Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery (2 page)

Alex took his eyes off Penny’s cleavage long enough to look at his phone.

A moment later, he was by my side. I shook my head as we hustled over to Jen and the rest of the crew. “GSBC? Come on, Alex. You wouldn’t flirt with a lawyer from the opposing team, would you?”

He gave me a look. “Well—”

“Don’t answer that.” We came to a halt at the van. I held out my hand. “Script, please.” He proffered up a piece of paper as Aaron clipped a lavalier microphone on Alex’s lapel. I scanned what Alex had written. He was a good writer, especially for someone with as little experience in broadcast news as he’d had. I reworked the opening and handed it back to him. “I made a couple of changes.”

He read through my alterations and flashed me a grin. “Smart
and
beautiful.”

Not a lot of girls could resist his puppy dog eyes and gravelly voice, and had Alex taken notice of me when he first came to FirstNews, I might not have either. But that was before I’d watched him in action at the annual summer picnic. He was more dog than puppy, it turned out.

“Head’s up, man.” Aaron snaked a wire under Alex’s clothes, and plugged it into another wire connected to the phone line in the truck. I already had an IFB—interruptible feedback—device in one of my ears, and my cellphone, which was dialed into the news hour’s executive producer, smashed up against the other.

“Wrap it up, now,” the director told the anchor over the IFB. “Toss to Alex. Go! Go! Now!”

I scurried behind Dino as he hoisted the camera on his shoulder. “Three, two, one,” I counted down with my fingers, pointing at Alex to cue him to start.

Over the next two minutes, Alex recounted everything we knew, which was close to nothing. Dead body. Fancy building. Lots of cops. The anchors then asked Alex a couple of quick questions about whether the police had any leads—if they did, they weren’t releasing that information—before the director instructed us to wrap it up. Alex parsed out a few more lines about us continuing to follow the investigation closely. While we were on commercial break, the executive producer let me know they’d be coming back to us in fifteen.

I clapped my hands together. “Let’s talk about our next live shot.” Everyone groaned except for Alex, who, truth be told, had impressed me with his delivery. Beyond good looks, perfect elocution, and an ability to recite a script verbatim while people screamed in his ear, he’d also nailed the trickiest part of crime reporting—tone. I hated to admit it, but the network was right to recognize his potential.

“You change your mind yet?” Alex walked right up to me, standing close enough that I could smell the soap he’d used in the shower that morning.

I dug my heel into the soil. “About what?”

“Me. Admit it. I’m good.”

“Just do me a favor, champ, and make sure you’re where you’re supposed to be next time we’re minutes to air.”

He cocked his head to one side. “I’m not a toddler, you know.”

“Of course you’re not. They’d never give a toddler their own show.”

His carefree smile vanished. “You know about the show? How do you know about that?”

I arched my brow. “Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

“I don’t think you want me to answer that.”

Not that I cared whether Alex thought I was old, but someone needed to show him a picture of Demi Moore. Forty was the new thirty and, by that math, I was twenty-six.

“I have a call to make. Why don’t you go bat your eyelashes at Penny
Whorelick
a few more times and see if she’ll tell you who the murder victim is!”

My crew erupted in laughter as I brushed past Alex, my shoulder scraping his. “Nice one, Clyde,” Dino hooted.

“Penny told me the victim was a woman,” Alex said, stopping me in my tracks.

I turned around. “What else?”

“Her housekeeper found her with the side of her head bashed in and face beaten to a pulp. Gonna take one hell of a cleanup crew.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that earlier? Why wasn’t that in your script?”

He squared his shoulders. “I gave her my word. Besides, she’s not going to air with it until she gets confirmation.”

I shook my head. “Like hell she isn’t.” On a breaking story like this, you don’t wait for corroboration.

“She said she doesn’t trust the source.”

“Or maybe it’s all just a bunch of bullshit.”

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “At least I got something. What’d you get? That cop tell you anything we can use?” He was gloating.

I stuck out my chin. “What’s your point?”

