryan. The detective was silent, his hands folded tightly in front of his mouth. Miles expelled a long breath.

“Perhaps I need a lawyer.”

“Why?” The question was muffled behind Ryan’s hands.

“Because you think I had something to do with this.” Miles shook
his head.

“No.”

“Beg your pardon?” Miles leaned in closer.

“No, you don’t need a lawyer, and no, I don’t think you had anything to do with the scarf. Nor the apron, which incidentally, is splattered with bovine—that is to say, cow’s—blood. It’s an honest-to-goodness butcher’s apron. Not a trace of human blood on it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. Someone’s tried to frame you. It’s a clumsy attempt to make it look like you killed Alec Rodin.”

“But why?”

“Obviously they don’t like you, Porter.” He narrowed his eyes. “Look, I don’t know, but I do know this: you gotta tell me right now why you and Rodin argued.” He paused. “The whole story.”

Darby shot a glance in Miles’s direction.

“All right,” Miles said heavily. “I will.”

fifteen

Without remembering how she had done it, Rona had boarded a
bus to Devin’s apartment, gotten off at the nearest stop, and climbed
the stairs to the second floor. Now she was standing in front of the door, the key she’d copied from her daughter’s ring the year before clutched tightly in her hand.

She had no idea how long she would stand at the doorway. She felt empty, barren, as if all of the fluid had been drained from her body and she was a hollow shell. She remembered the carapace of a beetle that Devin had once found on the sidewalk, how intrigued she had been by the find.

Rona shuddered. Whatever relief she’d felt in finding the insurance policy (and noting the payoff she would receive) had vanished. Devin was dead. The three words repeated like a gong sounding in her skull. She stood motionless
, her hands clenched
, the key digging into her flesh.

Why am I here?
She looked at the door of Devin’s apartment, without really seeing it, the scratches and dents on the worn wood registering, and yet not.
I am here
… she tried to complete the sentence. And couldn’t.

Only a few hours had passed since the fateful phone call with the awful news. Like a sleepwalker, Rona had climbed in a taxi and gone to the hospital. She’d leaned on the arm of a young male nurse who had led her down the hall, and then pulled back a sheet, revealing Devin’s peaceful face. Somehow she had nodded when he’d suggested places that could help with funeral arrangements. She remembered his voice had been kind.

A dribble of saliva formed on her lip and dripped down her chin. She shut her mouth, swallowed, tried to recall why coming to Devin’s apartment had seemed important. Before her was the scuffed door, in her hand the metal key biting into her flesh.

“Mrs. Finnegan?”

Rona started, dropping the key.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

It was a young woman in her early twenties, her hair chopped short, her eyes ringed with navy blue eyeliner. She wore jeans and clunky motorcycle boots, a pink tee shirt, and a thick black belt. She picked up the key and held it out to Rona.

“I’m Heather. Heather Cox. I’m—I’m friends with Devin.”

“You know.” It was more a statement than a question. Rona could tell from the catch in Heather’s voice that the girl had heard the news.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“The super.” She bit her lip. “I used to live in the building. That’s how Devin and I became friends.”

“I see.”

“Mrs. Finnegan—”

“Rona. Call me Rona.”

“Rona, I want to tell you how sorry I am. Devin was a great girl, and we’ll all miss her.”

“Oh?”

She nodded sadly. “I’m on my lunch break, so I can’t stay too long,
but I’m glad I caught you. I just can’t believe it.” She wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “When is the celebration?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The celebration of her life? I could help you plan it. At the very least, I can post it on my page so that everyone knows.”

Rona remained standing and the girl gave her a curious glance —pity, mingled with something like surprise. She wiggled the key. “Let me unlock the door for you.” She inserted it and turned the handle. “There.”

Heather tossed her chopped hair and crossed into the apartment.
As if in a dream, Rona followed.

The apartment was as Rona remembered it—a studio, with high ceilings and a miniscule kitchen—but she saw that Devin had been creative with paints and thrift-store findings, so that the place had a hip, urban feel. Rona’s gaze swept the room, settling, without her intending, upon the queen-sized bed.

She moaned.

Heather reached out a hand, steadying her.

“There’s no way she did it on purpose,” the girl said softly. “If that helps at all. Devin had a good thing going. She was okay.”

“It was an accident,” Rona said. She gulped and repeated the words.
“It was an accident.”

“Yeah.” The girl steered Rona to a small loveseat. “Want to sit down a minute?”

Rona shook her head, although she was not sure how much longer she could remain standing. “No.”

“Do you want me to work on this for you?” The girl eyed Rona, as if she was afraid the woman would collapse. “I could clean out the kitchen, stuff like that.” She paused. “I’d like to help.”

Rona nodded numbly. She needed help, she knew it, and perhaps this Heather had been sent to be her angel. The girl’s face was open, guileless. She had been Devin’s friend.

Rona remembered the two thousand dollars Devin had given
her only the day before. What if Heather knew something she didn’t? Had Devin stumbled upon some money, and was Heather out
to get it?

She’d accept the girl’s help, but she’d keep an eye on her as well. No
lending her the key so she could copy it, no letting her root through drawers unsupervised.

“I’m not up to much today, Heather,” Rona said. “But if you’re willing, I’d like to make a small start. Maybe in the kitchen, as you suggested.”

The girl nodded. “Shall I go through the fridge? Get rid of the perishables, things like that?”

“Yes,” Rona said. “Good idea.” She held out her palm. “But first, I’ll take the key.”

