Death On the Dlist (2010) (18 page)

MR. ANDERSON?”

“Yes . . .”

“Lieutenant Ethan Kolker, NYPD. Do you have a moment to speak to us?”

The next morning, when Scott Anderson answered his front doorbell, he certainly didn’t expect to find Lieutenant Kolker flanked by two huge NYPD uniformed officers on either side of him. The three of them at the edge of his front door practically blocked the morning sun behind them. It was only 7:30 a.m. and Anderson was still in the sweat pants and T-shirt he’d slept in the night before. His dark hair, usually perfectly coiffed, was still tousled from sleeping.

Kolker flashed his badge, the gold shield reflecting a seventies-style light fixture hanging from the ceiling behind Scott Anderson there in the foyer of his suburban home. It looked like an agglomeration of clear, crystal icicles hanging in a mass, lit from inside its center. His ex bought it years ago. After nine years together, she left with half of everything he’d made off the PGA tour, the house in Boca, the two dogs, and the Porsche.

He got the house note and the crystal light fixture. All because of a fling. It had been nothing to Scott. It was just a girl who sold sandwiches at the Masters down in Augusta. An Augusta local, for Pete’s sake. It wasn’t like he would ever leave Rachel for her. He could barely even remember her name. Or any of the others, for that matter.

His ex found out about the sandwich girl. One night when he was a little late coming home, she hacked into his cell phone and heard messages from the girl. Scott’s contention was that his wife had no right to listen to his private voice mails . . . that she’d violated his Fourth Amendment right to privacy.

Note to self:
Never use your birthday as the numeric code to your voice mails.

“Hello, gentlemen. What’s up? Somebody get their car egged again? I swear, I didn’t do it! I don’t even like eggs!” Scott Anderson flashed his best smile, which even this early in the morning was dazzling white, thanks to several sessions too many at a teeth-bleaching franchise.

“Got a minute?” the tall one with the tan, standing in the middle, answered. He didn’t smile back.

“Sure. Come on in.”

At first thought, Anderson assumed he’d keep them on the front porch just outside his front door. He was afraid they were like vampires; you had to invite them in and once they’re in, you’re a goner. But neighbors would be slowly driving by, starting their commutes to work and pre-schools at any minute.

No need for them to see the three men, two in uniform, on his front porch. A quick glance at the street in front of his yard confirmed the three had arrived in an unmarked car, thank God. He ushered them in and with one more sharp glance toward the street, Anderson closed the front door behind them.

He stepped ahead of them and took them through his empty living room. The hardwood floors were bare, no rugs and no furniture. Just one lamp sitting on the floor in the corner. It had once sat on a beautiful end table, whose top was decorated with several tones of inlaid wood, just at the arm of a deep navy brocade sofa.

All the living room furniture was gone the afternoon he came home to discover Rachel gone with most of the household goods. He’d dashed to the phone and dialed the 800 number to his checking account.

Empty as of twelve noon that day. Not even one penny left in it to keep the account open. The only thing of any value she’d left in the house was his beloved water bed in the master bedroom. He’d had it since his bachelor days.

She’d left it all right. But only after she stabbed it repeatedly with a kitchen knife. The carpet beneath the bed was soaked and, after a day or two, had the foulest smell to ever hit his nostrils.

And all the crotches had been cut out of every single designer suit he had. They were worth thousands. His tailor managed to save a few of them. You could only spot the mending if you stared really intently at his crotch.

The cops . . . after leading them through the empty living room, Anderson ushered them into the only room he’d furnished since the divorce, the den. Should he offer them coffee? He only had instant. He better not, it would only encourage them to stay longer.

“So. What’s this all about? The eggs? I didn’t see a thing and, luckily, my SUV hasn’t been a target . . . probably some kids.”

“Mr. Anderson, it’s not about eggs.” The tall one in the sports jacket was doing all the talking. He’d taken out a little spiral notebook from somewhere and held a pen in his right hand, poised over the paper. The tan guy, Kolker, looked straight at him. He never seemed to blink. That was disconcerting. Especially this early in the morning.

