Fatal Impressions (5 page)

Coleman hadn’t eaten breakfast, and the dining room smelled down-home: coffee, toast, bacon. But there was nothing cozy about the two enormous men waiting for Dinah. They looked like they’d come off
The Sopranos
set, and their expressions were hostile. Had they picked up attitude from Hunt Austin Frederick? And why had
he
been so nasty? And where was he? Frederick and Douglas had both disappeared.

Coleman wasn’t surprised. In her experience, corporate types were rarely brave, and their chivalry didn’t run deep. She’d known Ted Douglas for years, and he’d never struck her as a hero. As for Frederick, he reminded her of a big bullfrog on a lily pad, croaking away, telling the world how important he was but disappearing under the dark water at any threat or challenge.

An overweight blonde Amazon appeared, carrying a huge tray of coffee and doughnuts thickly frosted with chocolate, vanilla, and pink icing, and plate-sized pastries oozing cherries, pineapple, and cheese. Her top-heavy figure reminded Coleman of
Mad Men
’s Joan. What a bosom! The giantess smiled at the cops and set the tray on their table. She left the room, ignoring Coleman and Dinah.

Coleman rolled her eyes at Dinah. Another rude and hostile person. DDD&W should add Disagreeable to their list of
D
’s. She collected a glass of orange juice for Dinah and coffee for herself from the buffet before approaching the detectives. Neither of them rose or invited them to sit down. Coleman pulled out a chair for Dinah at a table near theirs and sat down beside her.

“I’m Detective Ed Harrison,” the bald hulk said, “and this is Detective Joe Quintero. Which one of you found the body?” Quintero had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. A drinker? Or an insomniac? He smoothed back his sleek black hair, and Coleman caught a whiff of coconut. Hair oil? Yuck.

“I did—I’m Dinah Greene. And this is my cousin, Coleman Greene.”

“Why are
you
here?” Harrison asked Coleman through a mouthful of doughnut.

The man looked as if he usually ate babies for breakfast. His bald head contrasted with his several days’ growth of black whiskers. He was sporting the need-a-shave look often seen on Hollywood hotties. Too many men cultivated stubble and thought they looked cool. It was nearly always a mistake. Precious few had handsome faces like those beneath the stubble of the stars—Harrison was no George Clooney. It would take more than a shave to make the cop look halfway decent. His eyebrows were bushy and unkempt, and the backs of his hands were furry. His hair was in all the wrong places. Maybe he was a werewolf?

“I’m standing in for Dinah’s husband, Jonathan Hathaway,” Coleman said. “He’s on his way back from California. Do either of you know Robert Mondelli? He’s a former police officer and one of Ms. Greene’s lawyers. He’s on his way here, too. Mr. Hathaway and Mr. Mondelli expect me to stay with Dinah and, if I think she’s too tired or distressed in any way, to take her home.”

Harrison raised his caterpillar eyebrows. “We need to talk to Ms. Greene alone. You’ll have to excuse us—
ma’am
.”

Coleman smiled. So this was going to be power play time. Bully the women, right? The man was laughable. He sounded just like
NYPD Blue
’s Andy Sipowicz on a bad day. Sarcastic politeness. Tedious.

She’d long since known that the best defense against sarcasm was to ignore it, or to pretend she thought it was sincere. “Dinah will not talk to you alone. If I leave, you’ll have to wait until her lawyer arrives to speak to her. And I suggest you let your supervisor know that Dinah Greene is Jonathan Hathaway’s wife and Robert Mondelli’s client,” she said.

Both detectives glared at her. “Wait a minute,” Harrison said. “I reckanize you. You’re the one made a mess of things at that crazy art party in February, right? You interfered with the police investigation, screwed up a slam dunk. Keep your meddling hands off my case, got that? Or you’ll be sorry.”

Coleman considered telling him that her “interference” had solved the case, but why waste time arguing and prolong
their questioning? Her cousin needed to get out of there.

Quintero was looking at Dinah. “How’d you happen to discover the corpse?” he asked.

Dinah, sounding exhausted, explained again why she came in early and what she’d seen.

“Did you tell anyone it was murder?” Harrison asked.

“No, I told the 911 operator there’d been a fatal accident—they’ll have the tape—and I called Coleman. I made both calls on my cell phone. And I don’t think it
was
murder.”

Harrison’s eyebrows rose to where his hairline should be. “No? Why do you think the cases fell? Magic?”

She shrugged. “Poor installation, maybe. Or blasting in the neighborhood. Something like that.”

“You identified the victim?” Quintero said.

“I couldn’t see her face, but I thought it was Patti Sue Victor. She wears nail polish and shoes like those I saw, and she has long, bleached blonde hair like the dead woman’s,” Dinah said.

It was Harrison’s turn. “You got a key to Frederick’s office? Or his secretary’s?” he asked.

Dinah shook her head. “I have a key to my office on thirty-two, and a key to the art storage room on the same floor. Both have conventional locks. Most of the offices here unlock with pass cards. I’ll only be here a few weeks, and my ID—it’s also my pass card—doesn’t let me in any of the offices.” She took the card out of her purse and handed it to Harrison, who glanced at it and put it in the pocket of his windbreaker.

