The Agency (9 page)

“Of course.”

“Good. We all need to pay our respects. Such a terrible thing.”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if they will find out what happened.”

I looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know how people talk. I’ve heard rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“Of murder,” Cosima said.

“Murder? That’s crazy.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will all come to nothing. Lowell was beloved. No one had a reason to kill him.”

I thought to myself: no one except you, Cosima.

“Oh, Jack will be at the funeral, too,” she added.

“Jack?” I asked, barely able to breathe.

She smiled. “My husband.”

“Yes, of course.”

“He told me how well you and he got on at the last Christmas party.”

“He’s a very pleasant man,” I said.

“Yes, he is. I thought that the four of us could go to lunch after the funeral. You, me, Jack, and Marty. Toast Lowell, and take a look forward to a new era. What do you say?”

Forget it, I thought.

“I’d love to,” I said.

I TOOK A BUS
back to my apartment around noon.

Still no message from Darcy. Normally, that wouldn’t worry me. We make it a point never to call each other directly, because we don’t know who might happen to overhear a message or see a number on a call log. That’s why we use Emma as our go-between. Even so, I thought that he might make an exception this time, because of what I said to him last night. I was unreasonably nervous, and talking to Cosima only made it worse.

I tried Dorothy again but didn’t reach her. I figured out one time that it took me an average of six tries to get a hold of her. If you’re thinking of ditching the modern world by turning off your answering machine and throwing away your mobile, just remember those of us out here who may want to reach you. We are likely to be annoyed.

Emma sent me another text:

MET NEW GIRL LAST NIGHT. WOW. IN LOVE. HOT.

I smiled. Emma falls in and out of love every week with a new girl, but who am I to tell her to go slow? I wondered if this one looked like Sienna Miller. Emma’s girlfriends have a way of mirroring her latest celeb crush.

I decided to go for a run. The sky was drizzling, but no more than a spitting rain, not enough to keep Londoners indoors. I took the bus up to Battersea Park and did a few laps around the Carriage Drive. I don’t run often enough, but I try to get out two or three times a week to clear my head. You would think that, being single, I have plenty of alone time, but that’s not really true. I eat most of my meals with editors, clients, reporters, producers, and everyone else who needs to sell or be sold; and my other waking minutes are normally spent on the phone and the BlackBerry. Other than in the shower and on my runs, I feel like I have invited the rest of the world to share my life.

I try not to think about anything when I run. I listen to my breathing. I feel my heart race. I watch the trees, the river, the people, the vendors selling ice cream, and the squirrels chasing each other around the grass. But not today. I had too much on my mind. The drizzle soaked my hair and face, and that mirrored my mood. I felt as if I were running
from
something now, but I didn’t know what, and I didn’t know how far I had to go. In my business, it pays to be suspicious of other people’s motives. If you assume the worst, you’re rarely disappointed. Even so, I couldn’t escape the feeling that someone was out there, plotting against me. Call it ego, if you like. I mean, I know the world doesn’t begin and end with me. I don’t believe in conspiracy theories. But I kept looking over my shoulder anyway.

After running for an hour, I collapsed on a bench by the Thames. The white spires of the Albert Bridge were on my left. It’s my favorite city bridge, particularly at night. My brow was wet with sweat and rain. I unhooked a water bottle from my waist and squirted a long stream into my mouth. I threw my head back and closed my eyes.

“Excuse me?”

I looked up. A young woman, protected by a giant black umbrella,
stood next to the bench. A plastic London map dangled from between her thumb and index finger. She was in her early twenties, heavy, mousy brown hair, red glasses.

“I’m so sorry to bother you.”

I managed a smile. “That’s okay. What do you need?”

“Well, I’m down here from York, and it’s my first trip, and I’m afraid I’m totally lost. I wonder if you could show me on the map where I am exactly?”

“Sure.”

I took the map from her outstretched hand. The plastic was sticky and greasy, as if she’d been looking at it while eating a bag of chips and a leaky cup of soda. My hands stuck to the plastic. I found the panel for Battersea Park and pointed at it. “You’re here,” I said. “Right between the Albert Bridge and the Chelsea Bridge.”

“Oh, thanks so much,” she told me. She reclaimed her map and headed east away from me along the riverbank.

I watched her go. When I looked back toward the Albert Bridge, I jumped. A man had taken a seat next to me on the bench.

“Shit!” I said involuntarily.

He smiled and lit a cigarette. “I’m sorry to startle you, Miss Drake.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Nicholas Hadley. I’ve left a couple messages for you, but you haven’t called me back. So I thought I would visit you in person.”

Hadley was a small man in his fifties with thinning hair and a trimmed gray beard. He wore a chocolate-colored Burberry. Tan trousers, muddy black dress shoes. He coughed as the smoke hit his lungs.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“That’s my job,” he said.

“Your job?” I felt an itch to run away. “Look, if this is about a book you’re writing—”

“It’s not.”

“Then what do you want?”

I smelled the smoke as he exhaled. I really wanted to beg a cigarette off him.

“I’m a detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police, Miss Drake,” he said. “I’m looking into Lowell Bardwright’s death.”

