Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (22 page)

Fifty thousand dollars! I folded the check and placed it in my purse. Fifty thousand dollars wouldn’t refill all the coffers Karl had pillaged, but it would make a huge dent in the home equity line of credit he’d maxed out and gambled away.

Boy, did I ever owe Cloris big time for her big mouth. Too bad I couldn’t tell her why.

I was leaving Naomi’s office when Kim flew down the hall, grabbed my arm, and rushed me back inside. “You two better see this,” she said, grabbing the remote and flipping on Naomi’s television.

Twenty-four

Above a Breaking News
banner the screen showed an ongoing high speed chase across Route 80. A traffic helicopter broadcast in real time as an NYPD police car, flying at breakneck speed, zipped around and through traffic. Accident after accident followed in the car’s wake as it clipped vehicles and spun them into the paths of other vehicles. Traveling a distance behind them, county and local police cars dodged pile-ups in their pursuit of the runaway squad car.

“We now have confirmation of the identities of the two women who allegedly overpowered their police escorts and commandeered their vehicle,” said the voiceover reporter. Mug shots of Sheri and Maxine flashed across the screen. “Sheri Rabbstein and Maxine Hailes were arrested yesterday in the Bronx on charges of kidnapping and criminal restraint. Unnamed sources tell me other charges are pending in Manhattan as the pair is linked to the murders of Trimedia television producer Lou Beaumont and morning television host Vince Alto.”

“Holy Thelma and Louise!” I said.

“This can’t end well,” said Naomi. “Aren’t they supposed to be behind bars? How the hell did those two commandeer a patrol car?”

“Somehow they managed to overpower the cops escorting them from the precinct to arraignment,” said Kim. “No one knows how, and from what I heard earlier, no one was aware of the escape until they didn’t show up at the courthouse. They managed to make it all the way into Jersey before anyone knew what was going on.”

“And they’re heading right toward us,” I said. “They’ll take 80 to 287.”

“Why?” asked Kim.

“Revenge?” suggested Naomi.

“Against Anastasia?”

“Or all of us,” I said. “Sheri and Maxine felt Trimedia had stolen their show from them.”

“Who is this Maxine person?” asked Kim.

“I know her,” said Naomi. “She’s the former editor of
Popular Woman
.”

“Which no longer exists,” said Kim. “Hasn’t for years, right?”

Naomi nodded. “Maxine lost her job when Trimedia leveraged
a hostile takeover of Syndicated Features years ago. As soon as
the deal was inked, Trimedia folded all the unprofitable monthlies. Last I heard, Maxine had gone into real estate.”

Which explained how she had access to an empty house. I picked up Naomi’s phone and dialed 9-1-1. “The police won’t put two and two together and realize they’re coming after us.”

“9-1-1. State your emergency.”

“That police chase on Route 80?” I said. “I know where the suspects are headed.”

“How is that, ma’am?”

“Because I’m the person they’re accused of kidnapping.” That got the dispatcher’s attention. I proceeded to give him the necessary details.

“Stay on the line,” he said, then started issuing directions, which I relayed to Naomi and Kim.

“Police are on the way. We need to lock all the entrances and get everyone up to the top floor.”

“I’ll get the maintenance guy to take care of the doors and everyone on the first level,” said Kim, pulling out her phone.

“Good. Head up to the fourth floor and alert everyone after you do that,” said Naomi. “Anastasia, you take the second floor. I’ll handle the third floor.” She pulled out her cell phone and began dialing as Kim and I raced for the elevator.

“How many occupants in the building?” asked the dispatcher.

I had no idea. “How many people work here?” I asked Kim.

“Beats me,” she said. “We’ve got five magazines here plus all the suits upstairs. Maybe two or three hundred?”

“We’re not sure,” I told the dispatcher. “Maybe three hundred. More or less.”

“Shit!” Someone else was now on the line and not very happy. “This is Detective Batswin.”

“Batswin? Boy am I glad to hear your voice.” Batswin and I had history. She once thought I killed our former fashion editor Marlys Vandenburg. When I’d proven my innocence and presented her with the real killer, we’d formed a truce of sorts.

“Mrs. Pollack? Is that you? Jeez! Don’t tell me
you’re
the kidnap vic.”

“Small world, huh?”

“Maybe you need to go into a safer line of work. Like bomb disposal.”