Alex laughed. “That cop’s got a day-old beard and bags under his eyes bigger than that wretched thing you tote around.” He pointed to the red messenger I had slung across my shoulder. “You prance up to him in your little heels with some fancy coffee and think he’s just gonna let it all spill because you’re so damn thoughtful.”

I shrugged. “Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

He shook his head, laughing again. “Just admit it was a poor allocation of coffee.”

I was about to concede the point when I heard screaming in my ear. It was the executive producer of the Sunday morning news hour shouting in my ear. “Change of plans, Clyde, we’re coming back to you in five.”

“Five?” I screeched. “I’m not ready.”

“Get ready.”

“I’m telling you, I’ve got nothing.” I wasn’t going to use Harlich’s hot tip until we could independently confirm it. There was a chance Penny had made it all up in hopes of us reporting it on air and looking like a bunch of idiots when it turned out not to be true. My gut told me she wasn’t smart enough pull a move like that, but you never know. The point was that there’s a legitimate reason you don’t go fishing for tips across enemy lines.

The EP was yelling in my ear again. “Then get me a bystander, for fuck’s sake. Let’s go with
vox pop
.”

Vox pop was short for
vox populi
, or voice of the people. Hanging up, I searched the crowd for someone I could pull into the shot with Alex, but everyone around us was PD or media. Then I remembered Olivia. Alex could interview her over the phone. I dialed her a second time, but once again, my call went straight to voicemail. “Olivia, I’m desperate. Please call as soon as you get this.” Reeling around in frustration, someone, or rather some
thing
, caught my eye. Behind our shot, walking up the opposite side of the street, I spotted a flash of the distinctive green uniform worn by the doormen and porters at the Haverford.

“Hey, you!” I shouted, threading through a pair of cop cars to reach the opposite side of the street. The night doorman at Olivia’s building dropped his cigarette, grinding it beneath a black leather oxford. The top left breast of his uniform jacket was embroidered with the name of the Haverford, and beneath that his name.

Andrew had a compact build, dirty blond hair, pale blue eyes, and a face that suggested a youth spent stirring up trouble in darkened alleys with loose girls. He’d only been working at Olivia’s building a few short months, but in that time I’d fantasized about him more times than I cared to admit. What can I say: I found him incredibly sexy, and last time I checked, there was no harm in using one’s imagination.

“Want one?” His hand reached out with a pack of Marlboro Lights. I caught a glimpse of a tattoo curling out of his cuff.

I shook my head. “I quit a long time ago.” The first of many things I’d quit over the years. Men with tattoos were supposed to be another.

His brow crinkled with concern. “You OK?”

“I could be better.” I hitched my thumb in the direction of the media swarm. “How do you feel about going on TV?”

“You work for FirstNews?” His deep voice almost made me forget why I was talking to him. God he was sexy.

I nodded. “Please do this for me?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t you think—?”

I cut him off. “Come on. I’ll owe you one,” I said, dragging him by one hand and signaling to Jen with the other. Here’s one thing I’d learned in fifteen years on the job: When it comes to getting someone to submit to a live, on-camera interview and you’ve got only seconds to spare,
I don’t know
means
yes
.

On the other side of the street, Aaron miked Andrew and made him say a few words so we could test for sound. We only had time enough to push the GSBC crew out of our shot before we were back on air again.

Alex looked straight into the lens, cool as cucumber soup. “I’m standing outside the Haverford, the exclusive building on East Seventy-second Street where early this morning police responded to a distressing 911 call. According to multiple sources, a homicide occurred in one of the apartments.” He gave a quarter turn to face his interview subject. “This is Andrew Kaminski, a doorman who works at the building. Mr. Kaminski, what do you know about what happened here?”

Andrew scratched the back of his neck. The camera got another flash of green scales, the red of a split tongue. “Olivia Kravis was murdered.”