_____

“She has used up the hot water,” the cook complained, her Russian low and angry. “All this time showering, the water constantly running, and now there is nothing but cold.”

Bokeria frowned. How long had it been since he’d noticed Natalia’s music and the water? A half hour? He put down the bodybuilding magazine he’d been reading and read his watch.
Nearly an hour.

The bodyguard bounced to his feet and sprinted down the hallway. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the cook hurrying after him.

The pop music still blared inside Natalia’s room, something
about a party on the beach. He pounded at Natalia’s door, yelling her name over the noise. No answer. He rattled the handle of her door. It was locked.

“
Klyuch
,” he barked at the cook. She shrugged, and he thought he detected a gleam of amusement in her cold eyes. He spat out the question. “Where is the key?”

“I do not know.” Her voice was a whine that he felt like obliterating with his fists. “Should I call Mikhail?”

Bokeria bashed against the door in response. The cook drew in a quick breath, her mouth a round “o” of disapproval. Again he heaved his considerable weight, and heard the door groan. Once more, and it splintered open.

He rushed in and yanked open the door of the bathroom.

Warm vapor engulfed his face. The place was like a steam room, the walls dripping with moisture, the air heavy with fog. He slid on the slick tile floor, recovered his balance, and pulled open the glass doors of the shower. Empty. He swore and thrust in his arm, turning off the water.

Shaking droplets from his hand, he surveyed the bedroom, stoop
ing to check under the bed and the expansive walk-in closets. When he saw nothing awry, he knew that she was gone. Natalia had left the apartment.

_____

Darby listened as Miles relayed his meeting with Natalia at Pulitzer Hall to an attentive Detective Ryan.

“And this was what time of day?” Ryan asked.

“About ten in the morning,” Miles answered.

“Fine. Now tell me about your conversation with Alec Rodin, even if you think you are repeating yourself.”

Miles told him as accurately as possible about the conversation, which grew into a heated argument, looking occasionally at Darby to confirm his words.

“Did Rodin ever say that he was in danger?” Ryan asked.

“No. He focused solely on Nat.”

The detective raised his eyebrows. “You mean, Natalia?”

“Yes.” Miles uncrossed his gangly legs and leaned closer to the detective. “Is she still in danger?”

“I don’t know. If Rodin thought her investigation was going to expose some high level officials, perhaps she is.”

Darby cocked her head. She was thinking of the threatening note, the one which Natalia had subsequently dismissed.

Miles nodded, as if he could read her thoughts. He described the note and Detective Ryan’s face hardened. “Why didn’t she tell us about this?”

He made a note on his folder. “One last thing, Porter, and then I’ll let you go. Can you think of anyone who would have a reason to embarrass you by planting evidence against you?”

Miles shook his head. “I haven’t been here long enough to make enemies,” he joked.

The detective frowned. “Apparently you have. The bloody apron alone would have been one thing, but someone stole that scarf and planted it deliberately so that you would be a suspect.”

“What kind of a person does that?” Darby mused.

“My guess?” He ticked off items on his finger. “Middle-aged woman, lives alone, not many friends. Some sort of low-level mental illness hovering in the background, probably depression. Ring any bells?”

Miles sighed. “‘If music be the food of love, play on,’” he quoted. “‘Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.’”

“
Twelfth Night
.” The detective said, meeting Miles’s eyes.

“Yes,” Miles said softly. “I think I’ve got my enemy.”

_____

On the walk back to the apartment, Darby asked Miles to once again
recite the Shakespearean quotation. When he finished, she cocked her head to the side, her ponytail swinging.

“Unrequited love,” said Darby, dodging a man who had stopped abruptly to pull out a tourist map. “Is that the gist of it?”

“Yes. It’s a passage that has always struck me. To love another, without their returning that love, or perhaps even guessing …”

“And you suspect that’s how someone at Pulitzer Hall feels?”

Miles rolled his eyes, his face russet. “As embarrassing as it is, I’m afraid so.” He exhaled. “The department secretary, Peggy Babson. When I think back on it, I realize she’s had a little crush on me. Up until the other day, she was—well, flirty, and I thought it was just her way. I guess it may have been something more.”

“Hmm.” Darby thought a moment. “What made her change from liking you to wanting to incriminate you in a murder investigation?”

Miles slowed his pace. “I keep asking myself if it was your visit, but I don’t think so.” He pointed at a food truck selling Latin American fare. “Fancy some lunch?”

Darby nodded. They waited in line to order and Miles continued
to think.

“Hang on, I think I’ve got it—Natalia’s visit. Perhaps Peggy thought
I was chasing after one of my students.” He placed their order
and paid.

“Not like it hasn’t been done before,” Darby said wryly.

“Not by me!” Miles took their tacos, his face abashed. “The whole thing is so bloody stupid, isn’t it, and creates a giant distraction from the real question: who killed Alec Rodin?”

“I agree.” Darby was nodding, her face pensive. She unwrapped her taco and took a satisfying bite. After she’d chewed for a few minutes, she said, “No matter how disturbed Peggy might be, she isn’t the murderer. She didn’t even know him, never mind have a motive. Plus, you would have heard her leave Pulitzer Hall, right?”

“Exactly. She’s not a killer.” He pointed at a small cart selling hot pretzels. “Just twisted, that’s all.”

They looked at each other and grinned.

“I’ll give her one thing,” Darby said, squeezing the journalist’s hand.

He paused, about to take another bite of his lunch. “And what’s that?”

“However twisted she may be, Peggy’s got darn good taste.”