“Is that your way of telling me you care?”

“Just round up all those people and get them up to the fourth floor, okay? We’ll have the building surrounded before that NYPD car arrives.”

“Working on it.”

Within five minutes everyone in the building was crammed in front of the east-facing windows, awaiting a showdown. The Morris County S.W.A.T. team arrived. Local police blocked the road leading to our office building and the train station across the street. In the distance we could see a road block of police vehicles at the Route 287 off-ramp. Several helicopters circled overhead.

“There they are!” shouted a guy from the production department.

We watched as Sheri and Maxine flew down the ramp, directly at the road block, but at the last minute, the driver cut the wheel sharply. The stolen police car flew off the ramp and landed in the adjacent field. A moment later the driver sped around the road block, heading right toward us.

“They didn’t stop them at the ramp,” I told Batswin, but she was busy screaming at someone on her end. I guess she already knew.

At the next roadblock Sheri and Maxine pulled guns and started
firing.

“How the hell did they get weapons?” Batswin screamed.

Good question from Batswin.

Dumb move by Sheri and Maxine.

The cops fired back, and unlike Sheri and Maxine, they didn’t miss. The squad car spun out of control, flipped into the retention ditch, and a moment later burst into flames.

_____

Three days later, Zack and I had our first official date. Two brushes with death in the last few months had made me realize that life was too short to mourn Dead Louse of a Spouse any longer than the time I’d already devoted to him. Protocol be damned. Given what Karl had done to me and our kids, I owed him nothing. As a matter of fact, because of Karl, I owed nearly half the world.

Besides, had I declined Zack’s invitation, Mama and the boys might have hogtied me and dragged me to the restaurant. I’d been tied up enough lately, thank you very much. So I dressed up and planned to enjoy myself at dinner in Manhattan with my drop-dead-gorgeous, drool-worthy hunk of a tenant.

“I’ve arranged for us to have drinks with someone before dinner,” said Zack as we sped up the New Jersey turnpike in his silver Porsche Boxster.

I often wondered if he ever felt embarrassed parking that sexy sports car next to my mud-brown eight-year-old used Hyundai. Then I remembered it was Zack, not Karl, parking alongside me. Zack, who gave up the glamour of Manhattan to live above a garage in Westfield, New Jersey. Zack, a man who had his priorities screwed on straight.

“Does this someone have a name?” I asked.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope.”

I shrugged. I could think of only one person Zack would want me to meet, the only person he’d ever mentioned to me, and I was definitely interested in meeting her.

We parked at a garage on the East Side near Forty-second Street, then walked toward Grand Central Terminal. “Is this where we’re having dinner?” I asked.

“Just drinks. The location is convenient and the atmosphere conducive to conversation.”

Zack led me inside the terminal and up to the Campbell Apartment, a cocktail lounge from a long-gone era.
Elegant
and
luxurious
didn’t begin to describe the place. Once the office and salon of early twentieth-century tycoon John W. Campbell, the space with
its intricately hand-carved woodwork, immense leaded-glass
window, and massive stone fireplace nearly defied description.

I tried not to gape and ogle. I’d heard about the Campbell Apartment, of course. What New Yorker—or in my case, bridge and tunnel New Yorker—hadn’t? I just never expected to find myself sipping cocktails here. One drink probably cost as much as a meal for four back in Westfield, and Westfield isn’t cheap.

The lounge was relatively empty. “I expected this place to be much busier,” I said as a hostess led us toward a secluded nook with a loveseat and a couple of upholstered chairs surrounding a cocktail table. In the dimly lit ambience, I barely made out the profile silhouette of a woman seated at one of the chairs.

“Mostly during the week,” said Zack. “They cater to a certain fat-cat commuter crowd.”

The woman in the chair stood as she saw us approach. “Darling!” She kissed Zack—on the lips—then offered me a huge smile and her hand. “You must be Anastasia. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’m Patricia Tierney, Zack’s ex-wife.”

Patricia towered over me, only partly due to her four-inch stilettos which brought her nose to nose with Zack. She wore a gray pantsuit over a white silk shirt. With her severely short, spiky brown hair, high cheekbones, and size 0 figure, she looked like she’d just stepped off a Fashion Week catwalk. However, her eyes told a different story, one that announced her true profession, a don’t-mess-with-me prosecutor.