Damn. He was like a lizard. The guy never blinked. Scott Anderson waited for the other shoe to drop. He didn’t have to wait very long.

“When did you start your affair with Fallon Malone, and when was the last time you saw her?” Kolker changed neither voice inflection nor facial expression. And he still didn’t blink.

What the hell? How did they know about Fallon?

Scott knew the shock registered on his face. Kolker continued.

“We know you two got together sometime last week, but we’re trying to pinpoint just how many hours after you saw her she was murdered.”

Anderson stood up. “Murdered? Fallon murdered? What are you talking about? She’s fine . . . I’m supposed to see her . . .”

“Sit down, Mr. Anderson,” Kolker interrupted. “If you could just focus on the last time you were with her. You seem to be the last one to see her alive.”

Anderson sank down into the leather center of his pit group. He stared blankly at the morning edition of ESPN.

“I can’t believe she’s dead. What happened?”

“You don’t watch TV?” All three cops looked pointedly at the jumbo-tron just feet away, already up and running at 7:30 a.m.

Anderson leaned forward to pick up the remote control sitting on the thick, glass-top coffee table. He clicked the TV off.

“I do. But only ESPN. And nobody’s said a thing about Fallon. Did you say murdered?” He’d never had a girlfriend murdered. Not that he knew of, anyway. This was a first. Scott Anderson took a deep breath and tried his best to look broken up.

“She was shot execution-style. Single bullet to the back of the head. And according to video surveillance in the hall of her apartment, you were there in the twelve hours before the ME set time of death. We’re waiting on lab results right now. If the coroner finds sperm . . .”

“Sperm?”
The thoughts in Anderson’s head were all crashing together like a pile-up on the interstate, one plowing into the other and into the other without ending, each one as violent a crash as the one just before it.

“Then it’s only a matter of time before we get a DNA match.”

Anderson showed absolutely no expression whatsoever. He’d seen just enough true crime on TV to know that any expression was likely to be construed as guilt.

“I don’t know anything about DNA.” He looked up to meet Kolker’s gaze. “I was there just to return her sunglasses. I gave her a few golf lessons out at the club, and the last time she was there, she left her glasses. I was heading into the city anyway, so I dropped them by. As a courtesy.”

“You weren’t having an affair? That’s not what her driver tells us.”

That S.O.B.
Scott had instinctively disliked Fallon’s driver. Sitting there flanked by cops, he tried hard to remember just what had gone on in front of the driver . . . not that much, as he could recall.

“And, while we’re here, Mr. Anderson, were you acquainted with Leather Stockton?”

Scott answered quickly, “The actress? The blonde? The Leather Stockton that was on the TV show? The cop show?”

“Yes . . . That would be the one.”

Anderson didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not. Never met the lady.”

The three cops exchanged looks across the coffee table. They were surreptitious about it, but Anderson caught them. He acted like he didn’t.

“Well, think back. We were just flipping through a few videos of Miss Stockton and happened to spot you out at the Pebble Beach Open last year. Oh, let’s see, how long ago was it?” Kolker looked at the short, stocky one. And actually, Hailey had been the one to spot it. She’d volunteered to go through reams of videos while the cops worked the streets.

“Lemme think, Lieutenant.” The cop acted as if he actually had to think . . . as if they hadn’t talked about it the whole drive out to Scarborough. “Pebble Beach . . . Pebble Beach . . . That woulda been a few months ago. Yeah . . . I’m pretty sure.”

“You were on camera with her at the ninth hole. She was interviewed about the charity throwing an event. You even put your arm around her. I believe you said a few words into the camera yourself. Any of this ringing a bell, Mr. Anderson?”

Kolker locked onto him with those eyes. They were just barely blue. The irises were actually more white than blue, like a husky dog. Creepy.

“Well, as a golf pro I do travel around the country for different golfing events . . . Let me think . . . Now that you mention it, I do believe I recall Ms. Stockton was there.”

“She was there all right. And you had your arm around her.”

“Did you happen to know Prentiss Love, too?”