“I’ll keep this—you won’t need it. Can I look through that purse?” Harrison said.

“Of course.” Dinah handed him her handbag. Coleman studied her face. The dark color of her jacket emphasized Dinah’s unusual pallor; she still looked as if she might faint. Small wonder. Her cousin had suffered a terrible experience, and these guys were inconsiderate buffoons.

Harrison took Dinah’s diary out of her purse and skimmed through it until he must have reached today’s page. He looked up. “You planned to fly to California this morning?”

“Yes, to join my husband.”

“Don’t count on leaving New York for a while,” Harrison said, his lips pulled back in a grimace. Maybe it was his idea of a smile. His yellow teeth and the miasma around him suggested he was a two-pack-a-day man. He smelled even worse than Coconut Quintero—he must smoke both cigarettes and cigars. Coleman could hardly wait to hear what Rob Mondelli had to say about these creeps. Rob was a modern cop—law degree, polished manners, clean-cut and clean smelling. Just the opposite of these thugs. Drat, she hadn’t wanted to think about Rob. She’d have to deal with him soon, but not today.

“As you see, I don’t have a pass card for those doors,” Dinah said.

“You coulda hid it, or flushed it down the toilet.”

Coleman stifled a laugh; he pronounced it “terlet.” Harrison was a joke. If Dinah weren’t involved, Coleman would enjoy this experience. She’d always wanted to meet a Harrison. She’d put him in a novel someday, or maybe she’d put him in an article sooner than someday. But he didn’t amuse Dinah. Her face was even whiter than it had been earlier. “Are we about through here?” Coleman asked.

Harrison ignored her. “You’ve been in Frederick’s office before, right? Did ya touch anything?”

“I was in his office Tuesday for a few minutes, but I didn’t touch anything,” Dinah said. “I wanted to run a hand over that carving, but it didn’t seem appropriate, and anyway, there wasn’t time. Today I was in there for seconds. I just touched the woman’s wrist.” She shuddered.

“Why’d ya do that?” Harrison asked, leaning closer to Dinah.

Dinah flinched and moved her chair back. Coleman wasn’t surprised. His breath must be deadly. “To see if she was alive, of course. If she needed medical treatment, or if it was too late.”

“And?” Quintero said.

“No pulse, and her skin was cold. She’d been dead a while.”

Harrison scowled, and his eyebrows overlapped. “You’ve had a lotta experience with death?”

“My grandmother and my great aunt,” Dinah said, tears welling up in her eyes.

Coleman reached out for her hand and squeezed it. Dinah cried easily and often, over everything from a romantic movie to a dead pigeon on the sidewalk. Coleman was amazed that these were her first tears of the day.

“Back to Frederick’s office. We’re going to fingerprint that room. Are you sure we won’t find your prints in there?” Quintero said.

“Positive,” Dinah said.

“Oh, please,” Coleman said. “She’s already answered that. Ms. Greene is tired. We’re leaving. You should go do something useful, like fingerprint that room.”

“We’ll say when Ms. Greene can leave,” Harrison said, shoving his face into Coleman’s.

She nearly gagged. His breath was even worse than she’d imagined. “No, you won’t, not unless she’s under arrest. If you keep on harassing her when she’s about to pass out from fatigue and shock, you’re going to be sorry. Don’t say another word, Dinah. Listen, Detective, you get one more chance to save yourselves a lot of trouble. I’m calling a lawyer you’ve heard of—he’s known as the Cobra, and for good reason. He’ll drop everything to help Dinah, and he won’t care what he has to do to anyone hurting her.” Coleman, cell phone in hand, turned to Harrison. “But while I’m calling, you better talk to your boss. This is the last time I’m warning you: stop bullying Ms. Greene
.
”

Harrison’s face turned purple. “Don’t threaten me. Show a little respect, big mouth, or we’ll teach you how to behave. You’re asking for trouble.”

“What are you going to do? Hit me? Please feel free. Beat me up, big man. I’m five feet tall and I don’t weigh as much as one of your hands. You’ll be a real hero. I can hardly wait to see you in court,” Coleman said, and punched in the number. His threats didn’t bother her a bit, and Dinah might be exhausted, but she wasn’t intimidated. Coleman could see that the police were puzzled because their threats weren’t working. They exchanged glances, and Quintero left the room.

Coleman could hear the murmur of Quintero’s voice in the corridor. Good, he’d finally called a senior officer. She knew what he’d learn, too: Rob Mondelli’s detective agency specialized in art crime. He was a consultant to the NYPD on art-related cases and was highly regarded by the NYPD and city hall. These idiots would be told all about Mondelli, and that the Hathaway name had an asterisk by it that meant “handle with kid gloves.” They’d be in big trouble if they kept beating up Dinah.

She cancelled her call. It was past time to get Dinah home.

Quintero came back into the dining room looking furious. “You can go,” he said, nodding at Dinah.

On their way to the elevators, Coleman said, “Do you want to speak to anyone here before we leave?”