He showed me his identification, and I studied it carefully enough to see that he wasn’t lying.

“What does that have to do with me?” I asked.

“Well, you worked with Mr. Bardwright for ten years, is that right? I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me.”

I hesitated. “Why? I thought his death was an accident.”

“That’s one possibility.”

“What’s the other?”

He smiled. “That it wasn’t an accident.”

I thought about Cosima hearing rumors of murder. “The papers all said Lowell was alone in his apartment. That he accidentally hanged himself as part of a sex game.”

“Oh, you know the media, Miss Drake. They don’t always get it right.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we don’t think Mr. Bardwright was alone.”

“Oh.”

I remembered what I’d said to Emma when I first heard about Lowell’s death: If I know Lowell, he found himself a Julia Roberts look-alike who freaked when he stopped breathing.

“So again, what does that have to do with me?” I asked him.

“We’re talking to everyone at the agency,” Hadley said. “It’s routine background.”

“Well, what is it you want to know?”

“What kind of person was Mr. Bardwright?” Hadley asked.

“Lowell? He was a player. Knew everybody. Liked to be in the limelight, attend the parties, see and be seen.”

“Did you work with him regularly?”

“Of course.”

“In what way?”

I shrugged. “He was the head of the agency. Every deal went across his desk.”

“Was he a person of integrity?”

I thought about it. “Yes, Lowell usually played fair. I could trust him not to go behind my back. That’s not always the case in this business.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“When you’re the head of an agency, you always have enemies,” I told him. “But nothing worth killing someone over.”

“No? Doesn’t the Bardwright Agency handle a lot of multimillion-dollar deals?”

“Sure.”

Hadley nodded. “Then, believe me, he had things worth killing over.”

“Are you saying he was murdered?” I asked.

“I’m not saying anything of the kind.” Hadley added, “Did his death surprise you?”

“Of course.”

“Not that he died, but
how
he died. The sex thing.”

“Nothing surprises me anymore,” I said.

“Are you familiar with erotic asphyxia?”

“I’ve heard of it. Beyond that, no. I’ve never tried it.”

“Did Mr. Bardwright like to experiment sexually?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“Did he ever make a pass at you?”

I nodded. “Once or twice, in the early days. He made it clear that if I was interested, he was interested. But I wasn’t. He had the good taste to drop it. It was never an issue between us.”

“So you never slept with him?”

“No. Is that something you’re asking everyone at the agency?”

“Do you think I should?”

“I have no idea. I just wondered why you’re asking
me
.”

Hadley didn’t answer. “Have you ever been in Mr. Bardwright’s apartment?”

“What the hell is this about?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“No, I’ve never been in Lowell’s apartment.”

“Never?”

“Never. I’ve never been in his apartment. I’ve never slept with him.”

Hadley nodded. “I understand you’ve been telling people that Mr. Bardwright was found dressed in a white corset.”

“I have a crass sense of humor,” I said. “Is that a crime?”

“Not at all. Except that Mr. Bardwright really
was
wearing a corset, and we deliberately didn’t release that information to the press. So I was wondering how you knew about it.”

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck! What are the odds of that? Did God think this was funny?

“It was a joke!” I insisted.

“That’s quite a coincidence.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s all it is. I simply made it up, because I know how the rumor mill works in this industry. It was stupid. I had no idea he was really dressed that way.”

“Where were you the night that Mr. Bardwright died?” Hadley asked.

“In my apartment. Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, of course, alone. Look, I can understand why this corset thing would make you suspicious, but I swear to you, it is just a hideous coincidence.”

“You never had any kind of sexual contact with Mr. Bardwright?”

“None.”

“You were never in his apartment?”

“I already told you, never.”

“Did you have any dispute with him? Problems at the agency?”

“No. I think this conversation is over, Mr. Hadley. I’m not answering any more questions.”

I got up from the bench. My legs felt like rubber.

Hadley made no move to stand up. He reached inside his Bur-berry and slid out a magazine that had been folded in half. It was a month-old, wrinkled copy of the
Bookseller
. He opened it and found a dog-eared page.

“Do you remember this photo?”

I thought about walking away without looking, but I gave in to my curiosity. It was a photo of Lowell and me at a Christmas publishing event. His arm was around my waist. We were both mugging for the camera.

“Yes,” I said.

“The two of you look pretty cozy.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, it was a Christmas party. Two hundred people, most of them drunk. There are probably photographs of Lowell with his arm around half the women at the party.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Hadley said. He added, “Nice dress.”

I looked at the photo. I was wearing a navy blue cocktail dress, low cut, just barely above the knee.

“So?” I asked.

“I was wondering if you still have that dress,” Hadley said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

I stared at him. “Actually, no.”

“Oh? Where is it?”

“The dry cleaner lost it. That was a couple of months ago.”

“Ah, I see. Too bad.”

He smiled at me again and sat there, tapping the ash off his cigarette onto the wet ground. I turned and jogged away, but I was so shaken I was afraid of falling down. It was obvious what was going on, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.

They couldn’t possibly think I had anything to do with Lowell’s death.

Could they?