M
y first thought was that he’d made a mistake. I’d talked to Olivia on Friday. We’d made plans to meet for a drink that night, but I’d gotten stuck at the office chasing a missing-person lead and I’d had to cancel at the last minute. Olivia had seemed fine on the phone, but now she was dead. And not just dead, murdered. What was it Penny had told Alex?
Head bashed in? Face beaten to a pulp
. My knees buckled beneath me.

Jen stepped over, grabbing me around the waist. “You OK?”

I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“Clyde?” She didn’t let me go. I’m sure I would have toppled to the ground if she had. “Take a deep breath for me. You’re in shock. Are you breathing?”

I nodded. It was all I could manage. Meanwhile inside my head, all I could think about was who could have done this to her.
Who killed you, Olivia?

I took the IFB out of my ear and handed it to Jen. “I think I’m going to be sick,” I said, ducking behind the van just in time. Wiping the corners of my mouth, I returned to watch Alex finish the broadcast.

“For those of you who don’t know who she is, Olivia Kravis is the daughter of FirstNews founder Charles S. Kravis. The victim was active in the world of philanthropy, helping to raise money for several of New York’s landmark cultural institutions. Olivia Kravis also ran the Kravis Family Foundation, which funds educational and health initiatives for underprivileged children in the United States and overseas.”

I felt the tears prickling behind my eyes and knew I had to get out of there before I lost it. “Jen,” I said. “I have to—”

“Go,” she mouthed. “I got this.”

The Carlyle wasn’t far and I knew at this time of day I had a good shot at having the hotel bar’s bathroom suite to myself. I walked there in less than five minutes, pushing through the heavy glass doors that lead to the famed lobby bar. Inside, the lighting was dim and the mood calm—polar opposite from the chaos outside the Haverford—and as I’d hoped, the bathroom was completely empty. I locked myself inside the oversize stall and sank down to the floor. The sobs came fast and guttural and could have lasted all morning if I hadn’t forced myself to stop.

I blew my nose and, with blurry eyes, looked at my phone again. I thought about calling Olivia’s father or her stepsister, but I didn’t know either of them very well. Besides, what would I say? I’m sorry? My condolences? Or what I really felt: I’m going to find the piece of shit who did this and slaughter them in the street. I scrolled through my log of recent calls, looking for Olivia’s number, hoping to find the last time we spoke. A quarter to six on Friday night. She’d called, but I hadn’t picked up. How soon after that was she murdered? The phone fell from my hands, clattering against the marble tile floor as my mind reached for the earliest memories I had of us together.

I first met Olivia when we were eight. She’d enrolled at the Livingston School for Girls midway through the second grade, right after her father, finally over mourning for Olivia’s mother, had married his second wife in a wedding that would later be remembered as a spectacle of wealth, consumption, and poor taste. The papers chronicled everything from the apple blossom shade of the bride’s princess dress (it was a second marriage for both) to the cost of transporting 20,000 peach-tipped roses via airfreight from Ecuador. Yet the most frequently and gleefully discussed details had nothing to do with the expense or lavishness of the winter nuptials, but the bride’s previous occupation as a for-hire mistress (which was merely conjecture), her blue-collar background, and her daughter from a previous marriage.

Olivia and I became fast friends, bonding over the things little girls do: mint-chocolate-chip ice cream; the color purple; the red hair and freckles we both had. Olivia was gawky, all arms and legs and undone shoelaces. I was heavy and bossy. Neither of us were very popular—though for different reasons—and we felt lucky to have each other. A teacher had once called us soul sisters, and I’d always thought of us that way, even after she was sent off to boarding school in Europe.

She came back into my life when I was twenty-six. I’d graduated from j-school and had been living back at home with my dad for a few years, basically unemployable—my grades had been lacking, as were my internship experiences and interview skills. I was hustling a gig at Kinko’s for a paycheck, which I invariably blew on slushy margaritas and syrupy cocktails. I was also sleeping around with guys who didn’t respect me, fighting with my dad, and getting ever more hopeless as the months went by. I was at a dead end, and desperate.