Dinah shook her head. “No, I’m so tired I can hardly move. I want to go home, pick up Baker, take a shower, eat something. I was so happy this morning, proud of the job we’d done last night, and looking forward to California, and then that horrible scene—God, I’ll never forget it. What a ghastly experience. Surely it can’t get worse.”

Coleman hoped Dinah was right, but a police investigation into a suspicious death was bound to be unpleasant. If it turned out to be murder, it could get a whole lot worse, and Dinah was in the middle of it.

After she’d seen Dinah into the car where Tom waited to drive her to Cornelia Street, Coleman collected Dolly from her East Fifty-Fourth Street apartment and walked the little dog to
ArtSmart
’s offices on Third Avenue. They rode up in the elevator, and Dolly followed Coleman to the office they shared and curled up in her basket. Coleman settled down at her desk to read an article one of her writers had just turned in.

But she couldn’t concentrate. Why had Harrison been so nasty to Dinah? Hunt Austin Frederick, whom she thought of as the Cowardly Cowboy, had been rude to her, too. Odd. Dinah was the gentlest of creatures, and unlikely to offend anyone, except, apparently, Patti Sue Victor, who, according to Dinah, had pounced on her like a chicken on a june bug. It was hard to believe that resentment of Dinah’s role at DDD&W was Victor’s sole motive for declaring war on Dinah, but what else could it have been? And it seemed unlikely that Harrison and the Cowboy should be hostile to Dinah because
Victor
disliked her. What was going on?

The only way she could think of to help Dinah was to try to learn more about DDD&W. Luckily, she had a good source—Amy Rothman was an old friend, who worked as a consultant there. Coleman had hired Amy to help with the hundreds of details leading up to the acquisition of
First Home
and had been impressed. She had recently extended Amy’s contract to cover the implementation of the merger. What would Amy think about this mess? She dialed her friend and reached her right away. Coleman didn’t have to describe the early morning events at DDD&W; Amy knew everything.

“It’s all over the office,” she said. “People think it’s murder, and that it has something to do with the art project, and that Dinah’s a killer. Absurd, I know, but the people working here need to think a stranger did it, if anyone did anything. Do you know for sure that it
was
murder?”

“They haven’t told Dinah either way. Have they identified the body?” Coleman asked.

“I thought it was Patti Sue Victor. That’s why people think Dinah did it. Everyone knew Patti Sue didn’t want Dinah working here and was trying to get rid of her,” Amy said.

“Dinah didn’t know for sure it was Victor. Dinah only saw a shoe, nail polish, and hair. She said it
could
have been Victor,” Coleman said.

“Oh, God, then it might be Frannie Johnson, Patti Sue’s older sister, the head of human resources. They dress alike, wear the same makeup, have the same hairdos.”

“Shouldn’t someone know by now? After they uncovered the body, someone must have identified her,” Coleman said.

“I’ll find out and call you back,” Amy said.

Ten minutes later, Amy reported that the dead woman was Frannie Johnson. Patti Sue, eyes red and face swollen from crying, was screaming to anyone who’d listen that her life was in danger, insisting that she needed protection. Everyone was ignoring her, or trying to. “Since it’s Frannie, we know how she got in Hunt’s office. Frannie had access to everything,” Amy said.

“Why do they have different names? Are they trying to hide that they’re sisters?” Coleman asked.

“Frannie’s divorced, Johnson is her married name. Everyone knew they were sisters. They not only looked alike and dressed alike, they were always together, shared an apartment. Anyway, just because it’s Frannie who was killed, Dinah won’t be off the hook. They’ll say Dinah murdered Frannie by mistake, thinking she was Patti Sue,” Amy said.

Coleman let that pass. “Isn’t that kind of nepotism unusual? Two sisters hired, with one in a sensitive job? Human resources has access to a lot of confidential information, and the sisters’ relationship means Victor probably knows everything Johnson knew.”

Amy sighed. “Yes, it’s unusual, and it’s worst practice. We advise our clients not to hire relatives, especially in sensitive positions, and then
we
do it. The sisters came in with Danbury & Weeks when we merged with them. The people here should have let them go. I don’t think Frannie was necessarily a bad person, and neither is Patti Sue. But they were way over their heads, trying to do jobs they weren’t prepared for, in an environment they didn’t understand. Frannie was ignorant and tacky, and so is Patti Sue, but I don’t believe either one of them would do anything criminal. Pathetic is the word that comes to mind.”

Coleman tapped her pencil on her desk. She needed to know a lot more about DDD&W if she was going to help Dinah.

“I can’t make myself work. I’m too worried about Dinah,” Coleman said. “She’s innocent of any wrongdoing, but I’m afraid this thing will ruin her reputation. I have to do something, but I don’t know what. Maybe you can advise me. Are you free for lunch?”

“Why don’t you come over here for lunch? I can’t promise you good food, or even good advice, but you’ll learn a lot about this place,” Amy said.

“I’d love to see DDD&W’s offices, but most of all, I want to talk to you. Is twelve thirty okay?” Coleman asked.

“Absolutely. See you then.”