I shook her hand and forced myself to return her smile. “Pleased to meet you.” I think. That certainly was more than a friendly quick peck she’d planted on Zack.

“Sit,” she said, waving an arm toward the remaining seats as she settled back into her chair. Zack led me over to the loveseat and sat down beside me.

“I took the liberty of ordering us Prohibition Punch,” said Patricia. She turned to me. “If you’ve never tried one, Anastasia, you’ll love it. It’s the Apartment’s signature drink. Champagne, Grand Marnier, and rum with a splash of this and that.”

“Sounds potent.”

“The best kind of drink.”

The waitress arrived with three brandy snifters filled nearly to the top. Patricia raised her glass and looked directly at me. “Shall we drink to staying alive?”

“Absolutely!” Under the circumstances, I couldn’t think of a better toast. We clicked snifters.

“Which is why I told Zack I wanted to meet you,” she said. “After your ordeal, I’m sure you have questions, and you deserve to hear all the details, something you’ll never get out of Phillips and Marlowe or anyone else at the NYPD.”

I took a sip of my drink and sat back. “Go ahead.” Although I had already fit most of the puzzle together on my own, I was still a few pieces shy of a complete picture.

“Rabbstein was too guilt-ridden to request legal counsel,” she began. “Once she and Hailes were brought to the Bronx precinct and separated, Rabbstein couldn’t wait to unburden her soul.” Patricia sighed. “How I wish I’d been present to hear that jailbird sing. Unfortunately, I’ve had to settle for the transcripts.”

“I overheard Sheri mention something about Lou’s death being an accident,” I said.

Patricia nodded. “So she claimed. I’m more inclined to believe she lost control and killed Beaumont out of fear and desperation.”

“Because Lou discovered the security tapes had been tampered with?”

“Not exactly. I’d better start from the beginning.” Patricia took a sip of her drink, then continued, “Some years ago, Rabbstein and Hailes had planned a show similar to
Morning Makeovers
.”

“Back during Maxine’s stint as editorial director of
Popular Woman
?”

Patricia quirked an eyebrow. “You know about that?”

“Naomi, our editorial director, recognized Maxine’s name. Anyway, I always suspected Sheri came up with the idea for the show years ago.”

“Why?”

“Based on the crafts projects she wanted to feature,” I explained
. “Many of them were once popular trends that had come and gone ages ago.”

Patricia nodded, then continued. “Anyway, the show died in the planning stages.”

“Because Trimedia folded
Popular Woman
?”

“Right. This was back before Beaumont came aboard to helm
You Heard It Here First with Vince and Monica
. Rabbstein worked for the previous producer and stayed on after Beaumont took over eight years ago. She said she tried to get him to sign onto the idea, even though Hailes never landed another magazine gig. Or maybe because of it. The two lovebirds desperately wanted to work together.

“Anyway, Beaumont hated the idea, and that was that. The rejection festered in Rabbstein, and she grew to hate Beaumont. Then your mother came along and basically suggested the same format.”

“And Lou was so head-over-heels for Mama,” I said, “that he’d agree to anything to make her happy.”

“Rabbstein went ballistic. She and Hailes decided to get even. They trashed the set out of spite.”

Which explains why Sheri had volunteered so quickly to check the security tapes. She knew they’d show her and Maxine entering the building sometime between Friday evening and Monday morning.

“Apparently, at some point either later Monday or early Tuesday,” continued Patricia, “Beaumont realized Rabbstein never viewed the tapes.”

But according to Hector, no one had asked about the security tapes for that time period. “Do you know how Lou found out?”

Patricia shook her head. “We’ll probably never know. Rabbstein didn’t say, and Beaumont’s dead. Anyway, when he confronted her, she panicked.”

“Stabbing him with one of my knitting needles.”

“She claimed she was only threatening him with it, that he reached to grab it out of her hand, and somehow wound up stabbed through the heart.”

“Somehow?” asked Zack, joining the conversation for the first time.

Patricia smiled at him. “Some people are just delusional, darling. You should know that.”

I quickly glanced at Zack, who was smiling back at his ex-wife. I decided to ignore whatever can of worms lay between them. Best to turn the conversation back to the original subject. “Sheri must have hacked into the security system to sabotage the tapes after she killed Lou. I overheard Maxine say it was a good thing Sheri was so tech savvy.”