Anderson knew when it was time to clam up. This had gone too far. He should never have let them in the door. He didn’t have to. He knew that much from before. Back before he was married, one of the women he was dating had charged him with battery. She had always been a pain in the backside anyway, always complaining. He didn’t know why he dated her in the first place. It was nothing, and in the end, she dropped the whole thing. It never even went to court.

It had taken quite a bit of “convincing” her on his part, though.

After that, Scott Anderson knew all about the cops. They were all asses and they were stupid to boot. He, Scott Anderson, didn’t have to say a word.

“Hmm. Prentiss Love . . . Prentiss Love . . . that name rings a bell. A singer, right? Or was she on one of those soap operas? I don’t know who she is . . . You know, gentlemen, I’d be happy to talk to you some more, but I have to get to work.”

“It’s our understanding you don’t have a lesson scheduled until around noon today.”

Damn! Had they called the club? Just what he needed . . . to have his bosses in on this whole thing.

“Oh yes, that’s right. But paperwork. You know how it is, officers, the damn paperwork . . .” His voice trailed off and his face remained completely unconcerned.

He was pulling it off.

“What paperwork?”

Damn! What the hell?

“Oh, the usual,” Anderson answered without a pause. “Time sheets, PR work, the usual.”

“So, you did or you didn’t know Miss Love?”

“No, I never met the lady.” Oh crap . . . he’d said it again. That was the same thing he’d said about Leather. He quickly added on, “If I’m even thinking about
the right lady . . .
”

The cops sat silent for a moment as if they were giving him a chance to reconsider his answer. He didn’t.

“Mr. Anderson, do you own a gun?”

“Well, I do, but it’s been so long since I’ve held it in my hands, I can’t even tell you the caliber.”

“Think back.” They weren’t letting go.

Scott Anderson pinched his lips together and looked down at the floor as if he was deep in thought.

“If you’ve got it handy, we can just take a look at it.”

“Actually, it’s at the club.”

“Okay, we can ride along with you and take a look there.”

“Now that I think about it, I believe my ex-wife, Rachel, took it with her. That’s right . . . she’s got it. She pretty much cleaned me out of house and home when we split.”

None of the three said anything, so he kept talking.

“You know . . .
women.
”

“Right. We have her address on East 65th Street in Manhattan. Is that right?”

Damn. They’d already checked her out.

“I believe that’s it. We’re not really in touch right now.”

The room went quiet. He got the sense they were waiting on him to keep talking.

Anderson was the first to stand up. Then the three stood up, too. Anderson turned his back and walked toward the front door. He hoped like hell they were following him.

As he opened the door, he turned and to his great relief, they were there with him in the entrance hall. They were leaving. Thank God.

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson. We’ll be in touch.”

His body was flushed with relief; his knees actually felt weak. He gripped the handle of the front door for strength.

“Oh, yes. Anything I can do. And I’m so sorry to hear about Ms. Malone.”

“We knew you would be.”

The three turned and headed down the front porch steps.

“He’s sorry, all right. Sorry she had a camera outside her front door,” the uniformed sergeant muttered to Kolker, who was walking along to his right.

“Yep. You pegged it. He’s lying through his teeth. We need that time of death and the DNA match. We might have our man.”

“So, warrant on his house and the wife’s apartment?”

Kolker responded, “Doubt we’ll need one for her. She’ll be only too happy to help us pin this on her ex, from what I read in the divorce papers.”

“Okay. But I’ll get the paperwork ready.”

“Good idea.” Kolker kept walking along with the other two down the front walk to the unmarked squad car.

He went on, “And get one for the country club where he works. Pretty swanky place. We’ll need a warrant, but once we show it, they’ll be nothing but smiles. Don’t get me wrong. It won’t be because they like us. They’ll just want us in and out as fast as possible. Don’t worry, we won’t get a tour of the place or an invite to lunch on the terrace.”

Just as they were approaching the car, Kolker asked without turning his head either way, “Is he looking?”

Paddy looked back over his shoulder up at Anderson’s house. He immediately spotted a tiny, slight movement in the heavy curtains covering the living room window that looked out onto the front yard.

“Oh, yeah. He’s looking.”

“Straight on? Or is he hiding behind the curtains?” Kolker opened the car’s driver side front door, not looking back at the house himself.